Blue

⤷ baelor's talons are not the sharpest, but not the dullest either. as said prior, he likes knowing he has ways of besting his opponents if need be or defend himself if by any chance he gets attacked. we have to remember he is next in line to the throne, which means he needs to stay alive and well long enough to have the crown placed upon his brow. he cannot and will not take any chances of being caught defenseless. he might have the kingsguard around, but even then, the odds of being hurt are never zero. dragon hybrid!baelor sharpens his talons just enough to prick at skin if dug into with intent, but never enough to injure if he just scratches lightly at skin, which he does often when you're near. he never draws blood with you, hates to see any of his dragonic features ever being used to hurt you in any way, shape, or form. if it wasn't for you, his talons would be sharp enough to draw blood forthwith, but alas, he takes measures for that never to happen unless willed by him towards people who wish him harm.

⤷ his scales are scarlet in color. they look akin to rubies in the sun, shifting and glittering with the rays of warmth. baelor does not particularly care to show them off, but makes sure they are visible, especially in court meetings or when he is called upon in some corner of the realm on princely duties. he wants people to know he is blood of the dragon, which runs so deep in his veins that even his features took after the ancient beasts people so feared. that is what he wants, for people to make the connection between what once was and what is now, that he is the closest thing to the dangerous, ruthless beasts of time long gone and fit to rule; strong enough to do it. the scaly plates encompass the whole width of his shoulders, swirling up the length of his nape and disappearing into the fine hairs there. they dip along his spine, a cluster of them, like freshly spilled blood, ending in that sturdy, glorious tail. you love the ones along his navel that travel slowly towards the base of his cock; it always makes your pupils dilate with want just at the sight. but you're not so crass as to not appreciate the reddish scales that dust his temples and ears, even a few stray ones here and there down his chest.

⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor has horns, but not in the way you might think. they're almost entirely of solid bone, with a cluster of scales at the bottom from where they sprout on either side of his head. the horns are extremely sturdy and rather sharp at the end. in the beginning of your courtship, baelor was worried at times that he might accidentally nip or hurt you with them, but with time, he learned to maneuver around you in such a way that the threat of them towards you is very minimal. it's quite bothersome for him to wear helmets, which is why he asked for one that allows for his horns to sit comfortably inside the steel without hurting him, or simply, to have two gaps at the top for the horns to pop out outside the helmet. baelor ended up wanting both. he wears the latter at tournaments and jousts to intimidate his opponents a little. it's the one time where he can prance around and preen, not weighted down by duty and crown.

⤷ his wings are kept against his back, but not all the way. they're ruddy and wide, the membrane thick and vibrant, expanding way past his body when unfurled fully. baelor commands a room quietly, without raising his voice, without making a fuss. the dominance is in the way he holds himself: the way he walks, looks, and comports himself. he uses the wings to his advantage, letting them unfurl just enough to shroud his broad back and the width of his shoulders, but not more than that. it's calculated, and it works wonders at letting him take up space and be imposing when he walks into a room, without even needing to speak. sure, he is the heir to the iron throne, and the title demands obedience, but how long would a mere legacy hold courtiers in check if he didn't have proof that he could fill the role waiting for him? having people stepping aside to make room for him fills baelor with pride; of his house, his name, and the man-beast he is.

⤷ baelor's eyes are slitted, like any dragon's. he tries his best not to make it known when he has been slighted, especially in court, but his pupils always give him away. they thin so, so much when something gets on his nerves, even if otherwise his body gives no sign of his irritation. but, in the same measure, when he looks at something he likes, something he loves, something that pleases him, his eyes turn to almost black with the way his pupils expand and widen, overwhelmed by the warmth he feels in his chest.

⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor's tongue is slitted, but just a bit at the end. does not like to showcase such a detail, unless it's with you, and only for your viewing. but there are times when a lord or sycophant says something too daring or out of place in court, and baelor would lick at his lips, letting the tip of his split tongue slither out just a bit, enough to be seen, with the barest hiss, before addressing the offender. it works like a charm in making himself heard and obeyed.

✧ BEHAVIOUR ⤷ dragon hybrid!baelor is all about control and appearance. to the outside world, at least. he needs to appear like he is in control of himself and his dragonic side, especially when members of the court are around. proving oneself does not leave room for mistakes, and no matter how kind and benevolent he is, one slip could crumble it all away. baelor has the favor of the small folk and lordlings alike, and wants to keep it that way until he can feel the cold touch of the crown upon his brow and have the realm at his fingertips. until then, restraint and impeccable etiquette must be exercised every moment of the day in the presence of others. not that it does not come naturally to baelor, but some days are harder than others, and reigning in his more baser, primal instincts proves to be a challenge.

⤷ as the heir to the iron throne, baelor is very busy and well known to be a bit, or more of a workaholic. he dislikes it because it keeps him away from you, his mate, for too long at times. perhaps from an outside perspective, he might seem like a serious, kind husband who will tend to his wife as duty demands, but not much more. that could not be further from the truth, for he craves you even when you are right next to him. you are a balm to his senses, softening the hard edges that come with the incessant demands of duty he is subjected to every single day. there is no better cure for his self-destructive ways of working himself to the bone than a stern look from you or a plea for respite. it shatters every shackle that binds him to his solar, his desk, his stack of letters and reports, and guides him right back to you, where he belongs.

⤷ unfortunately, there are days when he cannot simply disregard duty and has to lock himself in his solar for hours on end, at times the whole day, just to be able to make a dent in all the stacks of papers he has lying around on his desk. it unnerves him, because he is aware that it makes you lonely. a wife should never go too long without the presence of her husband, and he would be remiss in letting you wallow in too much solitude. so, he comes up with a solution that will allow you to be close to him and grant him the possibility of working on his princely duties. he builds nests for you in his solar.

⤷ as a dragon, the urge to provide his mate with a nest is as old as time, and baelor knows how much you love the one he had built for you in your shared chambers, so why not... give you more? he makes sure the necessary materials are the softest gold can buy, from silks to wool to rich cotton, all just for your comfort. the way your face lights up when he offers the idea makes his chest rattle with a pleased rumble, knowing he has made his mate happy. the nests are placed in his solar a fortnight after: one close by the windowsill so you can soak up the sun while you read and knit, one in a more secluded corner, where the temperature drops just a bit, ideal for taking naps and resting, and baelor's favorite, one right under his desk, tucked beneath it, as close to him as possible.

⤷ despite what the realm might think, baelor craves you like no other; needs to be close to you as much as duty allows, and will do anything to make it happen. he loves it when you just curl up onto the nest under his desk, fingers gripping onto the hem of one pant leg or holding onto his tail. it's a heady feeling, having his mate seek him, wanting a point of contact even like this. the beast prowling in his chest almost purrs with delight when he feels you tug as much of his tail as you can towards yourself to cuddle it, cheek pressing against scales as you use it as a pillow while you slumber. baelor always takes a couple of minutes just to watch you, the tip of his tail slowly caressing your sleep-flushed cheek so, so tenderly, unable to help himself from touching, his heart skipping a beat when you unconsciously lean into the contact.

⤷ but, that is not the only way he uses his tail, especially when he has you so close to him, so sweet and warm. spending time next to him, just watching him pore over documents and work himself to the bone, bores you at times, as much as you want to wave it off and continue being a supportive wife. many a time have you enticed him to give in to less... princely endeavours, using all the weapons at your disposal to make his resolve crack bit by bit. a flutter of your lashes here, a whine there, a tug on his tail or breeches, all in favour of his attention, if even just for a few moments. and baelor, your dear dragon, your ever dutiful husband, was powerless to resist for too long, especially when you leaned back fully into the nest, parting your thighs while you slowly inched your skirts up to your waist, showing off your smallclothes, or at times, lack thereof. always wet, folds glistening with your arousal, calling to him like a siren song, he was too enamored of a man to resist.

⤷ do not think that baelor would push his chair back and crawl under his desk after you. no, not at all. work could not wait, now could it? so, he used his tail to give his pretty, needy wife what you so sought after, hands still busy writing letters and grain reports, delighting himself in the sounds of your moans and pleasured sights from under his desk. it was so easy to brush the tip of his tail upwards along the soft skin of your thigh, slow and steady, letting you feel him, building the anticipation before giving you what you wanted, swiping through sodden folds and drenching his scales in your slick. baelor always loved that sharp, breathy intake you took whenever the tip of his tail finally flicked against your clit, circling the sensitive nub in relentless motions, before tapping against it enough to make you gasp but never enough to sting, unless you asked for it nicely. it always reminded you of how your husband loved doing the same thing with the head of his cock whenever you fucked. mimicking the action with the tip of his tail always made you heady and bashful with lust.

⤷ flicking and playing with your clit, dipping his tail just a bit into your wet hole to tease, ever careful not to hurt you, swiping through your folds again and again. baelor does anything to get you to cum as much as you want, multitasking between continuing his work and drawing out the most delicious sounds from your plush lips, letting you soak his tail to your heart's delight, happy that he's able to offer you release. at times, you get so overwhelmed, fingers grasping at his tail, needing something to ground yourself to, ending up pressing the scaly muscle against your soaked cunt and grinding against it, humping it eagerly to get yourself off, whining high in your throat at the feel of the bumps and ridges against your clit. your dragon always finds it so endearing, making sure to curl his tail just right, helping you chase that delicious heat, wanting his wife to never want for nothing.

⤷ he loves to croon at you, even if he cannot see you. "feels good, my sweet?" baelor would hum as he continued writing, a small, pleased smile curling onto his lips as your moans got a little higher at the sound of that rumbled tone of his. "that's it, that's it. good girl." his praise washes over you in waves, bringing warmth to your skin and more slick between your thighs, only getting you to hump his tail faster. "you're dirtying me, my love," your dragon would continue, but not as a reprimand, the candor of his voice too gratified to sound like a reproach. "are you marking me, hm? getting that sweet honey all over my scales? is that how you scent your dragon, sweetling?"

⤷ it gives both of you a sort of thrill. you're under his desk, in a nest he crafted for you, and he cannot see you, the wood obscuring everything you are doing. but he can hear all the sounds, all the whines, everything. the wet noises your cunt makes when the tip of his tail prods at your sopping hole. the rustle of your skirts as you grind your hips. the way your feet and elbows sometimes hit against the side of the desk, making the wood rattle just a bit, his handwriting skittering against paper, making him huff. never angry, always pleased. baelor cannot see you, but he can feel you around his tail, onto it, and hear every single sound your body makes; you make. it's maddening.

⤷ and you have a perfect view of how hard his cock gets. how he spreads his thighs just a bit to relieve some of the pressure, the length tenting his breeches obscenely, making you even wetter. you try not to fall prisoner to the pull in your gut that tells you to move closer, to assist your husband the way he does you. but how could you ever, when you see his cock twitch every time your moans pitch higher because of the way the tip of his tail taps wetly against your clit? how could you not sit up and crawl between his legs, dipping your head to mouth and mewl along his clothed thigh, rubbing your cheek against the hard print of his cock insistently, offering him the friction he so craves?

⤷ he's weak for you, forgoing his papers in favour of petting at your hair, humming as he watches you paw at his crotch, mouth open, tongue licking at him through his breeches. you're so eager, and he's never felt more powerful than in that moment, with his pretty wife between his thighs, willing to offer him pleasure in return. your fingers make quick work of his breeches, whining impatiently until you can get your mouth onto his cock, lips stretched around the girth of him, muffling your noises. "good?" baelor rumbles, letting his talons scrape and pet at your hair, tender and soothing, lulling you along as you suckle and lick at his cock. the expression on your face is serene, almost peaceful, and your husband knows what you need. "rest on my thigh," he coaxes. "hm, yes, like that, my love. good, good. stay like that for me." and you do, mouthing at his cock, swirling your tongue around the length, cockwarming it while it rests inside your mouth. baelor knows this is relaxing for you, even if it takes a lot out of him not to thrust inside that perfect, wet warmth enveloping him, but he holds back, petting your hair, brushing your cheek and crooning soft praise as your eyes lower, half-lidded and drowsy, mouthing at his cock lazily, suckling occasionally. he makes sure to rub your back with his tail, wanting you as pliant and melting as possible.

⤷ of course, your mouth is not the only one being used for pleasure, for there are days when he hauls you from under the desk, placing you flush atop of hardwood, not caring about the papers and ink spilled for once, needing one thing and one thing only: to service you with his mouth. baelor is uncaring if he rips your skirts a little or not as he hikes them up your thighs, revealing your pussy to him, wasting no time in smushing his face right into the slick heat of you, inhaling the musk into his lungs and letting it fester, growling deeply into sodden folds. long tongue, the forked end of it lapping at you with fervor as he holds you against his mouth, tail wrapping around your waist to press you as close as possible, feasting to his heart's content. your juices coat his beard, nose, and chin, the pepper-salt hairs glistening with your slick in the candlelight. he preens at the way you arch off the desk, your fingers threading through his hair to press him further into you, grinding against his tongue until you cum. your husband is more than delighted to pull as many orgasms out of you as possible until you're spent and boneless.

⤷ he doesn't wash off the scent of you from his beard. baelor leaves it there until the morrow, way past when the council has finished, loving the thought of having your scent clinging to him, just as his is all over you, for he had nuzzled you incessantly before leaving your bed that morning. your husband never lets you leave his side until you reek of him, wanting every single courtier that comes into contact with you to smell him in you first, and then your sweet scent warping around his own. a dragon needs to protect his treasure, to hoard it close and deter any grubby paws from touching it. baelor always leans close and sniffs at you at the end of the day, when you both retire to your chambers, nose pressing to skin and clothes and hair, making sure there are no other scents cling to you. only his. only ever his.

⤷ scenting you so thoroughly ties into the need for him to breed you every time he fucks you. rutting into you deep and slow, too frustrated from working so late into the night, sometimes knotting the air, too eager and wound up, his body not having the patience to be all the way inside. but then again, having the pleasure to stuff you full, nudging his fat knot inside of your wet hole, groaning "shh, i know, sweet girl, i know." as the girth stretches you wide, one broad palm smoothing down your back soothingly to coax you to relax. "s' too big, hm? but you can take it, my love. just a bit more." when he's finally all the way to the hilt, your walls squeezing around his knot so deliciously, he can't help but blanket you with his body as he fills you again and again with every snap of his hips. "so good. gods, you're so warm, my heart. just right for my clutch to grow."

⤷ and a clutch will eventually grow, for baelor is sure to keep his cock inside you as deep as it'll go, his knot keeping all his seed where it needs to be: in your womb.

⤷ as much as he loves the heated moments, your dragon also wouldn't trade the tender ones for the world. the way you ask the maesters to prepare oils and creams for his scales and horns, your gentle fingers rubbing them in so carefully, making sure to get the salves in all the ridges and crevices. baelor's scales are so shiny afterwards, making him preen with delight when you fawn over them, admiring the way your dragon looks, all pampered and taken care of. you love helping him like this, making sure he looks impeccable for court, for the realm, feeling warmth in your chest when you see how regal and powerful your husband is, scales glistening in the light like rubies.

⤷ even as busy as he is, baelor would always put you first, the realm is his duty, but you are his heart. he cannot imagine not having you close as his wife, his mate. having you close is no longer a need, but a constant in his life. wrapping himself around you as you sleep, tail curled around your waist or thighs, pressing you flush to him as he scents and sniffs at your throat and hair, whispering how much he loves you, how blessed he is to have one such as you next to him. his duty to the realm is, by extension, his duty to you, as well. baelor wants to make the seven kingdoms a better place so you can live and exist in a better place, safer, happier, less concerned by misfortunes. he truly wishes no harm to befall you and will do everything in his power to make sure that one day his wife breathes with less weight on her shoulders because he willed it so.

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Every time any form of interaction between Aventurine and the IPC gets brought up in the game, I just grit my teeth now, because it inevitably revives the (literally) years-long debate: "Aventurine never wanted to join the IPC!" "Aventurine is a slave and has to stay in the IPC or they'll kill him!" "Aventurine was going to be executed for breaking his cornerstone!" "Aventurine hates the IPC!"

Saveeeee meeeee pleaseeeee.

I just don't know how the game can continually drop stuff like this:

This is, in fact, Jade telling Aventurine he can quit the IPC. At least 40% of this fanbase owed Jade an apology yesterday.

Yet the fandom can still struggle so much to understand that Aventurine is not the faultless victim that people seem to so dearly want him to be.

We not only now have in-game confirmation that Aventurine's after Oswaldo Schneider, but we even have confirmation that the entire Strategic Investment Department is after Oswaldo Schneider, which means that Topaz, Jade, and the other Stonehearts, are, in fact, Aventurine's genuine allies. He's not "using" the IPC to achieve his personal vendetta without his coworkers' knowledge--his personal vendetta is a standing Strategic Investment Department agenda item. They are all drinking the Hateraid together.

Aventurine's exactly where he (thinks) he needs to be right now.

Accumulating power through his employment with the IPC is not only what Aventurine originally wanted long ago when he got himself caught for the desert scheme--it's exactly what he wants right now, because everything in the Strategic Investment Department's plans aligns perfectly to his individual goals. Aventurine bet he'd get a promotion following Penacony because he wanted one. (Were we really out here thinking that the guy who always wins his bets would bet on something he didn't want? 😭)

Furthermore, this new SP description confirms that Aventurine was never at risk of execution for breaking his cornerstone. I still have no idea why people ran away with that idea when both Aventurine and the Myriad Celestia video itself confirm the only actual punishment on the table was losing his power:

Butttttt even if execution was an option they were putting on the scales, Aventurine already knew the outcome of the decision before the votes were ever cast. Aventurine wasn't in any danger, even from the start, because he already knew Diamond would decide in his favor:

Just as Aventurine said all the way back in 2.1, Diamond is explicitly a "ends justify the means" kind of person, and he acted exactly as Aventurine predicted, granting him a reward for his stunt in Penacony rather than any form of punishment. Aventurine knows the people he's working with. He knows the system and can play it like a fiddle. He's not Aventurine of STRATAGEMS for no reason, come onnnnn people. In this high-stakes game called life, the IPC is Aventurine's "hotel on Broadway," providing him everything he needs--it's extremely unlikely he'll be leaving them any time soon.

And this just continues to confound and frustrate people when it comes to talking about his character. Over and over again, it's "Aventurine isn't like the IPC; he wouldn't do the kinds of things they stand for!" or "He's only there to get revenge; he hates everything they do and doesn't support their colonizer land-grabs at all!"

But he has.

His primary role is in serving the Ten Stonehearts' "asset liquidation" function--that is, overthrowing anyone who fails to comply with the IPC's plans. He has murdered people specifically for the IPC; it's right there in his character story! D;

We had an entire subplot in Penacony about the noble struggle of the native Penaconians who gave their literal lives to free their planet from the tyranny of the IPC--and Aventurine went in and deliberately took that freedom away again. He has never expressed even the slightest regret for rewinding the clock on the centuries-long revolution that Hanunue and Mikhail died for. He effectively did to Penacony exactly what was done to his own planet and then got rewarded for it.

Aventurine is every bit as much of an IPC lapdog as any other member of the Ten Stonehearts--even less empathetic than some (Pearl, at least)--and has never claimed to be anything else.

In fact, the game goes out of its way to try to hammer this home by often refusing to let the Trailblazer respond to Aventurine in anything but a vaguely standoffish manner, repeatedly calling him out for being with the IPC--despite Trailblazer managing to befriend everyone else and be perfectly cordial with former enemies like Sunday, Skott, and Topaz. The game drills it into our heads constantly that, at least until my boy Sugilite Diamond drops, Aventurine is the IPC poster boy.

And people just can't stomach that, so they keep inventing this alternative version of him who is more sympathetic, less responsible for his own actions, who never meant to join the IPC, or who has no choice in his morally questionable schemes against others. It's big bad Jade's fault. It's fate's fault. It's anyone but Aventurine's fault.

But that's just... not the point of this character...

From the very beginning, all the way back to his days in the desert, one of the central aspects of Aventurine's character is the need to survive, because he carries the legacy and hopes of not only his entire clan but also specifically of his mother and sister, who died to preserve his life and believed that he would bring their people prosperity one day. Even if "their people" is now only him, the struggle to not end up squandering what his family bled and died for has haunted Aventurine's narrative from the time he was tiny.

Despite how much he has personally wavered--even clearly wanting to give up--Aventurine's story is, at its core, about living on no matter the cost. And the truth is that sometimes "the cost" of Aventurine's survival is other people's lives. More than 30 people went into the death maze when Aventurine was a slave, and only Aventurine came out, because when push comes to shove, he has to endure. Even while hoping it will happen, he can't allow himself to die a meaningless death or simply fade into obscurity. He's got to do his family proud.

First that meant getting into the IPC to try to bring them resources and aid. And then, failing that, now it (at least partially) means capitalizing on the convenient goal of the Strategic Investment Department to get one up on Oswaldo Schneider. It means doing everything he can to amass more wealth, more power, and more authority to fortify his own position. And it might even mean stabbing people in the back, if that truly becomes the only option.

(I'm actually inclined to think that Aventurine is rather more loyal than he paints himself and is unlikely to stab anyone in the back if he could absolutely avoid it, but if there was truly no other way to keep going...)

Of course, it's impossible to really judge Aventurine for any of this!

Everyone wants to survive, everyone does everything in their power to preserve themselves when things get ugly. The intention of gaining wealth and power to help family and allies is a noble quest. Revenge on a bad person is usually treated as justified in fiction, so going after Oswaldo is viewed very positively by the players.

But where is the line?

At what moment does one's desire for power, wealth, material comforts, and even revenge exceed the realm of nobility and become greed? Can gold gained by evil means ever be truly clean? If you're seeking riches for a good reason but still trampling over the less fortunate to get them, can your "good reason" ever really be justified?

In your quest to survive, to thrive, to be avenged, what--and who--are you willing to sacrifice?

That's the point of this character.

Aventurine has always been a walking contradiction: The victim who now helps victimize others, the colonized who now helps colonize, the eternal winner who has lost everything, with pockets full of money but with nothing worth cherishing, wanting to die and yet clinging to life.

He entire role in the story is to present us with a nuanced picture of the IPC's impact on the HSR universe:

Unlike Topaz whose conscience is still (mostly) clear (perhaps only by sheer force of will at this point), Aventurine is fully aware that the IPC is evil. He's not under any illusion that they're actually a force of good for the universe. He doesn't buy the "We help poor planets that can't help themselves" propaganda in the slightest, and he's made it clear that he doesn't actually approve of the methods some of his own coworkers (namely Opal) will stoop to. He thinks the IPC are pretty shitty people, and doesn't reserve that opinion just for Oswaldo Schneider.

But he also contributes to the system knowing it is fundamentally evil.

He willingly joined the organization that contributed to his sister's death. He willingly helps undermine planets' freedoms the same way his own was oppressed. While people continue to struggle to survive across the universe, Aventurine takes the "meaningless" wealth he's amassed and blows it on million dollar perfume and pink diamonds.

He lives the polar opposite life he had in his childhood: Now he has otherworldly strength, now he has riches, now he has every comfort imaginable, now he has a pseudo-mother figure and a pseudo-sister figure, so he's never alone... Now he is needed, now he is successful, now his blessing serves its purpose and actually helps him advance, now he can pursue a goal of getting justice for his people again...

Everything Aventurine currently wants out of life, he can get from the IPC. So why wouldn't he be there willingly?

(Don't get me wrong; I'm not saying Aventurine likes the IPC. He's never claimed to be genuinely loyal to them, never seemed like he particularly enjoys his job, and even in the recent description of the SP talks about having to "force a smile" for the camera. He's not under any illusions that the IPC is the coolest, bestest, greatest company to work for ever. But he stays because, in his mind, the benefits outweigh the small, small cost of his morals. Maybe he thinks he already lost those long ago, so there's no morals left for him to lose anyway.)

It's not actually a healthy situation. The IPC is probably one of the worst possible places in the universe for him to be. They definitely contributed to his genuine desire for suicide in Penacony, and the cognitive dissonance that working for the same company that left your family to die would bring with it would be staggering.

But being a "bad victim" is the point. Being willing to bed down with the bad guys for personal gain is the point. We're supposed to recognize Aventurine's willingness to stain his own hands, and even as we sympathize with his motives--protecting himself, treasuring the legacy of his family by valuing his own life more, seizing Oswaldo Schneider's power and influence--we're supposed to recognize that the situation is not so easily labelled black and white, that the Strategic Investment Department being better than the Marketing Development Department doesn't make them good people--that having noble intentions does not always confirm the ends will justify the means.

I'm not sure how many more times the devs have to stamp "I-P-C" on Aventurine's forehead before people will start to finally entertain the idea that he's not a "hapless prisoner who would surely never do bad things to other people if the meanies weren't forcing him to."

It was a lot scarier the first time—you had to admit—when you fell from the glass room right beside the huge collider more than a year ago. At the time, Miles had insisted you stay away from his spider business for your own safety, but you—being you—followed him down anyway.

That was your first mistake.

Your second—however—came in the form of letting Kingpin know you were there after allowing quite the ridiculous sneeze out of your mouth. And once he saw you, it wasn't hard for him to pick you up and throw you through the shattered glass in his rage and dismay of his failed plan.

Miles had his back completely turned to you when it happened, and yet—somehow—he was the first to whip his head around and notice your quickly descending form.

"Y/N!"

You had come so close to the ground—seconds away from touching it—when that familiar warmth wrapped its way around your waist, carrying you through the wind to prop you onto your own little cloud of safety.

Ever since then, Miles refused to leave your side. He took you out on every mission he went to—pretty much every news station had you pinned down as 'Spiderman's girl' and he never bothered to correct them.

So even as Gwen went off to another dimension, Miles grabbed you before following after. Even as he was invited to the headquarters of this 'spider society', he refused to go without them also granting you permission inside too.

When you asked him why he went to such lengths for you, he simply replied, "I almost lost you once while being in the same dimension as you, if you think I'm going to let it even come close to happening again, you've got another thing coming."

So no, you didn't find the second time you were falling to your death all that scary. Not when you knew Miles would save you—

"I've got you, cariño."

—you just didn't exactly know that it would be the other one that did.

His arms were wound tightly around the underside of your knees and upper back—carrying you so intimately, looking at you with so much love in his eyes, you found yourself growing slightly flustered.

...okay, very flustered.

"Oh, Cariño," as he spoke, he didn't lose the breath in his tone—the gentle air of disbelief he took on since your arrival, "you're here. I can't believe it—you're here. Te extrañé mucho." ("I missed you so much.")

You were speechless, gaping up at him like a clueless fish—what else could you do? You were being held in the arms of a copy of your best friend after he basically just confessed to you because the 'you' in this universe was apparently dead.

Though, luckily for you, there was no need to say a word for he continued speaking with those soft, fond eyes, "I missed your smile and your laugh. I missed how you always used to tug me around whenever something caught your eye... and how you would go on and on about whatever show was your new obsession of the month. You were always so... pretty when you spoke passionately.

"Speak for me, cariño," he continued, "let me hear that pretty voice of yours again."

"I—" you were stuttering—why were you stuttering?—"I, uh..."

Pull yourself together, Y/N.

"Miles—"

"Ah, I just realised how much I missed the way you say my name."

"—guh!" How the hell was he spitting such smooth lines? "Miles! Just listen for a minute, okay?!"

"Of course, mamí."

"I— I'm not who you think I am. I mean, I am Y/N but I'm not your Y/N. And you're not my Miles."

As the words came tumbling out your mouth, the boy's—this earth's Miles'—lips tugged down, gaze hardening and grip around you ever-so-slowly growing tighter.

"Don't be silly, mamí, of course I'm your Miles. I always have been and always will be."

Your brows furrowed and your eyes trailed to the view behind him, moving rapidly as you tried to locate your best friend. Though, soon, your view of the sky was cut off by the male with braids once more.

"What are you doing?" A growl. "Stop looking for him, look at me. I'm right here. He dropped you."

"He glitched! This isn't his world so of course he would, it wasn't his fault!"

You were quick to defend him—he was your best friend so of course you were. There was no way you were having anyone accuse him of anything negative, even himself.

"Cariño, you almost died. Again. He can't take care of you." Miles narrowed his eyes, as if just the thought pissed him off; as if he had the right to be pissed off.

"Oh what?" You scoffed. "And you can? I'm my own person, I don't need to be taken care of."

Stubbornly, you found yourself pulling away from him—or well, attempting to at least, he didn't seem to want to let you though, judging by the way his claws slowly began to dig into you a little.

His eyes were narrowed and his lips were tugged down, gaze seeming to pierce through you—as though he was trying to use you as a vessel to glare at the person he was really mad at.

Though, soon, the expression was gone, replaced by sullen eyes and an almost-far-away look—glossed over in a cloudy haze full of what you could only assume to be the grand despair that was grief; grief over a loss so great, it would pain someone to even admit it ever happened.

"Cariño, please. I don't want to argue with you, I just got you back. Please."

The look on his face, the crack in his voice—it was all too much, you almost couldn't stomach it, and soon, your arms loosened up as you lost the will to pull away.

"Miles," you whispered, "I... I'm really sorry—"

"Don't be, you're here with me now, aren't you? We can make up for all that lost time."

"I can't." Your vision blurred as you shook your head from side-to-side. "I'm sorry, I can't."

For a moment, all was silent. No words were exchanged, leaving only the strong wind to howl in your ears; to warn you of your grave mistake and whisper taunts into your ears. Then—

"It's because of him, isn't it?"

You almost couldn't muster words. "Huh?"

"The other me—it's because of him that you won't stay with me, isn't it?"

The look in his eyes was something of a dark nature, swirling with malice; with hate so inextricibly deep, you almost couldn't believe your own eyes—because... because there was just no way, right? There was no way your Miles (or any other Miles for that matter) could exhibit such a lethal level of loathing towards anyone...

"If I get rid of him, it won't be so much of a problem anymore... sí?"

...or was there?

Now, if you were a rational person, you would've called for back-up—maybe even gotten Hobie's help like Gwen had. But you weren't a rational person—and could anyone blame you?—your best friend was probably in danger, of course you would act without thinking.

The watch wasn't hard to swipe, everyone was too caught up in what had just happened with Miles to care for guarding their little 'goober' dimension devices. Tracking him down wasn't terribly difficult either, not after you knew which world he went to.

All you really needed to think about was where exactly you had to open the portal—but luckily for you, Margo was willing to help.

"You owe me for this, by the way." Her head tilted your way, lids narrowed in a sassy look you dismissed with a wave of your hand.

"Yeah, okay, what're his coordinates?"

With a roll of her eyes—that you very much thought was quite rude—she gave you just what you needed; his exact coordinates.

The assortment of colours and geometric shapes appeared before you with a few taps of your finger against the cold device, flitting across the room in a bright blur of pure chaos that hurt your eyes to look at—

—but you would endure it; if only for Miles' sake.

"This is stupid, by the way—" you turned, facing the girl who insisted on making a snide comment every five seconds, "—you're not even a spiderperson."

"Says the girl who's speaking to me through a VR headset and isn't actually here right now," you growled.

"Careful, I can shut this whole thing down right now and tell Miguel what you're planning," she returned your apprehension with crossed arms, brows furrowing even further.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you sighed, "it's just— I'm worried about him. Please don't tell Miguel. Miles has saved me so many times, it's time I save him for once."

You assumed you must've looked rather pitiful for her features to have softened up, arms falling limp by her side as she, too, gave a sigh; though hers sounded like it stemmed from a different type of exasperation to yours.

"Just... go. Before I change my mind—preferably."

You gave her the brightest smile you could muster, hoping to god she could see all the appreciation in it—and there was a lot—before turning back around to take a step into the portal.

"Miles! I'm here to—"

As soon as you walked through, you were met with a dark room—though, that wasn't what caught your attention. Instead, your wide eyes landed on that familiar hanging bag, beat down and bits of its material flaked off.

Chained up to it, was your very own, Miles Morales. And stood directly opposite to him was... also Miles Morales?

Alright, you were aware of this whole 'spiderverse' thing but you didn't think it would be this trippy.

"...save you?"

They were both staring directly at you, however, the expressions situated on their faces were vastly different.

Miles—your Miles—had his eyes blown wide, shaky pupils not leaving your form for a second, even as he started frantically shaking his head from left to right, he still remained in eye-contact with you.

The other Miles also had his eyes blown wide. This time, however, it wasn't in warning—no—his pupils were dilated and his form stood rigid; still as a statue.

"Cariño..." he whispered; so much breath in his voice, it barely sounded like words were coming out.

"Y/N! You have to get out of here!" Your Miles yelled, pulling at his chains as though it would get him any closer to you.

You scoffed. "And leave you? I don't think so."

"Don't worry about me! You have to—"

"Cariño."

You blinked, casting your gaze back over to the other Miles—who now stood much closer to you than before. He was just an arm's length away, in fact, how did you not notice him approach you?

"Mi vida, oh Y/N..." his voice was soft as he spoke—quiet and coated in an emotion you were unfamiliar with—hand moving up to your cheek to gently trace a cold, steel claw over it.

"Hey!" The sound of metal chains clicking grew more frantic from behind him. "Stay away from her! Don't you dare hurt her!"

Either the Miles in front of you was ignoring your friend on purpose, or he genuinely didn't hear him, because he continued to do as he was doing—continued to give you shivers from the icy material against your cheek.

Then, all too suddenly, he flew into your torso, engulfing you in a hug so tight—so inextricably emotional—you stumbled back a little from the sheer intensity of it all.

"You're alive..." he breathed out—and it was then that you finally understood what the tone of his voice was. "You're really, truly alive. Oh mi cariño, I've missed you so much."

"Wha—?"

"Lo siento... lo siento." He buried his face into the crook of your neck and the surface of your skin slowly grew wet, your collar soaking up. "I didn't get there in time, I couldn't save you."

You and your Miles shared a glance.

You saw your reflection in his eyes; the look of shock on his face; the scenes that flashed through his pupils. You saw a fear in him, one unlike anything you had ever seen before.

You saw your near-death experience replay right before him.

"Te quiero—" the other Miles—the one holding you—grounded you once more with his words as he pulled away just enough to look you in the eyes and continue, "—you know that, right? I'm so sorry for not saying it before. If you hadn't— if you never— I'm so sorry."

The phrase shocked you, sending an electric pulse down your spine and rendering you utterly immobile.

"I always have. For the longest time. It's always been you. It's always—only—ever been you."

If what he was saying was true... then—?

"Y/N!"

Suddenly, the metal against your hips was replaced by the familiar silky material you were used to; the one worn by your Miles.

"Miles," you breathed out, looking all around you to see the shattered glass that flew in the wind—scattering in all different directions as the warmth of the inside abandoned you.

"I'm gonna need you to hold on, okay?"

You nodded.

Then, you glanced behind him, catching sight of the familiar geometric mask of the Prowler—sharp claws out—coming in hot and fast and furious.

"Miles—!"

"I know, mami, I know. I need you to trust me for a minute, alright? You know I'll never let you get hurt."

You nodded once more, nails digging into his dark suit as you buried your face directly into his chest. You felt yourself flow through the air, swiftly moving as the wind worked against you, pushing back on your hair as though you were its worst enemy.

It was nice. It was fun. It was... bound to go wrong.

One moment, you were safe, all coddled up in Miles' arms as he swung through the sky—the next?—

—you were falling.

"Y/N!"

(Note: I feel like I need to address this because some people seem to be misunderstanding what I'm doing with Margo.

First of all, Margo is not AT ALL being mean in Bereavement. The whole of that fic is written in the Reader's perspective (and I'll prolly end up writing something in both Miles' perspective too) - this makes her an unreliable narrator so you can't trust the way the story is being told to you is 100% accurate to the true events.

At the start, the Reader is frustrated because she knows her best friend is stranded on another universe - this makes her unfairly take out her frustration on Margo when she thinks lines like 'who always seemed to have to say something every five seconds' (paraphrased).

Margo thus responds accordingly (as she should) and although she threatens to tell Miguel, she never actually would because she is legit one of the only real ones in the movie. So no, to those commenters that were accusing me of making her 'aggressive' cuz she was black - that is not what I'm doing at all. I am writing the Reader's perspective after just having lost her best friend.

“i’m sorry. i feel like i’ve caused a lot of trouble for you,” phainon admits, feeling nervous in this new position. you had him laying down on the couch, head pressed against the flat of your thighs. your fingers drag through his hair, combing the tangled locks. “if it helps, i can stay away from you.”

the room is empty right now. aventurine and ratio had left to attend a meeting with the school board, specifically regarding funding and overall attendance rates. argenti was in the gardens, tending to his roses. meanwhile, boothill was at the recreation building—practicing his aim for the next sharpshooter competition. in other words, you and phainon were completely alone… together.

your laugh tickles his ear, “nonsense.” 

“i could care less about their opinions. host club president or not. i wouldn’t put anyone else’s thoughts over yours.” your weight against his head becomes lighter, and he notices that you had pulled your hand away. he can’t help himself—he’s pouting in your direction, and without much hesitation or thought, you rest your hand against his scalp. “not being around you would pain me more than you think.”

phainon’s lips press tightly against each other. he glances up at you, examining the way your pupils dilate in his presence. a strange warmth washes over him and he boldly wraps his arms around your stomach, pressing his face against the surface of your body. 

“do you think i’d be better without you?” your question causes him to ball your clothes in his fist. a fear that had bunched itself up in his stomach finally escapes through a sharp exhale from his nose.

“sometimes.”

“why?”

“unlike everyone else here, i can’t give you much. i’m penniless. the best i can offer you is my smarts but even then, you don’t need it.” 

even though he couldn’t see it, you were smiling. “i love having you around. it means more than gold itself. to say you offer me nothing is false lie. you’ve given me more than i could ever hope for.” your fingers droop down from his hair and towards his jawline, dragging across his skin. “life feels less boring. and despite my riches and success, there is something comforting about you. i don’t think money could replace this feeling in my heart.”

your words cause his heart to swell and grow ten times bigger. so much so that it becomes palpable and nearly unstoppable. you didn’t have to say it directly for him to understand the feeling in your chest. it was the same for him anyway. 

so he leans up, testing the waters by pressing a gentle kiss against your lips. one that you reciprocate with utmost happiness. your arms wrap themselves around his neck, pulling him closer as the sun’s ray peeks through the thin, lace curtains, carving your shadows into the room. 

The richness that coats his voice is audible despite his words being mostly muffled by the thick, oak door, “My brother finds himself preoccupied with his second son as well as the youngest two of his offspring,” there’s a brief pause, then, “it has left him unable to find a suitable match for his eldest son.” 

“I understand, your grace,” is all you are able to hear because two servants are passing by with a loud, wobbling cart that drowns out the last portion of the conversation. 

Just as they’ve rounded the corner, dousing the corridor in silence once more, the handle of your father’s study twists and you’re spinning on your heels to hide behind the nearest stone column.

Your breath catches when you see him exit.

He’s draped in black and dark red silks that accentuate the width of his shoulders and tapered waist, and dons two rings, a pin in the shape of a hand atop his left shoulder, and a heavy weariness that nearly makes you wish you could relieve him of his burdens. 

Though, it’s the dark hair atop his head, heavily sprinkled with strands of silver and grey, and the mesmerizing dual-toned colour of his eyes that captures your attention, causing you to freeze like an ensnared rabbit the moment his stare settles on you.

“Come, come.” your father calls, beckoning you to approach their towering forms with a fond smile, “Your grace, allow me to introduce my only daughter.”

Baelor’s expression falters the tiniest bit–his brows raise and head tilts as he studies you with a slow blink and a fixed, assessing look. 

A soft, “Hello,” leaves his lips, sending an array of chills over your skin despite the syrupy, hushed tone that is used to speak it.

You bow, “Your grace,” and your voice cracks in spite of the effort you put in to disguise the fact that you are, quite evidently, intimidated by the older man.

Your palms dampen and nape begins to buzz under the weight that shrouds his gaze; an unsettling warmth rises over your chest and throat, drifting upwards until it burns the flesh of your cheeks.

“Forgive me, I will take my leave. It was a pleasure to meet you, your grace.” with another low bow, you await their dismissal and then retreat to somewhere you can catch your breath. 

You halt only when the reason behind your heart’s erratic rhythm is exertion, not a pair of odd-coloured eyes.

You are informed, three moons later, that your house and House Targaryen would be a formidable match–one that will soon be united through marriage.

Surprisingly, you find yourself at ease with the decision, it is not entirely unexpected given what you had overheard. What is unexpected is who you are betrothed to; you had been certain the heir had been negotiating the terms for your hand in his nephew's place, only for him to end up as your betrothed.

A fortnight later, Baelor returns, but not empty handed–an array of beautifully crafted wooden cases accompany him, all filled to the brim with expensive oils, muslins and silks, spices, and jewels in the form of matching sets.

During the celebratory feast, he goes out of his way to make you feel at ease, querying how you enjoy spending your days, what preferences you have when it comes to sweet or savory delicacies, if you prefer horseback riding in the mornings or evenings. 

He is maddeningly attentive in a way that is, quite frankly, dizzying. 

Despite enthusiastically answering each one of his questions, and occasionally asking one of your own in return, you could scarcely meet his eyes and you did not have to, to know that they did not leave your face for the remainder of the festivity. 

There was a physical weight that accompanied his scrutiny–you had dug your nails into the meaty flesh of your palms to refrain from passing out.

The wedding takes place a moon after he returns to King’s Landing, with you by his side.

The ceremony is a combination of both of your houses’ traditions; bleeding lips meet, the fingers of bound hands interlace, a chaste kiss is pressed against your skin–leaving a residual mark and the evidence of your union on your forehead.

Baelor leads you to the banquet hall, past boisterous hollers, which the both of you spend barely a quarter of an hour within before he’s leading you down the main hallway, to a wing of the castle you were not given access to prior.

He turns to assess you, “Are you well?” the fluttering in your belly intensifies at the sound of his raspy timbre.

“I am well, your grace.” your reply is almost too soft to hear.

Baelor’s eyes slip, for the smallest fraction of a beat, to your chest before swiftly returning to your face as he outlines your schedule for the next two moons, “If there’s anything you wish to add or remove, please, tell me.”

Then, he’s pushing open a beautifully carved door–one that was unlike anything you had ever seen before–and beckons you inside with a gentle smile and raised hand.

Quivering legs carry you into the chamber, continuing until you are close enough to perch yourself upon the silken bedding. Your intertwined fingers rest atop your lap as you sit with a stillness that mimics the carved statues that line the corridors, and a growing warmth that swells over your face.

Baelor is quiet for a long beat, head tilting as he remains near the door; it goes unsaid that he stands between you and the only route of exit. He’s watching you with a strange glint within the blue and brown of his eyes–it makes your stomach churn from a combination of awareness and uncertainty. 

“What have you been told of tonight?”

The hammering in your chest increases until it’s a deafening rumble that makes it difficult for you to hear your own response, “Forgive my crude language, your grace, I was informed that you will.. slide against me, and then I will be with child.”

The faint creases bordering his eyes deepen, following the pattern of his dark, long lashes. 

Baelor moves to crouch in front of your seated form, hands rising with a deliberate leisureliness so as to not startle you when he begins unlacing your gown.

He’s so close and so incredibly warm.

“Thank you, your grace,” your words are breathy when they hit the air, ignoring the sensation that arises when his exhale fans against your bare shoulder, “you have been so kind.”

There’s an indescribable expression marring his face as he quickens his pace until, a mere moment later, he’s freeing you of the fabrics that cover your shuddering figure.

Did he mean to take you with the blood smeared across your faces? 

“There’s more to it than sliding against one another,” Baelor explains, studying your features with a ferocity that has your face burning hotter and eyes focusing on the line of dried blood that splits his bottom lip, “have you ever touched yourself?"

The casual way he inquires sends a spike of shock up your back, “No!” your fingers clutch at the bedding below as you quickly add, “Your grace.”

His fingers begin unbuttoning his own ceremonial attire, making a show of slowly unlatching every clasp and tugging at strings. Once the final lace is loosened, he murmurs, “Touch yourself,” and takes a step closer to your sprawled form.

You freeze, the speed of your breathing fills the gap between his expectant stature and your flustered expression. When you meet his gaze, your throat tightens as though it means to suffocate you.

“Where, your grace?”

“Between your legs.” he answers as a hand rises to comb through his beard, reminding you of what it had felt like when he had kissed your forehead; the hairs had been softened by oils–a mixed blend that you recognized as jasmine, amber, and saffron. 

Your brows furrow, confusion licks at every ounce of your being, unraveling every lesson you have been taught, “But, you are..”

When your hands do not move from their hold on the clumped silks you rest upon, he removes the dark red sash that had been tied around his waist that morning, then wraps it around your eyes before securing it in place with a firm, but undoable, knot behind your head. 

“Your grace?” worry replaces the confusion you feel.

Baelor’s response is a low-pitched murmur, “It would please me,” you hear him take a step closer until the soft fabric of his breeches are brushing against your thin skirt, “if you pleasured yourself.”

A nervous tremor passes over you–a prickling feeling that climbs up your arms, burrowing itself beneath blood and sinew to reside within bone.

“Spread your legs,” he quietly commands and your throat snags on a shallow, tremulous breath, betraying the traitorous heat unfurling within you despite your mortified stillness.

You recall the little guidance your mother had offered you, “Lie back,” and, “it will end quickly,” but especially, “do not disobey his grace.”

Trembling fingers lift your sheer skirt to settle between the slick-smeared centre of your legs, “Oh,” you whimper; the lack of vision combined with the heightening of sensations and an eagerness to please has you jolting the instant your digit makes contact with your heated flesh.

“Lower,” Baelor instructs, “yes–one finger, slowly,” your skin burns as though it may ignite any moment now.

Once again, his pleasing baritone wraps itself around you, weaving through your senses until all that remains is the way he enunciates every word that leaves his lips–the crisp sharpness in the way select letters are formed on his tongue.

“Gently, like that, yes–very good,” Baelor’s voice is low and hoarse, making him sound almost.. angry.

Your finger follows his instructions, collecting the wetness that you had produced, separating your puffy folds, massaging the bud at the top in small, circular motions until your limbs are spasming and your movements are jerky and desperate.

“I cannot–,” you pause your ministriations, chest heaving as you listen to the sound of his ragged breathing reverberate over the stone walls, “please, I do not..”

In a flash, he’s above you, descending to lick at the vein thrumming wildly over the length of your throat, and all remnants of propriety leaves your quivering form. The low groans he lets out in tandem with your own mewls produces a wetter, noisier slick between your legs. 

He smells so good.

A calloused, heated hand grasps your nape as a pair of lips press against your own; his tongue swipes along the seam of your mouth and, when you gasp, he takes advantage of the parting to taste you. 

The residual blood that coats both of your lips fills your tastebuds, eliciting an embarrassed whine from your throat.

The invasion of the muscle is quick and unrelenting, stroking against yours in a way that makes your stomach flip pleasantly. His hand ascends to tangle in your hair–angling your head exactly how he wants it whilst tilting your face to reach even the deepest crevices of your mouth.

You had never conjured that such intimacies could exist, especially ones as overwhelming and possessive as this. 

Baelor pulls your final layer of garment upwards until the entirety of your body is on display, then, slots his knuckle alongside your finger to languidly move over the arousal smeared between your folds. 

“Does that feel good, pretty girl?” he croons, rubbing at your swollen, heated flesh with practiced touches as you struggle to form a coherent reply.

“Oh, ple–please,” you’re sobbing, fingers clutching at the ivory cuff around his wrist; you're releasing over his hand with a high-pitched cry and uncontrollable convulsions.

His mouth trails down your chest to lick at the sheen of sweat coating your skin; his sharp teeth tug at your nipples, alternating between suckling and biting until another release is trickling down your legs. 

“Sweet girl,” Baelor rasps, his touch transforms from precise and unrelenting to featherlight as his hand ascends to caress the skin below your navel. 

Once you catch your breath, he withdraws. 

Through the thundering of your own heart in your ears, you hear the jostling of clothes, boots being carelessly kicked to the side, and the sound, as well as the physical sensation, of the bed creaking as it dips under his weight.

“I want you to follow my instructions,” Baelor begins with a lilt, his nose nudges at your jaw and your lashes flutter against the sash hindering you from seeing, “can you do that for me, my dear?”

Not rudely. Not aggressively. You simply… continued forward, as if she were a decorative pillar you had noted and dismissed. Your feet aimed for the herbal room with the single-minded focus of a migratory bird that has spotted its continent.

"(Y/N), wait—"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say!"

"I don't need to know. My body already knows. My body is telling me to run. I trust my body more than I trust you."

"That's incredibly hurtful."

"You'll recover. You have excellent coping mechanisms. I've seen you cope with Finn in the storage closet."

Daphne's mouth snapped shut. A flush crept up her neck. Leverage deployed. You kept walking.

But Daphne was Daphne. She didn't give up. Her determined footsteps followed close behind, making it abundantly clear that walking away wasn't going to end the conversation.

"It's just dinner!" she said, jogging to match your stride. "The girls and I are going out tonight. Lira and Thessaly too. A little celebration! We survived the week! Nobody died!"

"Several people almost died. I personally prevented three of them."

"Exactly! Cause for celebration! You deserve a nice evening out! Good food! Company that isn't screaming or bleeding!"

You paused at the herbal room door. Your hand rested on the handle. You turned, just enough to give her the full weight of your skepticism.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why me? Why tonight? Why is your left eye doing that twitchy thing it does when you're constructing a lie?"

"My eye does not twitch!"

It twitched. Right there. A rapid, involuntary flutter of her lower lid that she covered by blinking aggressively, as if dust had materialized specifically to provide her an alibi.

"No," you said, and pushed the door open.

"The restaurant is really nice—"

"No."

"They have that lamb stew you like—"

"I can make my own lamb stew. In private. Where nobody can ambush me."

"There's a musician who plays the lyre and he's apparently very—"

"No, Daphne."

"It's free."

Your hand froze on the door frame.

The word hung in the air between you like a baited hook. Free. Four letters. One syllable. The most dangerous word in any language, because it was never, ever actually free. There was always a cost, always a catch, always a reason some poor fool ended up signing away their firstborn or their dignity or both.

You knew this. You knew this in your bones. You had been alive long enough and burned often enough to understand that "free" was the universe's favorite opening move before it kicked you in the teeth.

And yet.

Your stomach, that treasonous organ, growled. Not a polite rumble. A full, guttural, existential complaint from somewhere deep in your abdomen. The sound of a body that had been running on anxiety, eucalyptus fumes, and a single honey cake since dawn.

Free dinner.

Free. Dinner.

Your principles, already weakened by a long day of arguing with old men and their mustaches, wobbled like a fence in a storm. Your dignity, what shreds remained after the Grove, the Garden, the Market, and many separate encounters with divine beings who found your suffering recreational, raised a feeble hand to object.

Free dinner, your stomach argued. With lamb stew.

But the catch—

LAMB STEW. FOR FREE. WITH YOUR MOUTH. WHICH HASN'T EATEN REAL FOOD SINCE YESTERDAY'S SOUP THAT TASTED LIKE PENANCE.

You turned back to Daphne. Your expression was the exact face of a person surrendering a fortress they'd defended for eleven seconds.

"…Fine."

The smile on Daphne’s face broke through her attempts at nonchalance. 

“Excellent! We depart at sunset! Dress appropriately!”

“I will dress the way that I am dressed.”

“That is a stained healer’s robe.”

"It has character."

"It has porridge."

"Character porridge."

She smiled and dashed off, not able to conceal her pleasure in her gait. You watched her leave, the enthusiasm you had felt for getting a free bowl of lamb stew slowly fading away. In its place settled a familiar feeling that you just walked straight into a trap.

A quiet scoff came from the other side of the infirmary.

You turned.

Marlon was sitting on his bed, his splintered arm resting on a pillow while he looked at you wearily for what seemed like an excessively long time for a boy his age. His soup had not been touched, nor had the chrysanthemum in its vase.

"What?" you snapped.

He shook his head slowly. The headshake of a boy, a twelve-year-old boy, but a boy nonetheless, who had seen the entire exchange, weighed it against his own considerable life experience, and found you wanting.

"Sold out for a free meal," he said, voice flat. "Like a stray dog following a sausage into a trap." He settled in further on his pillow, his eyes looking up toward the ceiling with the detachment that only comes from one who had already foreseen the whole disaster and is now just waiting to see confirmation. "You don't have a clue about what you've just gotten yourself into."  

"Dinner, Marlon. Just dinner."

He let out one cynical snort. One snort that contained more cynicism than many people manage in their whole lives. He didn't even look at you.

"Sure it is."

The sun sank below the skyline of Okhema like it wanted no part of what was about to happen.

You reached the east entrance of the infirmary on time, dressed in your healer’s robe. Your healer’s robe. That particular healer’s robe. The one stained with porridge. You had tried to clean the mess up as best as you could, but this merely resulted in an even larger stain in the form of a cloud or even a sad face. You'd chosen to interpret it as a cloud.

Daphne, Lira, and Thessaly were already waiting.

You stopped walking.

Your eyes, those treacherous instruments of observation that had failed you so many times before, performed a slow, horrified sweep from left to right.

Daphne had done her hair. Not the usual practical bun she wore for shifts. This was an arrangement. Curls had been coaxed into existence. The pins in her hair twinkled like cunning little stars above her temples. Her dress was wine-colored, a dark red with a neckline that clearly showed she had plans and none of them involved talking about wounds.

Lira, normally invisible behind her wall of stoic professionalism and sensible tunics, had materialized in something flowing and blue. There was some cosmetic she had used on her eyes to make them bigger and more darkly expressive. Her earrings reflected the last rays of dying light, seeming to share some inside secret of their own.

Thessaly, thorough, thoughtful Thessaly, who once advised a client that emotion was "an inefficient use of metabolic resources", had a necklace on. An actual necklace. With a pendant. She'd also done something structural to her hair that defied the natural laws of gravity and hairdressing, piled atop her head in an arrangement that looked like it required an engineering degree and three forms of spiritual permission.

You looked down at yourself. Porridge cloud. Wrinkled hem. The light scent of eucalyptus oil on your left sleeve. The straps of one sandal being a bit loose.

You looked back up at them.

"Why," you managed, and the word emerged as a sound much like that of a creaking door which, for sure, did not want to be opened, "do all of you have such appearances as if you were going to be wooed by nobles?"

Daphne laughed. It was the laugh of a woman who had prepared for this exact question and was now executing her prepared answer like an assassin with a schedule.

"We just wanted to dress up! Is that a crime? We spend every day covered in other people's fluids. Can't a girl put on a necklace without an interrogation?"

Lira nodded quickly. “It’s nice to feel pretty sometimes.”

Thessaly didn’t say anything but fiddled with her pendant, doing so in the careful way only a weapons expert could calibrate.

Every alarm in your body sounded. Not the soft ringing of something slightly worrying. But the loud bells of a cathedral announcing wars, disasters, or the breaking of social contracts. Your stomach felt queasy. Your skin crawled. And your hair bristled up on end.

Something was wrong. Something was deeply, fundamentally, dressed-up-ly wrong.

"We should go!" Daphne chirped, hooking her arm through yours before you could retreat. "The reservation is in fifteen minutes!"

"Reservation," you repeated, tasting the word like spoiled milk. "At a restaurant that requires reservations."

"It's a nice place!"

"How nice."

"Very nice!"

"How very nice, Daphne."

She squeezed your arm tighter, steering you down the lamplit street with the cheerful determination of a sheepdog herding a deeply suspicious sheep toward a cliff it couldn't yet see.

You followed, because your arm was trapped and your stomach was still lobbying hard for the lamb stew, and also because the part of your brain responsible for self-preservation had been overworked for so long it had simply stopped filing reports.

The restaurant, when you finally arrived at it, proved all the suspicions that you harbored inside of you.

It was no mere restaurant; it was an experience. Flanking the entryway were two columns made of polished marble. Lanterns were strung from wrought iron brackets and shed pools of gold light upon the courtyard which was decorated with flowers of jasmine and other things with an aggressive romance about them. Behind an arch in the doorway stood tables covered in white cloths with candles flickering in glass holders.

This was not a "girls' night out" restaurant. This was not even a "celebration" restaurant. This was a restaurant where people went to fall in love, or at the very least to pretend they were capable of it over expensive wine and strategically dim lighting.

Your feet attempted to reverse. Your legs, loyal and true, began the careful backward shuffle of a creature who has spotted the trap and is now making diplomatic negotiations with gravity.

"You know what," you said, your voice hitting a register usually reserved for hostage situations, "I just remembered I left the—the thing. The important medical thing. In the other place. Very urgent. Critically time-sensitive—"

Daphne's hand closed around your wrist.

Not her friendly hand. Not her "let's go shopping" hand. This was the hand. The iron hand. The hand that had once held down a thrashing warrior long enough for Hyacine to set a dislocated shoulder, the hand that had gripped a severed artery closed for forty minutes without trembling. This was the hand of a woman who had made a decision and was prepared to enforce it with the casual brutality of natural law.

"We're going in," Daphne said, and her smile was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing and had made peace with the consequences long before you'd even left the infirmary.

She dragged you through the archway. Your heel dragged against the stones, marking the trail of your struggle, which the staff would eventually come to understand as modern art. Your other hand clawed at the door frame. failed, clawed at the curtain, the pole snapped in half, clawed at nothing, until your hand clutched at warm jasmine air.

The interior swallowed you. Candlelight. Soft lyre music. The scent of seared lamb and fresh bread and something herbaceous that your traitorous stomach responded to with an audible, groveling whimper of surrender.

And then Daphne turned a corner, pulled you past a partition of carved wood and trailing ivy, and deposited you in front of a long table set for eight.

Four seats were empty.

Four seats were occupied.

By men.

Four men, to be precise. Clean-shaven. Well-dressed. Sitting with the careful, slightly stiff posture of males who had been informed that women were arriving and had been coached on where to put their elbows. One was mid-process of straightening his tie. Another held a cup of water in both hands as though it might fall out if he let go. One was practicing a smile and had not gotten around to stopping in time, leaving him caught in a smile of horrified politeness. And one was looking at the bread basket in the kind of hyper-intense focus that comes from knowing that the bread is the only safe thing to look at.

Your brain made the connection.

It didn't click. Clicking implied a clean, satisfying mechanism. This was more like a series of dominos falling into a pit, each one screaming.

Four women. Four men. Fancy restaurant. Nice clothes. Candlelight. Reserved seats. Daphne's twitching eye.

Group.

Blind.

Date.

The realization landed on you like a dropped chandelier.

Your face performed what could only be described as an emotional speedrun. First: blankness, the pure white void of someone whose brain had stopped working and was displaying nothing at all. Then: confusion, the creased brow and tilted head of a dog hearing a noise it can't identify. Then: dawning recognition, eyes widening millimeter by millimeter as the truth crawled up your spine like ice water. Then: horror, the full, classical, mouth-open, color-draining horror of a human being who has been betrayed by someone they trusted with their dinner plans. Then, finally, settling into a fixed expression that could only be described as: the face of a woman watching her own execution proceed exactly as scheduled while she stands there in a porridge-stained robe.

Your jaw descended. Not in the romantic, swept-off-your-feet way. In the mechanical, unhinged way, like a drawbridge whose chain had snapped. It hung there. Open. A portal to nothing.

Your eyes found Daphne's.

Daphne, who was already sliding into her seat beside the collar-adjuster with the fluid grace of a serpent returning to its favorite sunning rock. She had the decency—if it could be called that—to give you one single, tiny shrug. One shoulder. Half an inch.

"Surprise?" she offered.

Behind you, Lira and Thessaly were already seated, engaged in conversation with their respective dining partners with the practiced ease of women who had known about this for days and had come prepared. Lira was laughing at something. Thessaly had already corrected someone's posture.

You stood. Alone. In your porridge robe. In the middle of a romantic restaurant. At a blind date you hadn't known was a blind date. With a chair waiting for you next to a man who was looking at you with the polite, mildly terrified expression of someone who had been told his date was "enthusiastic" and was now reconsidering his expectations in real time.

There was your soul, which had been hovering by the exit ever since you had seen the jasmine, making a formal declaration.

I quit.

It filed the paperwork. It cleared its desk. It walked out into the metaphysical night without a backward glance.

Your body, abandoned, sat down.

Not because it wanted to. Because gravity was still in effect and your knees had finally surrendered their long campaign of holding you upright through sheer stubborn fury. You collapsed into the chair like a building undergoing controlled demolition. Structurally coherent from the outside, utterly destroyed within.

The man next to you extended his hand. "Hi. I'm Cane."

You looked at his hand. You looked at his face. You looked at Daphne, who was pointedly not looking at you, which was the loudest not-looking you had ever witnessed.

"(Y/N)," you said. Your voice was the verbal equivalent of a flatline.

"That's a nice name."

"Thank you."

"So what do you do?"

"I prevent death."

"Oh! That's—"

"And sometimes I cause it. Accidentally. Or on purpose. Depends on the day."

Cane blinked. His smile, which had been doing its best, developed a fault line.

You took a bite of the loaf of bread you had just split in two, watching the candle flame through the eyes of an old veteran who had seen enough and was now seeing more.

Around you, the date proceeded. Lira laughed again. Thessaly was explaining the hepatic system to her companion, who looked simultaneously fascinated and ill. Daphne was being charming. Weaponizedly charming. She was performing charm the way other people performed surgery, with precision, intent, and the unspoken understanding that someone would probably cry afterward.

You sat. You chewed. You breathed.

The bread was good. You hated that the bread was good.

Half an hour crawled by like a wounded animal dragging itself across a field, each minute arriving with its own unique variety of social agony.

You had spoken exactly four times since sitting down.

Once to introduce yourself. Once to confirm that yes, you were indeed a healer. Once to decline wine with a "No, thank you" so sharp it practically drew blood. And once, memorably, when Cane had asked what you liked to do for fun, and you answered "sleep" with such bleak sincerity that the table had gone quiet for eight full seconds.

Cane had gamely tried to fill the silences. He was, objectively, a perfectly fine human being. Brown hair. Clean teeth. Symmetrical features. Employed—something with trade logistics, you had gathered from the few sentences that had drifted past your dissociative haze. He smiled a lot. He asked some clarifying questions. He had the stamina of an overly enthusiastic golden retriever trying to make friends with a cat who was figuring out how far away the nearest high shelf was.

You were the cat. The high shelf was the window. And the window was three feet to your right, which you have been working on figuring out with your peripheral vision for the past twenty minutes.

Your gaze rested on the dark pane of glass, where Okhema's evening lanterns reflected like scattered coins on black water. Out there was freedom. Out there was your infirmary, your cot, your mildly hostile patient, and an absence of romantic obligation. Out there was a version of your evening that did not involve sitting next to a man named Cane while wearing dried porridge and pretending you knew how dates worked.

You did not know how dates worked. You had never been on one. Not by accident, not by design, not by divine intervention—and you had experienced a frankly alarming amount of divine intervention lately. Your romantic history was a blank page, and you'd intended to keep it that way. Your heart was already fully booked. It had one tenant. One disastrously handsome, cyan-eyed, impossibly kind tenant who took up every available room and several that hadn't existed before he moved in. There was no vacancy. The sign was up. The door was locked. Any prospective suitor attempting to tour the property would find it already occupied by an image of Phainon smiling at her over a basket of groceries, and they would be asked to leave immediately.

"So," Cane tried again, leaning forward with the optimism of a man who had not yet learned that optimism was a trap, "have you been to the festival district recently? The night market is supposed to be—"

"Excuse me," you said, moving your chair backward. It scratched along the stone floor as though your tolerance had reached its end. "I have to go to the restroom."

Daphne's head whipped around. Her eyes, those calculating, kohl-lined eyes of deception, honed in on you like a bird of prey spotting movement through blades of grass.

"The restroom," she repeated.

"Yes."

"You're coming back."

"Obviously."

"You're not climbing out a window."

"Why would I climb out a window? That's absurd. I'm an adult. I use doors."

A pause of silence. Her eyes bored into you, trying to find the tell, the sign of imminent flight. You gave nothing to her. You were a brick wall, smooth and unperturbed, porridge-soiled plaster.

"Fine," she replied slowly, reluctantly letting you go under her intense gaze. "Come quickly, though. They are getting ready to fetch the lamb."

You nodded. You smiled. You smiled the smile of a woman that had already located all the possible escape routes within the premises and listed them in order of ease.

You rose. You fixed your robe. You left the table, taking your time as if you were indeed on your way to the restroom.

You cleared the partition. You passed the ivy. You entered the corridor that led to the washrooms.

And then you ran.

Not jogged. Not power-walked. Not did that brisk, semi-dignified shuffle you'd perfected during the Market Incident. You ran. Full sprint. Healer's robe billowing behind you like a war banner of retreat. Sandals slapping the marble with the frantic percussion of a woman who had realized, with perfect clarity, that she would rather die in a ditch than sit through one more minute of polite conversation with a man whose most controversial opinion was that the night market had "good pottery."

You break open the back door of the restaurant, this you had noted in your tactical examination of the available exits, categorized under "Social Emergency Exit." You pop out into the night like a cork in a bottle of regrets.

The alley behind the restaurant was dim and small, smelling of grease from the kitchen and the possibility of freedom. You rushed down it, with your robe catching on a box, one of your sandals about to go renegade, breathing hard in that way only possible after not having run since the Droma thing happened and being kept alive on stress alone.

You burst out onto a quiet street two blocks from the restaurant. The air hit your face. Cool, clean, jasmine-free. No candles. No lyre music. No Cane.

You stopped suddenly, doubling up and panting heavily like a windmill that was forced to work beyond its capacity.

And then you laughed.

It started small. A wheeze. A hiccup. A tiny, manic bubble of sound that popped in the quiet street and echoed off the stone walls. Then it grew. It climbed. It swelled into a full, unhinged, chest-shaking roar of delirious, feral, magnificently unhinged laughter.

"I'M FREE!" you howled at the sky, throwing your arms wide as if expecting the stars themselves to catch you. "FREE! NO MORE POTTERY OPINIONS! NO MORE SYMMETRICAL SMILES! NO MORE 'SO WHAT DO YOU DO FOR FUN!' I DO THIS! THIS IS WHAT I DO FOR FUN! I FLEE SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS AND SCREAM INTO THE VOID! I AM ALIVE AND UNMATCHED AND ABSOLUTELY NEVER SPEAKING TO DAPHNE AGAIN—"

A sound behind you.

Not a footstep. Not a throat clearing. Nothing so obvious, so courteous, so mundane.

A laugh.

Soft. Warm. Like rich honey that has been slowly aging poured on to smoldering embers. The sound that moved through the darkness in waves of gold like a tide, pressing against the back of your neck and against your chest and against the soft unprotected flesh of your heart in knowing, devastating intimacy.

Every hair on your body rose.

Your arms, still flung wide in triumph, froze in the air. Your lungs, still mid-victory-cackle, locked. Your spine, that overworked load-bearing column of your entire disastrous existence, went rigid as a board.

You recognized that laugh. You recognized it as sailors recognized the north star, as flowers recognized the sun, as your nervous system recognized the exact sound that preceded its own destruction. You had classified it, organized it, played it back when you lay awake at night, dreamed it when you had the courage to be responsible for it.

You knew. Before you turned. Before you looked. Before your traitorous eyes confirmed what your cells already recognized at a molecular level.

He was there.

Phainon.

He stood some dozen feet away, propped up against the corner of a stonewall, where the quiet street joined the broader avenue. His clothing was plain—well, plain for him, meaning he still looked like an animated picture that had discovered how to have a good laugh at itself. He wore his lighter clothes, with no armor, no ceremony. The lamplight shone in his white hair, because it wanted to, because the light adored him.

He had one shoulder braced against the wall. His arms were loosely crossed. And he was looking at you with an expression that made your internal organs attempt to reorganize themselves in alphabetical order.

It was amusement. Obviously. When was it not amusement? Yet underneath it all, buried under the wrinkles around his eyes, the subtle, helplessness curling his lips, there was something more. Something that almost seemed to resemble joy. Not joy at your expense. Joy at your being. Joy in the particular, unique being of you, standing in the street, arms raised and shouting about pots.

Your arms dropped. They fell to your sides with the limp finality of cut puppet strings.

"Oh," you said.

The syllable contained the entire history of your suffering. It was the "oh" of a woman who had survived a blind date, escaped through a back door, sprinted through a grease-scented alley, declared victory to the heavens, and then discovered that her one-person audience was the literal sun given flesh.

"Good evening," Phainon said. His voice was warm. Gentle. Infuriatingly, devastatingly gentle, like a hand extended to a creature that might bolt. Which you might. You were actively considering it. Your legs were polling on the matter.

"How long—" you started, and your voice cracked like a fourteen-year-old boy's at a school assembly. You swallowed. Tried again. "How long have you been standing there?"

He tilted his head, considering. "'I'm free' was the first thing I heard. Though the commentary on pottery opinions was particularly spirited."

Your face ignited. Not a blush. Blushes were for people who still possessed dignity. This was a full dermal event. Your skin turned a shade of red previously observed only in volcanic eruptions and emotionally compromised tomatoes. It started at your ears, which were now functioning as small, personal furnaces, and swept inward, claiming your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your entire skull.

"That was—" you fumbled, hands making frantic, meaningless shapes in the air between you, "a private moment. A therapeutic vocalization. I was... decompressing. From a... from a thing."

"A thing," he repeated, and the smile—that small, knowing, ruinous smile—widened by exactly one devastating millimeter.

"A dinner thing. A social. It was Daphne's fault. All of it. Everything you've just seen is down to Daphne and her deceitful and conniving, it was a blind date, alright?" It came tumbling out of your mouth like pulling off a plaster too quickly from an ill-healed injury. "She fooled me. She said free dinner. She didn't say four strangers and candlelight and a man who wanted to discuss pottery—"

You stopped. Drew breath. Let it out.

"I fled," you said, flatly. "Through the back door. Like a reasonable person."

Phainon pressed his lips together. His shoulders trembled. He was fighting. Fighting hard. It was evident in the way the muscles on his jaw were clenching and how he would look up to the sky in one moment, seeking the support of the stars.

"Back door," he repeated. It was an effort to hold back a laugh.

"It was the most accessible exit. I assessed all of them. During the appetizer."

He lost. A sound escaped him—not the soft chuckle from before, but a bright, startled burst of laughter that he caught behind his hand, shoulders shaking, eyes squeezing shut. When they opened again, they were wet at the corners, and the look he gave you was so open, so freely and completely delighted, that your heart performed a maneuver it had definitely not been cleared for.

And something strange happened.

Maybe it was the residual adrenaline from the escape. Maybe it was the absurdity of the situation—being caught mid-victory-scream by the one person whose opinion could actually unmake you. Maybe it was the fact that you'd already hit rock bottom so many times tonight that the ground had started feeling like home. But the usual terror—the knee-buckling, vision-tunneling, nosebleed-threatening Phainon Effect—didn't come.

Or rather, it came. It always came. But tonight it arrived and found you already in shambles, already stripped of pretense, already standing in a dark street in a porridge robe having screamed your freedom to an empty sky. There was nothing left to protect. No composure to shatter. No dignity to lose. You'd spent it all. You were operating at zero.

And from nothing, there was only one place to go—a place that felt, terrifyingly, almost easy.

“You’re laughing,” you said, and your voice, though shaky, though haunted by the thousand screams from within, had something different about it.

"I am," he admitted, wiping his eye with the back of his hand. "Forgive me. The image of you performing a tactical evacuation through a kitchen exit while wearing—" he gestured at your robe, his smile helpless, "that, is going to sustain me through several council meetings."

"I'll have you know this robe has survived encounters with Chrysos Heirs, feral grandmothers, and a runaway Droma. It's a veteran."

"It looks like a veteran."

"Thank you."

And he laughed again, his laugh now softer. It fell into the space between the two of you, and you found yourself giving in to your mouth’s betrayal, despite your firm instructions.

The quiet that followed wasn't the loaded, suffocating quiet of before. It was the good kind. The kind where two people who have both decided to stop pretending simply exist in the same air for a moment and find that the air doesn't mind.

Phainon moved away from the wall. He stepped towards you, then paused, his hands sliding into his coat pockets with an ease that made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t trying to make you fear him in the least. It was that damned thing he did again, the careful, measured gentleness with which one approaches an animal that knows how to panic. The fact that he had learned your behaviors so well made something shift in your gut that you were unequipped to identify.

"I was actually looking for you tonight," he said.

Your heart kicked. Hard. A single, violent thud against your ribs that you felt in your teeth.

"You—what?"

"I stopped by the infirmary. Marlon informed me you'd been… conscripted."

Marlon. Of course. That tiny, omniscient gremlin had known. He had seen you fall into Daphne’s trap with folded arms and raised eyebrows, and he knew, and he didn’t say a thing because suffering was the only form of amusement he held in any regard.

"He said you went out with Daphne and the rest," Phainon went on, his voice calm but holding some underlying tone you couldn’t quite pin down. "And that you were probably, using his exact words, ‘already freaking out.’"

"Perceptive child," you muttered.

"He then explained what kind of event it was." A pause. Phainon’s eyes locked with yours, and something changed in them, a glimmer of something else, something not quite laughter. Something that had made him leave the infirmary and walk into the city in the evening. "He used the phrase ‘blind date’ and said you didn’t know about it."

The implication hung between you like a thread pulled taut.

He'd come looking. When Marlon had told him where you were—who you were with—what it was—he'd left. He'd walked across Okhema. He'd found the restaurant, or at least your vicinity. And now he was here, in a dark street, looking at you with an expression that contained many layers of meaning and not one you felt safe examining directly.

"And I was halfway here when I heard the yelling," he continued, and his smile came back, but in a different way. Gentler, almost affectionate. "And I thought maybe either you were about to die or you had found some very, very bad food. Either one was worth checking out."

"I didn't even make it to the lamb," you explained, and there was no question at all about the grief in your voice being real.

He laughed, a short huff of laughter. Then he stood up straight, and the joy on his face sobered up.

"In that case," he said, and his tone dropped into that lower register, the one that did things to your nervous system that probably required a license, "allow me to propose an alternative evening."

Your lungs stopped accepting applications for air.

"Would you have dinner with me?"

Six words. Six ordinary, completely normal, world-ending words. They arrived in your consciousness like a very polite avalanche, and everything in you—every cell, every synapse, every overworked, underpaid molecule of self-preservation—went absolutely silent.

Inside your skull, the response was not silence. Inside your skull, a choir of tiny, feral versions of yourself erupted into pandemonium.

HE ASKED YOU TO DINNER. HE ASKED YOU TO DINNER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS IS THE OPPOSITE OF A DRILL. THIS IS THE THING THE DRILLS WERE PREPARING YOU FOR AND YOU ARE NOT PREPARED—

SAY YES.

SAY NO.

SAY SOMETHING.

SAY ANYTHING.

DON'T JUST STAND THERE WITH YOUR MOUTH OPEN LIKE A FISH THAT JUST LEARNED ABOUT MORTALITY—

Your jaw worked. Up, down. Up, down. A mechanical exercise producing zero sound. You looked like a woman trying to chew the concept of dinner into something digestible.

Phainon waited. Patient. Steady. His eyes on you were calm and bright and entirely too understanding of your current predicament, which was rude of him because your current predicament was his fault.

"I—" you started. The word came out as a croak. You cleared your throat. Tried again. "You want—you're asking—this is—"

Be normal. BE NORMAL. You have spoken to this man before. You have made him laugh. You have discussed the emotional lives of plants. You can say yes to dinner. It's one word. Three letters. A child could do it. Several children have done it in your presence, to lesser prompts, with less at stake.

"Yes," you said.

It came out. Whole. Complete. One syllable. No squeaking. No trailing off into a wheeze. No unfortunate addendums about soup or gravity or your own impending death.

Just yes.

You saw it happen. The moment the word reached him. His face didn't transform, it illuminated. It was as if someone had adjusted some sort of switch within him and it made everything glow. His smile, which until then had been tender, reserved, prudent, blossomed into something innocent, young. A smile of pure and simple joy that made him seem more boyish than Deliverer of Amphoreus.

Your chest ached. A sweet, dangerous ache. The ache of looking at someone so earnestly pleased by your one-word answer that you wanted to give it to him again. A hundred times. In a hundred different ways.

He looked childlike. That was the word your brain finally supplied, struggling up from the wreckage of your internal meltdown. Childlike. Not childish—never childish. But lit from within by something uncomplicated and real, something that the weight of his title and his centuries and his duty usually kept pressed flat.

You smiled. A real one. Not the panic grimace, not the fluorescent defense mechanism, not the social-survival rictus. A real, warm, soft smile that you felt in your face muscles and your chest simultaneously, and that made your eyes sting in a way you chose not to examine.

It was refreshing.

It was him. Without the polish. Without the weight. Just—happy.

You could live there. In the light of that expression. You could set up camp and never leave.

"Good," he said, and the word was ridiculously inadequate for the wattage of his smile. "I know a place."

It was a restaurant of which you have never heard before; an unassuming little eatery hidden away on a sleepy residential street at the fringes of the lower town, behind a courtyard that was more planters full of vegetation than anything else. It was not fancy. It was not marble and jasmine. It was warm and homely and authentic. Tables with dented wood, mismatching chairs, a ceiling covered with hanging herbs, filling the air with the scent of rosemary and thyme and someone's competent grandmother.

The woman behind the counter recognized Phainon. The look in her eyes was wide and then understanding, and said nothing more than leading you both to a table set back in a corner, almost obscured by vines of ivy that created an illusion of seclusion. The candle at the table was a short beeswax affair, not romantic atmosphere but practical illumination, and you savored its warmth with all the enthusiasm of a recent escapee from ambient terrorism.

You sat. He sat. A carafe of water appeared. Bread followed. The bread was warm.

"Before you—" you started. 

"It's on me," he told you, looking at the menu as though it were the most normal thing in the world. The kind of thing a guy would do when he knew exactly what argument you'd make about it and had already solved it in advance.

Your mouth dropped open. Then closed. Then you try to open again.

He looked up at you. The candlelit shadows reflected in his eyes, which, absurdly, became even more alluring up close, under ordinary light, without any heavenly rays beaming down into that perfect garden. Just candlelight, with two gorgeous iridescent blue eyes staring into you with such affection that your ribs seemed way too small for what they needed to accommodate.

“If you make an argument," he murmured, "I’ll just tell the kitchen you’re allergic to paying.”

Your jaw clicked shut. Because there was one thing you are sure about. If he looked at you, just looked, with those eyes and that voice, you'd fold like wet parchment. You'd agree to anything. You'd agree to fund a public statue of yourself in the porridge robe if he asked with that particular tilt of his head.

You hated how much power he had over you.

You hated more how willingly you surrendered it.

“Fine,” you said quietly, ripping off a piece of bread with a little more strength than needed. “But I’m ordering an expensive meal.”

“I insist upon it.”

The meals were served in waves, slowly yet generously, as if the owner was giving a personal show of some sort. There were roasted root vegetables covered in herb oil. Some kind of stew—no lamb, but another meat, deep and savory with wine and bay leaves, smelling like an embrace from a civilization that got its priorities right. Some kind of grain with soft cheese that you couldn’t identify but adored instantly for someone starved of proper food for a full day.

You ate. He ate. You talked.

But not the forced, don't-let-me-say-something-embarrassing chat that had characterized all previous attempts at communication. This was different. Slower. Easier. Like the evening had sanded down the sharp edges of your mutual dynamic and left something that fit together more naturally. You told him about the Grove. About the archivists. About Anaxa's notebook and the peer-reviewed crumb incident, and his laughter came in waves—full, unrestrained, table-shaking waves that drew brief, startled looks from the only other diners, an elderly couple who seemed mildly concerned for his health.

He told you about his day. About the council session that had devolved into a forty-minute debate about whether the eastern aqueduct's decorations should face outward, inward, or "at a philosophically neutral angle." About a letter from a frontier outpost commander whose report was so dryly hilarious that Phainon had read it three times before filing it.

You laughed. Loudly. Laughed so hard that you placed your hand on your lips to muffle the sound since it was far too loud and raw for the silent environment of the restaurant, but he grinned widely in response to your laughter, which sounded like it was his favorite sound all week long.

At some point in the conversation, though you weren’t sure when, it stopped hammering on your door. You no longer felt shaky, your voice went back to normal, and the sound of fear that was vibrating through your veins changed into something pleasing, like the ringing of a string.

It was merely two people having dinner together. Nothing else.

And then you looked up from your stew and saw it.

A smear of dark sauce. Just a fleck, really—a tiny, dark comma sitting at the left corner of his mouth, clinging to the skin beside his lower lip with the stubborn tenacity of a thing that had no right to be there but absolutely intended to stay.

The sight of it did something truly unfair to your brain. It was so normal. So human. So profoundly, wonderfully imperfect. The Deliverer of Amphoreus, the man whose cheekbones could cut diplomatic tensions, had sauce on his face.

"You've got—" you started, gesturing at your own face. "Right there. A little—"

He picked up a napkin and swiped. Wrong side. Clean side. The side that didn't have sauce.

"No, the other—your left."

He wiped again. Same side. More pressure this time, as if determination alone would relocate the offending condiment.

The sauce remained. Steadfast. Loyal to its post.

"No—" you pointed more emphatically, "the left. Your left. Left."

He wiped his right cheek. Thoroughly. Comprehensively. The cheek was now the cleanest surface in the restaurant. The sauce, on the opposite side of his face, watched from its secure position and was unmoved.

You stared at him. He lowered the napkin and looked at you, eyebrows slightly raised, mouth caught in that particular shape that—

That was when he gave that smug look. That small but very annoying twist of his lip. It was as if he was saying, with utmost clarity, "I know exactly where the sauce is."

The realization detonated.

He was doing it on purpose.

He was wiping the wrong side on purpose. He was watching you fluster and point and gesticulate, and he was deliberately, methodically, with the strategic patience of a military commander who had all the time in the world, missing.

Your eye twitched. Your jaw tightened. A furnace of pure, righteous, deeply personal frustration ignited somewhere behind your chest and began to roar.

"You—" you started, your voice climbing. "You absolute—you're doing this deliberately. You can feel it. It's right there. It's been there for thirty seconds. You are a grown man. A Chrysos Heir. The Deliverer. And you cannot locate sauce on your own face—"

"I'm not sure what you mean," he said, the picture of innocent confusion, wiping his forehead.

"YOUR FOREHEAD DOESN'T HAVE SAUCE ON IT!"

"Doesn't it?"

That was it. The final thread of your restraint, already frayed to translucency by the blind date and the escape and the screaming and the entire cumulative weight of your acquaintance with this impossible man, snapped with an audible internal twang.

You snatched the napkin out of his hand.

You leaned across the table.

And you scrubbed his entire face with one sweep.

Not gently. Not daintily. Not with the precise, careful touch of a healer tending to a delicate wound. You went full washerwoman. Both cheeks. His chin. His nose, for good measure. The napkin swept across his features with the brisk, merciless efficiency of a mother cleaning a child who'd fallen face-first into a pudding, and you put your back into it, one hand bracing against his jaw to hold him still while the other administered justice.

For approximately two and a half seconds, Phainon went completely still.

His eyes, peeping through the aggressive waving of your napkins, were wide. Wide. His lips opened just a little bit. The smug expression disappeared and in its place was something that you had never seen on his face before: utter shock. Real shock, the kind of shock that comes from being completely stripped down by a porridge-smeared healer with a napkin as a weapon.

Then he blinked.

Once. Twice.

And his head tipped back, and he laughed.

Not the careful chuckle. Not the warm huff. Not the dignified, controlled laugh of a public figure maintaining his mystique. This was the laugh. The one from the market overlook. The one from the infirmary. The one that shook his shoulders and creased his eyes and broke through every layer of composed, patient, measured grace until what was left was just a man. A young, startled, fiercely happy man who had been caught off guard by something he hadn't expected to feel.

The sound filled the small restaurant. The elderly couple looked up. The owner paused in her wiping of the counter. The trailing ivy seemed to sway.

And you—napkin still raised, hand still on his jaw, brain still catching up to what your body had done, felt the laughter roll through his skin and into your fingertips. Felt the vibration of it. The living, physical reality of his joy, transmitted through the point of contact between your palm and the warm line of his jaw.

You dropped the napkin. You snatched your hand back. Your face was approximately the temperature and color of the sun.

"There." It came out as a choke. "Clean. Thank you very much. Never ask for my assistance again."

He was still chuckling. He held his hand on his heart as if he was trying to hold something back inside him. Once he caught his breath, he looked at your eyes across the table and the expression in his eyes was—

It was everything.

Amusement, yes. Surprise, yes. But there was something more. Something tender, something devastatingly tender, something specific, something that was directed at you, at you personally, at you and no one else in the entire universe.

"Thank you," he told you, and his voice was raspy from laughter, and warm, and right up next to your ear. "It is the most thorough face cleaning that I have ever had since I was four years old."

"Good for you," you said softly in response because you didn’t know how to shout anymore.

"Yes, I do," he smiled, and the flame of the candle trembled a little due to the wind that neither of you could feel, and the whole world seemed to become very tiny and marvelous at once.

The walk back unfolded in pieces.

Close together along the silent streets in the evening, your shoulders nearly brushing, just barely, close enough for you to feel his warmth, even without touching, close enough so that every little touch of sleeves against sleeves caused a spark in your veins. The lights made golden puddles on the stones. The air held the scent of cold stone, of night blooms, of left-over dinner. It did not take any effort for your steps to fall into time, his long stride shortened, yours lengthened, and before you knew it, you were moving in time like music fallen into harmony.

You talked. About nothing. About everything. He brought up the name of a poet whose poetry he had been reading again—somebody who described everyday things, bread and doors and the sounds of rain, and made them seem huge. You told him you understood that. Because your whole life was made up of things like that—that seemed huge, whether you liked it or not. And then he laughed, and the laughter seemed gentler now, worn down by the evening, and your chest ached from the longing to hear more of it.

You told him about Marlon's chrysanthemum, the laminated chart, and the manner in which the child stared at the flower like the flower had personally betrayed him by its beauty. As you narrated your story, Phainon nodded his head a little while his profile was illuminated by lamplight, then he replied, "He reminds me of someone."

"Who?"

"Me. At that age. Furious at everything. Convinced that softness was a trap."

You looked at him. He looked at the street. Something in the line of his mouth told you this was not a topic he shared lightly, and the fact that he'd shared it at all—with you, in the dark, between one lamppost and the next—made your throat tight.

You didn’t speak, either. You just moved forward, and let your shoulder brush against his for one single, purposeful second. He did not draw back. He kept on walking in the same rhythm. You heard him breathing slowly, deeply, and something about the space between the two of you changed into permission.

The infirmary appeared at the end of the street like a loyal friend who had been awake just for you. Its windows remained dark except for the one night duty light burning inside the amber square of safety.

You stopped at the door. He stopped beside you. The night wrapped around you both, close and quiet.

"Thank you," you said, and meant it with every cell of your battered, bewildered, astonishingly lucky body. "For dinner. For the rescue. For the—" you gestured vaguely at your entire person, "tolerance of all… this."

He looked back at you. The lamplight from behind him gave his hair an aura. The shadows made his eyes darker, but you could see them. Could feel them. Clearly and warmly present.

"There's nothing to tolerate," he said. "Only to appreciate."

Your heart did something slow and enormous and devastating. A single, heavy beat that seemed to echo in the bones of your chest.

And then he reached out.

His hand found yours.

Neither a grab nor a clasp. It was as though his fingers glided under yours with a reverence that almost seemed sacred, cradling your hand in a way that it felt delicate and priceless, while his thumb brushed against your knuckles just once in a gentle gesture that made all of your nerves fire.

He raised your hand.

He bent his head.

His lips pressed against the back of your knuckles.

The world stopped.

Not figuratively. Not in the dramatic, hyperbolic way you'd become accustomed to deploying. The world stopped. Sound ceased. Air ceased. Time, the cold, unfeeling entity, froze its tracks and took its breath and let this one, terrible instant stand apart from the rest.

His mouth was warm. Warm and soft and gentle and there. The pressure was light—barely a kiss at all, more like a prayer pressed into skin. You felt the shape of his lips. You felt the warmth of his breath. You felt, with searing, impossible clarity, the slight curl of his fingers around yours, holding your hand steady in a grip that was somehow both fragile and absolute.

It lasted two seconds. Maybe three. An eternity compressed into a breath.

He straightened. His fingers released yours.

You did not move. You could not move. You had been transmuted. Your body had become stone, your lifeblood became electricity, and your spirit had become an echo, a resonant sound that filled every atom within you and made no space for thought or movement or even breathing.

You were stone. You were a monument. A slightly porridge-stained monument to the concept of being utterly, completely, catastrophically undone.

Your eyes—fixed, enormous, probably displaying pupils the size of dinner plates—stared at him.

He smiled.

It was the gentle one. The authentic one. The one that made him look human and happy and impossibly, unfairly, transcendently good.

“Good night, (Y/N). It’s a great night to be with you. I’ll see you later.” he said.

His voice went through you like light through glass.

“Good…” You tried to say. It came out as a mere whisper of a sound torn from the farthest, darkest reaches of your throat. “Good night. See you later…”

You turned. You pushed the infirmary door open. Your hand—the kissed hand, the branded hand, the hand that now contained the most significant tactile memory of your entire existence—found the handle through pure muscle memory, because your conscious brain was not currently accepting operational commands.

You stepped inside.

You closed the door behind you.

You stood in the dark corridor of the infirmary, lit only by the amber night lamp, and pressed your back against the wood. Your hand—that hand—rose to your chest. You pressed it flat over your heart, which was no longer beating so much as vibrating, a sustained tremolo of such intensity that you were fairly certain it was audible from the street.

The back of your hand burned. Not with pain. With the phantom warmth of his mouth. With the memory of pressure so gentle it made you want to scream, and cry, and laugh, and possibly never wash that particular patch of skin again for as long as you drew breath on this ridiculous, beautiful, merciless world of Amphoreus.

A tiny, broken sound escaped you. Not a word. Not a laugh. Something between a whimper and a hymn. The sound of a person whose internal architecture had been fundamentally and permanently rearranged by a gesture that lasted fewer seconds than it took to sneeze.

You let yourself fall to the floor. Finally, your knees had resigned themselves to doing so. You crumpled to the floor in a heap of healer’s robe and emotional wreckage, your kissed hand clenched in your palm, your face a masterpiece of astonishment and devastation and wonder and awe.

From the shadows of the hallway, came a voice.

"You combusted."

Marlon.

He was sitting on his cot, visible through the doorway to the main ward, splinted arm propped on his pillow, chrysanthemum standing guard. He hadn't been sleeping. He'd been waiting. Of course he'd been waiting. The little gargoyle had been sitting in the dark like a sentient security system, monitoring the door for signs of your return, ready to document the damage.

You didn't answer. You couldn't answer. Your vocal cords were still smoking.

He stared at you for a very long time. Saw the sitting on the floor. The hand grasping. And the face changing colors like a sunset having an anxiety attack.

Then he rolled onto his side on the cot, brought the blanket up over his mouth, and began speaking to the wall as one would to someone whose predictions were now confirmed.

"Told him," he mumbled. "Told him she’d blow up."

A brief pause. You heard the infirmary breathing, cots creaking, a tincture dripping, a patient snoring from three beds over.

And then, almost too softly to be heard, a voice speaking out of sheer disbelief:

"Idiot."

It was unclear whether he meant you, Phainon, or the universe at large.

Probably all three.

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A/N:

Hi everyone! Surprise!!! 😭✨ Look who's alive and has returned from the depths of work-induced hibernation with a new chapter!

First of all, thank you for your patience. I know it's been approximately 15465135 years since the last update. Work has been absolutely kicking my butt lately, and most nights my routine has been: come home → stare into the void → become one with my bed. 😴

I have been so busy that I basically vanished from the face of the internet. Tumblr? Haven't seen it. My drafts? Collecting dust. My social life? Missing, presumed dead.

So I sincerely apologize for disappearing without a trace and making you all wait so long. But the good news is NEW CHAPTER!!! 🎉🎉🎉

I really hope you enjoy it and think it was worth the wait. Thank you for sticking around despite my tendency to evaporate whenever life gets chaotic.

I miss you all so much!! 💖 And as compensation for my crimes against consistent updating, I shall do my best to bring you more chapters and less emotional damage from waiting.

"Hello? Is someone home?"

A melodious voice rang from outside. Though faint, it caught your attention. 

Holy shit, his voice is hot!

Startled, you got up and almost ran to the door before remembering your outfit. Grabbing a random shirt, you stumbled messily towards the entrance while simultaneously putting it on.

"Um, hello? Wait, is no one here right now…?"

The man's words drawl out as you open the door. In your haste, you accidentally slammed it, creating a loud bang! You would have been wallowing in embarrassment right now if not for the sight in front of you. By the gods, this guy has to be one of the hottest people you know. White, glowing hair reflecting off the sunlight like a halo; clear, cyan eyes that shimmer like the sky; tall, lithe yet athletic physique judging by the muscles clinging to his tight shirt; and that strong, pretty face that gives off an attractive, boyish charm.

In a daze, you didn't catch yourself staring until the man waved his hand in front of your face. Blood rushed to your face in embarrassment at being caught ogling a random stranger. Before you can apologize, he just laughs like it's something amusing. And dear god, even that chuckle made your heart flutter. In your ears, that bright, cheerful sound felt like music.

Can someone really be this perfect?!

The man hands you a small box. You don't even know when you extended your arms, but he dropped it on your palms. It was warm.

"The name's Phainon! I just moved in today. What's your name?"

Meeting Phainon was like meeting a real-life Prince Charming. He's kind but not a doormat, confident but not arrogant, and friendly but not pushy. Since that day he gave you the meal, you've both exchanged numbers and have been in regular contact ever since. In the mornings, you'd greet each other on the elevator. You eventually came to learn that he's recently transferred to your university, studying Aerospace Engineering. He's also in the campus debate club — and a good one at that. Sometimes, in campus, he'd cheerfully ask to join you for lunch when you're both on break. Of course, you'd never reject him (why would you? food is best eaten when admiring a pretty face), scooting over for room while ignoring your friends' teasing glances.

The guy's a literal ray of sunshine. He's funny, handsome, and extremely reliable.

Especially the last one.

Today, the pipes in your bathroom gave up and randomly burst. Thankfully the landlord was quite a nice lady and immediately took the initiative to call over a plumber without blaming you. Unfortunately, luck was not on your side because for some goddamn reason, all the ones in your area were unavailable today. Unfortunately, this means she'd have to close the supply valve to prevent further flooding. The only silver lining is that it's only the sink pipe. Were it anything else, you'd look like an old woman with deep wrinkles from how much you're frowning.

Thank the heavens because Phainon — your dear, ever reliable neighbor Phainon — offered to help when he heard about it. Here he is in your bathroom, inspecting the pipes. 

Phainon.

In. Your. Apartment.

"Hm…"

"Is that a 'hm?' or a 'hm?!' ?"

Phainon chortled at your comment. "Perhaps a bit of both. Partner, these pipes might need a little bit more help. I need my equipment for this."

"Oh god." You buried your face in your palm, groaning at the thought of paying extra to fix it. If it's as bad as Phainon said, then it definitely wouldn't be cheap. Just imagining how much you'd have to shell out already gives massive headaches. If he can't fix it, you're doomed.

"Is it really that bad..?"

"Well, we wouldn't know until we try, right?"

Phainon stood up from crouching on the ground. "I might spend some time here to fix it. Will that be okay?"

"Oh, yes, of course—"

Suddenly, a stream of floating comments like in live streams appeared right in front of your face beside Phainon. More and more came every second making them difficult to read, but you were able to catch some of them.

bigphailover231: Oh my god, this is when he installs cameras in her bathroom!! BABY'S FIRST ACT <3333  strawberry_cupcake: OJMGGGGG IM SO EXCITED!!!!!!!!! imjusthere: you guys enjoy this???

Fuck, are you hallucinating right now? Was it from the two redbull cans you drank this morning—

Wait. Cameras?

"Partner, you good? H-e-l-l-o [Name], you're dazed right now." Phainon waved his hand in front of your face, tilting his head at your expression, looking amused. "If you're not comfortable with that, that's fine. I don't want to force you."

bigphailover231: 'I don't want to force you' TOP 3 BIG LIES OF ALL TIME LOL

Yeah, okay, I'm definitely going insane right now. First, there's no way comments can appear out of thin air. Second, Phainon would never do that. Goodness, I need to sleep!

"Sorry, I'm just a bit tired. Go ahead! Thanks, Phainon. You're a really big help."

Phainon returned your smile with one of his. Like always, it made your heart flutter. However, as you return to your room and Phainon went back to his to get some equipment, you can't help but feel a tiny knot form in your gut.

Initially you tried to dismiss it as some energy-drink-induced hallucination. All you needed to do was stay off Redbull and Monster drinks for the next week— and maybe getting some actual sleep. However, as the days pass into weeks, they just continue to appear. Most of the time it's when you talk to Phainon, but sometimes you'd catch them in the corner of your eye. You've never been a believer of the supernatural even as a kid, but now you're starting to seriously doubt it.

Campus? A glimpse from somewhere over the other side of the lecture hall.

Random cafe? A blur from the next booth.

Groceries? A chime from what you assume to be an influx of them.

Every single day, you'd either see it or hear it and it's driving you insane. You don't know when it started but your attraction for Phainon faded from admiration to a now-settling, deep uneasiness. You really, really don't want to doubt him, but the sheer accuracy of these comments are making it impossible not to. If these are just hallucinations, then why the fuck are they so accurate?

In the middle of the campus lecture, when the professor finally gave a break, Phainon 'accidentally' bumped into you.

waitingfornewscenes: yeah no, this guy changed classes just for [Name] LMAOO needforSPEED: bro couldn't have chosen a better excuse?

"Hey, partner! Didn't know we have the same professor, haha! I had to change classes because of some issues. Wanna study together?"

In the cafe while hanging out with friends and trying new sweets, Phainon came out from the next booth and looked 'surprised' when he saw your group.

yadayadaaaaa: COINCIDENCE MY ASS????/ next he'll say 'i didn't expect to see you here!' i bet omfg imjusthere: holy stalking

"I didn't expect to see you here. You like this cafe too? What a coincidence!"

In the supermarket getting groceries, he'd be there buying vegetables too. 'Coincidentally' he's not buying much and would be willing to help.

bigphailover231: offering to carry groceries??? day 10 of manifesting a man like Phainon… real life is a scam </3 strawberry_cupcake: right there with you, sis </3

Each and every time this happens, that tightness in your gut grows larger and larger. When you remembered the comments talking about hidden cameras, you desperately scoured every nook and cranny of your small apartment to look for them. You closed all the lights and investigated by shining the phone flashlight everywhere carefully, watching for the telltale glint of those lens. When you found two in the living room, one in the bathroom, and three in the bedroom, you almost vomited right then and there. Unfortunately, when you reported it to the cops, they said they can't do anything about it because 'nothing happened.' That moment lost your little trust for police enforcement completely.

Slowly, you started to withdraw from friends and going outside in general. Just the thought of seeing those comments or hearing its notifying chime brings undeniable anxiety. If you could, you'd stay the hell away right now and couch-surf with friends. Regrettably, they're all strapped for cash right now and couldn't afford another roommate. Plus, this was already the cheapest single-bedroom apartment without being absurdly far from the campus. And even more, you can't just move out and find a new apartment with roommates because you can't afford it. In other words, you're doomed.

But as much as you want to stay at home, the bills don't pay themselves. Thankfully, your part-time work didn't involve much customer service so you could stay in the kitchen rather than the front register. However, it only barely helps with the paranoia. You didn't want Phainon to be suspicious of your changed behavior so you tried to distance yourself subtly. His puppy-dog eyes glistening with unshed tears and hurt would have moved your heart if not for the comments floating beside his head.

It was late at night when you finally returned home. The skies were dark and only the street lights illuminated the area. Desperate to save as much money as possible, you practically ran speedwalked back to your apartment. The moment the door closed was also the moment you finally breathed a sigh of relief. Tired, you shrugged off the black jacket onto the floor and didn't even bother picking it up. Taking off your shoes, you immediately went to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And when that was done, you sluggishly dragged your body to the safe haven of your bed to finally get some rest.

Exhaustion finally caught up as just laying on the bed for a few minutes, beneath a blanket and surrounded by pillows, was enough to pull you to sleep. Your eyelids felt heavy and you were about to welcome the soft embrace of dreamland when, suddenly, a familiar sound chimed in the air.

In that very moment, your body stiffened as your eyes snapped wide open.

You looked around frantically, careful not to move too much. However, as your eyes scan the room, the sinking realization that he couldn't hide anywhere settled like ice in your veins. First off, you're not rich enough for a closet. Second, there isn't any furniture big enough to hide behind. Which means…

Ding!

Ding!

Ding—!

…He's right under your bed.