a goose's on the loose!

Al-Haitham

You'd been coming to Al-Haitham's place for research so often that it had stopped feeling like you were imposing. He'd never made you feel like you were, which was the thing about him—he didn't do false hospitality. If he didn't want you there, he'd say so. The fact that he kept making tea and setting out space for your notes suggested he actually didn't mind.

Today you weren't even pretending the visit was strictly academic. You'd finished what you needed to do an hour ago, but you'd both just... stayed. You were sitting at the table while Al-Haitham read something, occasionally looking up to comment on whatever you were saying. It was easy. Comfortable in a way that surprised you, given how sharp he could be.

"That scholar from the other day," you said, thinking out loud. "The one who argued that Dendro propagation follows a seasonal pattern regardless of region?"

"The one who contradicted himself twice?" Al-Haitham asked, not looking up from his page.

"Exactly. He came up to me in the hallway today and doubled down on it. Like he genuinely believed repeating himself would make it more true."

Al-Haitham turned a page. "Some people mistake conviction for evidence."

"Is that what you do when you're wrong?" you asked. "Just state it more firmly?"

He glanced at you then, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. "I'm rarely wrong."

"That's the conviction talking, not evidence."

"Actually, the evidence is extensive," he said, returning to his reading. "But I appreciate your effort to provoke me."

You'd thrown a pen at him for that, and he'd caught it without looking, set it down beside him, and continued reading like interruptions were just part of his normal day. Which, around you, they apparently were.

That was the thing about Al-Haitham. He didn't waste energy on pretense. He said what he thought, you either agreed or you didn't, and the conversation moved on without any of the exhausting social dance that made time with other people feel like work. Somewhere along the way, you'd stopped making excuses for why you were at his place so often. He'd stopped asking you to justify it. You just showed up, he made tea, and hours would pass without either of you particularly noticing.

You were halfway through explaining why you thought that scholar's methodology was flawed when Kaveh emerged from his room, looking distinctly disheveled and irritated. His eyes immediately landed on the sink full of dishes, and you watched his entire face sour.

"Are you serious right now?" he said, staring at them like they'd personally offended him. "I cleaned this yesterday."

"You did," Al-Haitham said, not looking up from his reading. "That doesn't mean it stays clean indefinitely."

"It's been one day!" Kaveh gestured wildly at the sink. "One day and you've already—you know what, I'm not doing this. I'm not your maid."

"No one asked you to be," Al-Haitham replied, his tone completely level. "I was going to wash them."

"When?" Kaveh demanded. "When you finally take a break from whatever you're doing? I don't understand how anyone tolerates this. How do you even manage spending this much time with him?" He looked directly at you, and his expression softened slightly, almost sympathetic.

You felt Al-Haitham's attention shift slightly, but he didn't look up from his book. "Well," you said, laughing, "he makes good tea. And he's usually right about things, which is annoying but useful for my research."

Kaveh laughed, shaking his head like you'd just confirmed something he'd suspected. "That's fair, I guess. But I really don't know how you managed to get a girlfriend who's smart, funny, and actually willing to put up with him. The last part is honestly the most shocking."

The words landed, and for a moment you couldn't quite process them. A girlfriend. He'd just assumed, in the most casual way, that you were Al-Haitham's girlfriend. Your face went hot immediately. You opened your mouth to correct him, to clarify, to explain that you and Al-Haitham were just—

"Your method is inefficient," Al-Haitham said to Kaveh, turning a page in his book like the comment had never happened. "You rewashed items last week that didn't need rewashing. That's wasteful."

Kaveh's head snapped toward him. "You're seriously lecturing me about dish-washing right now?"

"Someone should," Al-Haitham said. "Your approach suggests you're cleaning reactively rather than systematically. You should establish a schedule."

Kaveh's voice went up. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is why I don't understand how anyone—"

"If you'd just listen instead of assuming," Al-Haitham continued, still not looking up, "you'd realize systematic cleaning takes less time overall. Your current method is objectively less efficient."

Kaveh opened his mouth, closed it, then threw his hands up and disappeared back into his room. You heard his door slam, and then there was just silence.

You sat there, staring at your notes without actually seeing them. Al-Haitham had completely ignored what Kaveh had said. He hadn't corrected the assumption about you being his girlfriend. He'd just... moved past it. Addressed something else entirely like the comment was irrelevant.

But it wasn't irrelevant. You could feel it sitting there between the two of you, unacknowledged but present. The fact that he hadn't corrected it meant something. You weren't sure what, but it meant something.

Al-Haitham turned another page. You watched him do it, waiting to see if he'd acknowledge what had just happened. He didn't. He just kept reading like this was a normal afternoon, like your heart wasn't doing something strange in your chest.

An hour later, you said you should probably head back to your dormitory. Al-Haitham stood when you did, and as you were gathering your things, he said, "I'm going that way. I'll walk with you."

It wasn't a question. You grabbed your bag, and the two of you stepped out into the night. The temperature had dropped significantly since you'd arrived at his place. The air was sharp and cold, and you found yourself wrapping your arms around yourself without really thinking about it.

You felt Al-Haitham notice. He didn't say anything for a moment, just kept walking beside you. Then, without any fanfare, he was shrugging off his jacket and draping it around your shoulders.

"Al-Haitham—"

"You're cold," he said simply. Then he was pulling you closer by the sleeve, drawing you against his side. His warmth was immediate, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You walked in silence for a moment, unable to focus on anything except the fact that he hadn't corrected Kaveh. That he was walking like this with you now, your arm linked with his, his jacket around you.

"Kaveh thought we were together," you said finally. Some part of you did that to spark conversation, an interesting little tit-bit to talk about. The other, more genuine part brought it up because it had been killing you for hours. It felt like a little animal inside your rib cage that was constantly being killed and brought back to life, a little flicker of hope, a mix of dread. You wanted an answer. 

Al-Haitham hummed non-commitally. You could feel the weight of his arm around you, steady and deliberate.

"Did it bother you?" he asked, raising a brow.

The question caught you off guard. You'd expected him to explain himself, to rationalize why he hadn't corrected Kaveh. Instead, he'd flipped it back on you.

"That's not—I was asking why you didn't—"

"I know what you were asking," he said. His tone matter-of-fact. "I'm asking what matters more. Whether I corrected him, or whether the assumption bothered you."

You opened your mouth and closed it. You weren't sure how to answer that honestly.

"It didn't bother me," you said finally, and it was true. It hadn't bothered you. It had confused you, unsettled you, made your pulse race for reasons you didn't want to examine too closely. But bothered wasn't the right word.

"Then we're fine," he said.

"Al-Haitham—"

"Besides," he said, and there was the faintest hint of something that might have been amusement in his voice, "I didn't say he was wrong about the general principle."

Wanderer

You were three pages into your research on Dendro propagation when Wanderer arrived at your study table without asking if he could sit. He didn't ask permission for things like that. He just pulled up a chair and settled in like he'd always been meant to be there.

"That's going to be wrong," he said, not bothering with a greeting.

You didn't look up from your notes. "You haven't even seen what I'm arguing."

"Doesn't matter. Whatever thesis you're building on that foundation is going to collapse." He leaned back in his chair. "The propagation rates in the northern regions don't follow the same pattern as the southern ones."

You did look up then, specifically to narrow your eyes at him. "That's because I'm specifically studying the southern regions. The northern data is irrelevant to my argument."

"It's always relevant," he said. "Ignoring contradictory data doesn't make your conclusion stronger. It makes you look like you didn't do the work."

The comment landed like a jab. You wanted to argue, but he wasn't entirely wrong. You made a note to revisit the northern data, grudgingly accepting that he'd identified a gap in your research. There was something about the way he sat across from you—completely at ease in his certainty—that made you want to prove him wrong just to see if he'd admit it when you did.

"Anything else, or are you done?" you asked, turning back to your work.

"For now," he said. "I need to find that text on Dendro cultivation. Should be in the older section."

He stood and disappeared into the depths of the Archives, and you returned to your notes. You'd lost track of time when you noticed someone settling into the chair he'd vacated. One of the other scholars—someone whose name you could probably remember if you tried, but hadn't bothered to. He was the type who was always hovering around, always trying to insert himself into conversations in ways that made your skin crawl slightly. There was an entitlement to him, the kind of confidence that came from never being told no and deciding that meant he didn't have to listen when someone eventually did.

"So," he said, leaning back in the chair like he owned it, "you're always studying. You should take a break sometime. Come get dinner with me."

It wasn't a question. It was stated like a foregone conclusion, like your agreement was merely a formality. You didn't look up from your work. "I'm pretty busy right now."

"Come on," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that suggested he didn't appreciate being declined so casually. "You can't study all the time. I know this place outside the city. We could go tonight."

"I really can't," you said, keeping your tone polite but firm. You turned a page, hoping the gesture would make it clear you wanted to return to your work.

He was quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe he'd gotten the message. But then he leaned forward, and his tone shifted into something sharper, more frustrated.

"What does he have that I don't?" he asked, and there was real irritation underneath the words now.

You looked up, confused. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Wanderer," he said, his jaw tightening. "You're always with him. Every time I see you, he's here. You two are constantly together, and I don't understand what he has that makes you so willing to waste your time with him but not willing to give me five minutes. So what does he have that I don't?"

Before you could respond, before you could even figure out what you wanted to say, Wanderer appeared. He was just suddenly there, that book in hand, and his expression was the kind of blank that suggested he'd caught enough of the conversation to understand exactly what was happening.

"A brain," he said flatly, and his voice had that particular edge that made people take him seriously. "How about you go and pester someone else?"

The scholar's face flushed immediately. He tried to salvage the situation with some blustering comment about respect, but Wanderer had already turned away with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Humans," he said, more to himself than to anyone in particular. "Can you believe them? Making assumptions about things they don't understand. It's exhausting." 

He settled back into his chair like nothing had happened, opening his book with the kind of finality that suggested the conversation was over. He didn't look at you. Didn't acknowledge the scholar's eventual departure. Just sat in silence, reading or pretending to read, and left you sitting there with the weight of what had just happened pressing down on you.

The scholar eventually gathered his things and left, embarrassed and defeated.

You should have left it at that. Should have just gone back to your research and forgotten the whole interaction. It was the kind of thing that happened sometimes—someone misread a situation, made an assumption, got shut down. But as you watched Wanderer settle back into his chair, something stuck with you.

He hadn't corrected the scholar. He'd had the perfect opportunity to clarify—to say "we're not together" or "she's free to see whoever she wants." Instead, he'd simply shut it down with a cutting remark and moved on like the misunderstanding wasn't even worth acknowledging. The fact that he'd called out the assumption about humans making assumptions felt deliberate somehow, like he was pointing out something specific about what had just happened without actually saying it outright.

Hours passed. You continued your research, but your mind kept drifting back to that moment. To the way Wanderer had stepped in without hesitation. 

You found yourself noticing things you probably should have paid attention to earlier. The way Wanderer always positioned himself where he could see you in the Archives. How he'd appear exactly when you needed him, like he had some sixth sense for when you were about to run into trouble. The small gestures that suddenly seemed like they might mean something more than friendly concern. How he leaned closer when you were talking, like he didn't want to miss anything you said. The way his attention was always on you, even when he was pretending to focus on something else.

By the time evening rolled around and you were both packing up your things to leave, you were thoroughly unsettled. You couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't make sense of why he'd let the assumption stand. Why he hadn't corrected it.

Wanderer noticed. You could tell by the way he glanced at you, by the particular expression on his face that suggested he'd been watching you think all afternoon.

"You've been quiet," he observed. "Usually you're insufferable by this point in the day."

You didn't bother denying it. "Are you thinking about what happened in the Archives?" he asked, and there was something almost knowing in his tone, like he'd been waiting for you to bring it up.

You hesitated, then decided there was no point in pretending. "Yes. When that scholar made his assumption, you didn't deny it. You just let him think what he wanted."

He was already walking toward the exit, assuming you'd follow. You did follow, because of course you did. You always did.

"Why does it matter?" he asked as you walked through the hallways. "Why do titles matter anyway?  People are obsessed with naming things, categorizing them, putting them into boxes so they can feel like they understand something. It's exhausting."

"That's not an answer," you said, frustration creeping into your voice. "You could have just told him the truth."

"I've had too many names and identities to care about what we're called," he said, adjusting his hat to block the evening sun. "But I know what you mean to me."

The admission hung between you, heavy with implication. You felt your pulse pick up, felt something shift fundamentally in the way you were looking at him.

"And what do I mean to you?" you asked, your voice quieter now.

He smirked, and that familiar arrogance slipped back into place. But there was warmth underneath it, something that looked suspiciously like fondness.

"How about you figure it out?" he said, tilting his head slightly. "You know, for someone so intelligent, you're remarkably oblivious."

You stood there for a moment, completely still, watching him disappear around the corner without a backward glance. Your pulse was racing, your chest felt tight with something unfamiliar and terrifying, and you were left standing there in the empty street realizing that you'd completely miscalculated everything about him, about this, about whatever was happening between you. The worst part was that he knew it too.

Wriothesley

The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide had a habit of making you wait. Every time you had an excuse to visit his office, he'd somehow find a way to extend your stay. A question about the documents you'd brought. A piece of tea he wanted your opinion on. A conversation that started about work and drifted into something that had nothing to do with the Fortress at all. Every time, the line between professional and personal blurred when you were with him. And if you were being honest, you didn’t mind that at all. 

Today you'd come to deliver some documents. You'd done it a dozen times. But as you walked through the corridors, you found yourself hoping he'd be free. Hoping he'd ask you to stay for a few minutes. Hoping for that particular smile he got when he saw you—the one that suggested you were the most interesting thing that had happened to his day. Which was ridiculous. He was the Duke of the Fortress. He had actual responsibilities. The fact that you'd somehow become part of his routine was probably just coincidence. Or convenience. Certainly not because he enjoyed your company the way you'd started to enjoy his.

His office door was open when you arrived. He was reviewing paperwork, but he looked up the moment you knocked.

"Documents?" he asked, already setting down his pen.

"From the west wing," you confirmed, crossing the room to set them on his desk. "The quarterly inventory."

He gestured to the chair across from him. "Stay. I want to ask you about the discrepancies in the last count."

It was a convenient excuse. You both knew there were no significant discrepancies. All the paperwork you did was perfect, and Wriothesely knew that. But you sat anyway, because you were, apparently, incapable of saying no to him.

The next hour passed in a blur of conversation that had nothing to do with inventory. He asked about your week, mentioned something he'd read that reminded him of you, made you laugh at some observation about one of the other guards. His attention was focused entirely on you, and it was intoxicating in a way you weren't prepared to examine too closely.

At one point, he stood to get something from his filing cabinet, and when he passed your chair, his hand brushed your shoulder. It was such a small gesture, probably meaningless. Except you'd noticed he did it every time he walked past you. A small touch. Like he needed to reassure himself you were still there.

Or maybe you were reading too much into it, and he did that with everyone.

"You're distracted," he observed, settling back into his chair. "Something on your mind?"

"No, I'm fine," you said quickly. "Just thinking about work."

"I have a meeting with the senior guards in a few minutes," he said, glancing at his pocket watch. "Bureaucratic tedium. You're welcome to wait here if you'd like. Shouldn't take more than an hour."

Your pulse did something stupid at the casual offer. Stay in his office. Alone. Surrounded by his things. "Sure," you said, trying to sound unbothered. "I have time."

He stood, straightening his jacket. "There's tea on the side table. Help yourself to anything you need." After he left, you told yourself you'd spend the time reading one of the books on his shelf. Instead, you found yourself noticing small things. The way his desk was organized but not obsessively so. The way he'd left his chair still warm. The faint scent of something cool and expensive that you'd come to associate with him. This was getting out of hand. 

You needed to be more careful about how much time you spent in his company, how much you looked forward to it. The Fortress wasn't a place where relationships happened casually. People noticed things. People talked. The city as a whole was a place rife with gossip, and you weren’t exactly sure if this was the kind of gossip that needed to be spread. 

You stood and walked to the window, staring out at the courtyard below. The guards were doing their rounds. You weren't paying attention to your surroundings the way you should have been when you decided to stretch your legs in the corridor.

The hand on your arm came from nowhere. You were spun around, slammed against the cold stone wall before you could process what was happening. The air left your lungs in a sharp gasp.

An inmate. One you didn't recognize, eyes wild and desperate.

"You're with him, aren't you?" he hissed, his grip on your arm painfully tight. "The Duke. His partner. You'd know things."

Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might burst. Fear flooded through you, crystalline and sharp. This was real. This was actually happening.

"I don't—" you started, but his grip tightened.

"Don't lie to me," he spat. "Where's the emergency exit? Where does he keep the keys?"

You tried to pull away, tried to think of something to say that might defuse this, but panic was making your thoughts scatter.

His other hand came up.

Then he was gone.

Wriothesley stood between you and him, and you'd never seen him look like this. All the charm, all the politeness stripped away. What remained was something colder. He looked every bit likt eh terrifying, infamous warden of Meropide. The kind of man you heard rumors about from people all around Fontaine but were hard pressed to believe them because he was never like that with you. Until now.

"Touch her again," Wriothesley said, his voice dropping, "and you'll find out exactly why I run this place." He didn't raise his voice. The threat was implicit in everything about him. The way he stood, the way his eyes had gone cold, the certainty that he could make good on whatever he was implying.

The inmate scrambled backward, apologizing frantically, and Wriothesley didn't even watch him go. He turned to you immediately.

"Are you hurt?" His voice shifted back to something more familiar, but there was still an edge to it. His hands came up like he wanted to touch you but was restraining himself.

You shook your head, still trembling. Your arm ached where the inmate had grabbed you. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

Wriothesley guided you back to his office without a word, one hand on the small of your back. Steady. Grounding. Once inside, he had you sit while he examined your arm, his touch gentle now, checking for damage.

"He didn't break the skin," he said. "But you'll have bruises."

You nodded, still trying to process what had just happened.

After several minutes of silence, when your heart had stopped racing quite so violently, the other part of what had happened filtered through.

You let out a shaky laugh—the kind that comes from adrenaline finally releasing. "Well. That was terrifying."

Wriothesley watched you, his expression softening slightly now that the immediate danger had passed.

"Maybe I should stop spending so much time with you," you said, trying to inject some levity into your voice. "He thought we were together. If I'm going to get cornered by inmates, at least let it be for something I'm actually guilty of."

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Is that what you're concerned about? Your reputation?"

"Among other things," you said, managing a small smile. "Mostly just the part where I nearly got my arm broken because someone thought I had access to your secrets."

"Fair point," he said, and there was genuine warmth in his expression now. He stood and moved to lean against his desk, close enough that you could see the amusement lingering in his eyes. "Though for what it's worth, that inmate did you a favor. Gave you a decent excuse to stay in my office longer than usual without anyone questioning it."

You stared at him. "That's your takeaway from nearly being cornered?"

"One of several," he said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Though I admit the timing was inconvenient. I was just starting to enjoy our conversation."

"You're impossible," you said, but there was no real heat in it.

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. "You could always use it as an excuse to come back more often. For your safety, naturally. Can't have you getting cornered again." His tone was light. "The offer stands. Anytime you need it."

The way he said it made clear he wasn't really talking about the physical space anymore.

Xiao

You'd learned to recognize the patterns of Xiao's presence. The way he appeared on your commissions before you'd even finished the previous one, materializing from nowhere with that particular blend of concern and restraint that he tried so hard to hide. How he'd always position himself where he could see you, even when he pretended he wasn't watching, his attention a constant weight you'd grown accustomed to. The small, almost imperceptible softening in his expression when you looked his way—a shift so brief you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention. But you were always paying attention.

Today's commission had been brutal. Your muscles ached with the kind of deep weariness that came from hours of constant movement, and your clothes were torn in at least two places. You were fairly certain you had a bruise forming on your ribs, tender to the touch. By the time you'd finished and made your way back to the inn, all you could think about was a hot bath and sleep, in that order. You climbed the stairs toward your room, already mentally preparing yourself for the solitude of it, when you remembered you hadn't eaten yet.

You made your way to the balcony overlooking the courtyard instead, needing air before food. And Xiao was there, exactly where he always was, leaning against the railing like he'd been waiting. You'd stopped trying to figure out how he got there before you did—he was an adeptus, after all, and teleportation was hardly the strangest thing about him. One moment the balcony was empty, the next he was there, solid and present, his gaze already on you.

"You're hurt," he said, his eyes sweeping over you with that clinical precision he had, taking in every torn seam and scraped knuckle.

"Just sore," you replied, settling onto the railing a few feet away from him. The evening air was cool against your skin. "Nothing serious."

"You should have called my name," he said, and there was something almost accusatory in his tone. "I would have protected you."

You couldn't resist. "Aw, were you worried?" you asked, tilting your head with a small smile.

He looked away, toward the valley. "I'm always worried about you," he said, his voice quieter than before but no less earnest. There was no deflection in it, no attempt to soften the statement with humor or distance. Just the plain truth, delivered with the kind of sincerity that made your chest tighten.

You didn't tease him further. Just sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. The wind moved through the courtyard below, carrying the scent of evening flowers and distant rain.

The innkeeper appeared on the balcony carrying a tray with soup, bread, and fresh water—the way they always did when you returned from your commissions. They were smiling warmly, clearly pleased with themselves for the thoughtfulness.

"Your partner must be hungry as well after watching you out there all day," they said kindly, setting the tray down on the small table beside you. Partner, you registered with faint amusement.

Their gaze flickered to Xiao, who was standing at the railing, and you could see them putting the pieces together in their mind. The protective stance. The way his attention never wavered from you. The obvious care. "Should I bring something for them as well?"

The words landed, and you felt Xiao go rigid beside you. You had to suppress a smile at the sheer absurdity of it. Partner. Xiao. The adeptus who spent half his time trying to convince you he didn't care about much else besides his ‘karmic duty’, who was allergic to admitting feelings, who acted like wanting someone was the most burdensome thing in the world.

"We're not—" Xiao said curtly, his voice sharp with irritation. He didn't even look at the innkeeper, just stared straight ahead. "I'm not her partner."

The innkeeper flinched slightly at his tone and quickly retreated with an apologetic bow, clearly having misjudged the situation.

And that's when you lost it.

"Oh my god," you said, not even trying to hide your grin as Xiao stood there, clearly agitated, his entire body practically vibrating with embarrassment. "Did you just—did you actually just deny that in front of everyone?"

"Don't," he said flatly, but you could already see the flush creeping up his neck. His ears were turning pink.

"Your ears are completely red right now," you continued, absolutely delighted at this rare display of genuine flustering. "I didn't know you could blush like that. It's actually kind of adorable."

"I wasn't blushing," he said, but his ears somehow got even redder at the mention of it, which rather defeated the entire purpose of his denial and made the situation even funnier.

"You denied it so fast," you said, leaning back in your chair with the kind of satisfaction that comes from genuinely embarrassing an immortal being. "I've never seen you move that quickly. Usually you're all stoic and composed, and then someone says 'partner' and suddenly you're rushing across a room like—"

"That did not occur," he muttered, and you could practically feel the irritation radiating off him in waves. “...no respect for the Adepti,” he mumbled under his breath.

"You were embarrassed," you pressed, enjoying this far too much. "Genuinely flustered. Xiao, what would be so bad about people thinking we were—"

"It's not that," he cut you off, his voice sharp with frustration. He finally looked directly at you, and there was real emotion in his expression—the kind of frustration that comes from not being able to articulate something you're desperately feeling, something that's been building up inside you. "It's just... people don't understand what I am. What being associated with me means. It's—" He stopped himself, jaw clenching hard enough that you could see the muscle work beneath his skin.

You tilted your head, your smile softening slightly as you realized this wasn't just about embarrassment anymore. "What? Being associated with you is what?"

He was quiet for a long moment. The sounds of the inn filled the space between you—the gentle murmur of other diners, the clink of dishes in the kitchen, the wind moving through the open windows. You could see the internal struggle playing out across his face, the way he was fighting to find words for something that clearly didn't have any.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Quieter. Like he was admitting something he'd been trying desperately not to say, something that had been eating at him for longer than either of you probably wanted to acknowledge.

"You're the only thing I've ever wanted to keep. And that scares me more than anything."

Your breath caught. The teasing dropped from your expression entirely. Your pulse picked up in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exhaustion or adrenaline. It was just him. Just those words, delivered with such raw honesty that you felt them like a physical thing, like they'd reached inside your chest and squeezed.

"Xiao, I—" you started, but the words wouldn't come.

He stood abruptly, like staying still was suddenly unbearable. He simply disappeared—one moment solid and present, the next gone entirely, like he'd never been there at all. You sat alone on the balcony with the untouched tray of food, heat flooding your cheeks, your heart racing so hard you were certain the entire inn could hear it.

You had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

...i should really stop getting out of control with the word count >:(( but i get too excited writing about them 😭