👻Gray🌌

“I’d say you’re quite mistaken about my motives. Can’t I just pepper you in kisses?”

“I make no mistakes.” Ratio’s tone is sure as ever and he shifts beneath you again. As if giving you the impression he’s going to move you from his lap and push himself to stand, but he does the opposite. Sighing, before urging you to shift yourself in a bit closer with a simple tense of his bicep and despite your playful mood you adhere to the command, beginning to gently scratch your nails along the hair at the base of his neck.

He meets your eyes again, making sure he’s got your attention before continuing with his previous rebuttal. “As much as I wish to believe you have no ulterior motives. After all of our time spent together I find you’ve become quite easy to read.”

He notices the way you’re biting back a smile, proving his point. His head tilts back slightly into the curl of your fingertips and then your gaze falls from his, as if guilty or…. caught out. You remain silent so he presses you.

“Or will you rebuke my understanding?”

“I don’t have anything to say to that, Veritas.” You’re pouting when you eventually answer, and Ratio begins to shift again while you still refuse to meet his gaze. Acting a little playfully defeated knowing the jig is up so soon. But almost immediately after, your gaze is drawn back to him— manually, when his large palms come to suddenly cup your face in his hands.

It takes you a few blinks to notice the way his book has been discarded on the side table to his right. His entire attention now on you as he turns to meet you, carefully bringing himself into a close proximity that makes your chest feel like it shakes.

Ratio looks at you for a beat, then his eyes fall to your lips, and then back up again.

It’s a simple movement, but it speaks for itself. The silence hiking up the temperature in the room suddenly or maybe it’s just you that’s beginning to flush, but he keeps you there. Only inches separate you both and you find yourself shifting in the hopes of discarding them, but he doesn’t let you — his palms warm where they hold you and he begins to stroke over your cheekbones in a way that makes you lean into the gentle caress of his hands.

“I’ve decided I don’t like this game anymore.“ You sigh in defeat, going a little limp in his arms. Your mouth opens again, as if to ask for something, beg maybe— you’ve become desperate at this point, mentally cursing yourself, but then it closes again. Ratio cuts you off anyway, clearing his throat.

“Very well.” His eyes seem to admire the features along your face for a moment before his thumb reaches to pull across your lower lip. He exhales before he asks, almost in haste. You wonder if he even realises he’s leaning in “Something else then?”

Veritas Ratio has either completed his portion of the project for the week, or he’s taken the day off and didn’t bother communicating to you. The first option seems more believable if everything wasn’t shut off and left untouched in the laboratory. The second option…well, let’s just say that he hasn’t missed a single day of work since hire (an annoying fact considering he’s been awarded Employee of the Month in his department for years now).

It’s Thursday of the second week of the month, meaning that Ruan Mei is expecting to have a meeting regarding the project’s timeline. Discussing with her isn’t an issue that you’re concerned about: all the technical reports and document revisions have been adjusted and gone effective; blueprints of potential prototypes have been green-lit by engineers; and your assay tests have been passing with expected results thus far. In terms of projected completion, anyone would be impressed. Knowing how Ruan Mei operates, she’d probably say something enigmatic like ‘this is satisfactory’ with a blank expression. After working closely with her, you know that’s one of her highest compliments that anyone could receive.

Before you realize it, your body betrays you and you’re thumbing a sporadic message in a chat log with Veritas. And, well, it wouldn’t hurt to send him a quick message, right? 

Disregarding the curt and non-romantic texts that you’ve exchanged within the past two weeks—which, you also feel the need to talk to him about at a later time—it’s totally not illegal to check in on his status. Especially since he’s your research partner first, fake boyfriend second, and coffee companion last.

You: just checking in but you’re still coming today, right?

Your heart feels ten times heavier as you take your seat in the intended meeting room across the hall. So far it’s just you, the blank projection screen, and the two empty seats at the table. You nibble nervously at your bottom lip as you draft up another message.

You: meeting’s in 10 wya?

A minute passes.

You stare at the message for a good moment, silently praying that something would happen if you did; as if he would magically appear in front of you out of thin air or at least send an SOS signal that he’s stuck in traffic. But nothing comes. Your fingers anxiously begin hovering over the keyboard, wondering what you could possibly say without coming off as imposing.

“Alone?” The harsh clacking from Ruan Mei’s heels forces you out of your daydreams. She stares at you and the empty seat next to you. 

You wince, dropping the phone on the table faced-down. “Veritas must’ve gotten caught up with something,” you mumble, then quickly adding, “but our progress looks steady. I think by the end of this month we can present a demo if a re-test isn’t needed.”

Ruan Mei stares at you long and hard. 

Working alongside her all this time, you know it’s simply a habit and her way of digesting the conversation but, with the current unknown circumstances of Veritas, you can’t help but feel small and apprehensive under her gaze. “I don’t have any reservations about the progress. Dr. Ratio has already sent over a weekly report of his findings the night before.”

“Oh.”

Even when he’s not here, Veritas seems to always be ten steps ahead of you. Your skin prickles at the fact. 

“It’s nothing to scorn over.” She clicks her pen. “The current numbers and findings are as expected from the proposed planning stages.”

“I’m not annoyed.” You hate how defensive it comes out.

Ruan Mei pauses in her writing, eyes having a rare glimmer of mischief. “And surely I don’t need to relearn how to read basic emotions, do I?”

Your mouth seals shut and you vaguely sense that you’re smiling. It’s a small, nervous smile that serves as a placeholder while your brain scrambles to catch up. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.” 

“Your back is tense. Shoulders wide and stiff. There’s sweat dripping from your brow line and you’ve been eyeing your phone since the meeting has started.” She rubs her chin. “A lover’s quarrel, perhaps?”

Sometimes, you wonder if in a few years that this will have been the worst and most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you. Or if things happen to get worse. If this moment, this little agreement, defines you as an adult living in their prime twenties, you need the right to know by now—and by how much.

You force yourself to meet her eyes, trying not to blink. “I didn’t take you as one for gossip, Miss Ruan Mei.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” She twirls a strand between her fingers, head tilted. “Regardless of how you want to phrase it, I hope it’s clear that only one position will be available upon entry. Sleeping together won’t sway their hearts—not like they had any to begin with.”

You flinch at her bluntness, throat squeezing at the fact. “Noted.”

Of course, the thought of your particular arrangement didn’t go that far. Although, the image that Ruan Mei sprouted in your mind doesn’t help with lessening the rush of blood to your cheeks but—while Veritas is certainly admirable to look at, and potentially charming to anyone who can tolerate his sharp tongue—you can’t find yourself actually doing anything with him. Kafka, and many others, had mentioned that he’s probably one to take commitment either as slow as possible or have nothing going on at all. This arrangement clearly indicates that and there’s an obvious goal in mind.

Despite the chaos of it all, you still haven’t forgotten the original goal for your assignment either. One chance at impressing the Genius Society Panel. One chance at securing the opening. And one chance to outshine against Dr. Veritas Ratio, of all people. 

You need to be better than Veritas.

The next words that fly out of your supervisor’s lips might as well have been a foreign script. It’s nearly incomprehensible to focus on anything as your body braces itself, as if it’s prepared for a fight or flight response. Your throat squeezes tightly around the air. Your fingers are clutching tightly against the fabric of your pants. And your gut sinks down to your feet as you faintly recall back to the dreaded memory in the lecture hall.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve poured in more hours, ran every formula and test known to man, and scrubbed the floors clean until the skin on your hands is bleeding and rotting off. If you don’t prioritize your needs, then it’ll be incontrovertible proof that you’re missing something that he has.

You watch as Ruan Mei carefully tucks a hair behind her ear, and she flips her notepad to a new page, scribbling down something either life altering, or just causing additional anxiety for you. “If you have any additional comments, feel free to voice them now.”

“You… you don’t wanna know anything else about the project?”

“Hm? It’s not necessary at the moment. Veritas’ email covers just about everything. The remaining time of this meeting can be reconsidered as a one-on-one, if you’d like.”

Your jaw clenches, biting back a frown. “Sure, I can do that.”

There’s a lot of funny ways that the universe says that it doesn’t like you when, after a mentally taxing meeting and getting ghosted by your not-real boyfriend, you somehow get stuck in an elevator ride with your ex. And, while you deeply wish that the cables can somehow uncurl themselves loose so that you both crash to your impending deaths, you really just want to be in your bed. 

Scratch that. What you really want is a pint of ice cream and the shittiest takeout meal. But that’s not a plan that you’ll be having today.

Luckily, you both don’t say anything in the elevator. Currently, Sampo’s attempting really hard to sound preoccupied on a nonexistent phone call while you’re aimlessly browsing through the same two cities on the weather app; there have been flurries for the last few days, and continuing on this week—it’s nothing new and, frankly, you’re not looking forward to waddling through the iced over sidewalks and the salt bits. 

You try to breathe through the rolling panic, watching as the elevator floor display changes as you both hurtle towards the ground floor, trying to steady your breathing without making a noise, and wondering why the hell are both of your departments located on the top floor.

After what feels like an eternity, it comes to a steady stop and the doors slide open with a chime. 

Perfect, an opening.

“Can we talk?”

Ah.

“I’d much rather prefer not to,” you step to the side, groaning when he mirrors your movements.

Sampo stretches his arms out, his broad frame blocking the exit. “Okay, fine, can I just say what’s been on my mind?”

“Let me reiterate: I don’t want to hear you speak within my vicinity, which I declare to be three meters wide. Does that answer your question, Sampo?”

A dry laugh. “You know that I’ve never bothered following your rules.”

“And I don’t know why I’m even bothering trying,” you grumble, grip tightening around your bag. “Can you hurry up and spill it? I have a train to catch.”

“Well, first thing’s first, I'm oh-so surprised that your dearest boyfriend isn’t dropping you off,” he observes not so subtly, causing your eyes to roll. “Which brings me to the initial topic of conversation,” Sampo rubs his chin as if in deep thought and snaps his fingers, an imaginary lightbulb going off. “He’s got quite a colorful personality if he’s using you for his own leverage. A selfish person at heart, an even greater player in disguise, no? Who’s to say that he’s going to take that opening all to himself?”

“Seriously? You stopped me just to say that? Do you even know what you sound like right now? Insane, that’s what you are.” You huff, seething your teeth. “And what? Is everyone aware of the damn project? Shouldn’t you focus on your excel sheets or whatever the hell finance guys take care of?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, still not moving. The elevator chimes again, closing its doors but he stops it with his shoe. “To be honest,” You’re about to raise your voice again but the look he gives you makes your brain skip like a record player. “I’m just trying to look out for you. It’s not like you to just…” A thin line presents itself on his lips, resulting in a rare expression for someone like Sampo to express. 

Is it concern? Disbelief?

As you stay silent, he breaks the tension with an exasperated sigh. He tousles a hand through his hair, pulling the ends of it. “I should probably be the last person to be saying this, but I don’t trust him.” Sampo strains a laugh when you shoot him a hard look, putting his hands up. “Okay, okay—I know what you’re about to say but hear me out on this!”

The unabating clamor inside of you grows louder. You wipe roughly at your eyes before tapping at the nonexistent watch on your wrist. “You’ve got five seconds or else I’m telling Lynx you scratched one of her camera lenses.”

“I—hey! That’s uncalled for!”

“Four seconds…”

“Fine, fine! I just think—” his face twists in itself, almost as if he’s in pain. For some reason, your muscles tense, as if bracing an incoming crash. “After what happened with you and your scholarship, I couldn’t help but think he might try and hurt you again.” You suck in a sharp breath. “You know how he is, don’t you? All eagle-eyed and in his own little world half the time. I still can’t believe you guys are dating—if that’s even real—but I wouldn’t pass him up if he does something shady to screw you over.” 

“You… You don’t need to remind me of that,” you make a small, vague sound of mortification. Shame flares all over your body at the memory once more. Just how many times do you have to be reminded of this? 

Sampo waves his hands awkwardly around, as if trying to grasp any more physical traces of evidence. Then he softens and offers a hand. “C’mon. You can't seriously think that it wouldn’t happen again?”

Your heart seizes in silent discomfort, unable to form a coherent response. Sampo takes your heavy silence as a sign to continue, somewhat oblivious to it all. “Well? Do you have a plan?”

“Plan to do what?” You feel like you’ve lost the firm grounding of this conversation.

“Well, I mean, you’re gonna let him walk all over you? You should at least put yourself first rather than wasting your time looking out for him.” Sampo pushes on. 

The tension in your jaw right now is being stretched and pulled like a thin tightrope all the way down to your feet. One of the many reasons why you’ve admired Sampo in the past is his skill to come off as persistent as possible, ask as many questions and throw as many implications into a person’s face. It’s also one of the many reasons why you two ended up separating. 

Thankfully, before Sampo can get another word in, a hand taps on his shoulder.

“Sir,” a deep, authoritative voice calls from behind. It’s one of the guys who’s stationed at the front desk. “You’ve been obstructing the door for quite some time. Is there a problem?”

He immediately side steps out the elevator, sending the man a cheek to cheek grin while waving apologetically. “We both got caught up in a little chat. Leaving right now though! Sorry for the disruptions.”

Sampo does a final look over at you, in hopes of some form of agreement or acknowledgement from the discussion. There are hard truths to it and no matter how much you want to move on and forget about what happened, it still doesn’t change the fact that it did happen. And whether or not Veritas is completely aware of the impact it had on you is one thorn that you’re unsure if you’re ready to pull out.

Whether or not you can ever become like Veritas—it’s a suffocating thought. You’re used to seeing his name pop up in everything; through school and work emails, and even in research articles that aren’t even in his field of study. The more you try to make sense of escaping his accomplishments and talents, the more you’re well aware that everything that you know—skills, achievements, and connections—must always begin and end with your own mind.

Clutching your bag, you exhale, shakily. “We’ve both changed, I thought I’ve already established that. You’re the one who seems to be stuck in the past.”

A prickling sensation rises up to your throat as you brush past him. Sampo attempts to call right after you but the built up tension from earlier finally releases and energy surges through your veins as you stride out the building. You hardly react to the below freezing temperatures engulfing your body and only focus on the feeling that your heart is about to burst out of its sternum. 

Rounding the corner of the city block, you hastily dig through your bag, pulling out your phone and checking your messages again.

Still no response.

You bite your bottom lip, the sheer force threatening just enough to break skin. And, like a drug, Sampo’s words from earlier start to plague your brain.

Veritas wouldn’t actually try to sabotage you for the position, right? The same Veritas who endured a whole drunken evening with your friends; who stayed late to clean up along your side; who agreed to be in a fake relationship with you for the sake of the project…

But this isn’t the real Veritas at all, you bitingly have to remind yourself. The real Veritas is a lonely, egotistical workaholic who’s stated multiple times before that he rarely enjoys the company of others. The acts of kindness, the charming words and agreeableness that's been displayed has all been for show—an act. And the private moments that you’ve shared are nothing more than just the after images of his display, similar to an aftershock to an earthquake. 

Still, knowing that, you swallow the bitter thoughts as your fingers hastily dance across the keys.

You: is everything alright?

You’re starting to feel like you’re losing your mind. “This guy is being ridiculous right now.”

In an instant, a large black shadow creeps up to your side. “Need a ride somewhere?”

Before you can properly react, you catch a glimpse of a car next to you. A sleek silver sedan that you’re all too familiar with. Your frown deepens when the passenger window rolls down. “Argh, why are you still here?”

Sampo flicks down his sunglasses, because of course he wears shades even though the sun is setting and dark clouds are beginning to roll in. And, judging from that same pleading look he has in his eyes, he’s still not letting this go. “I’m just looking out for—”

“Sampo,” you cut him off with a seething glare. “I’m literally so close to filing a restraining order against you, you know that?”

His look of concern doesn’t falter in the slightest.  “Want to continue this conversation inside at least?”

“Are you serious? Did you not hear what I just said?”

“And did you not check today’s forecast?” Sampo counters, eyes pointing at the increasingly darkening sky. “Listen, not gonna speak a bad word on the guy if you get in. I’ve crossed some lines and already caused you to miss your ride.” He sighs, tossing a hand through his hair for what it seems to be the umpteenth time. Fingers fidget across his dashboard in rapid succession as he murmurs, “I’m also guessing you’re trying to head to his place, right? Try and think of this as a good deed, yeah?”

You’re taken aback from his sudden offer that your body responds with incoming dread; you tighten the grip around your bag and bite your tongue. “So you’re trying to stalk us, is that what I’m hearing?”

He rolls his eyes, pouting, offended that you would even think of such a thing. “Okay, well, that’s uncalled for.”

Far off sounds of rumbling groans in the distance and, combined with the frigid temperatures and the lack of an actual umbrella, causes you to cave in. It’s bad enough to be stuck in a car ride with your ex, even worse if you’re commuting back from work and then develop an awful case of the flu that’ll occupy your body for a whole week.

Speaking of the flu, it’s almost like your sixth sense is telling you that something awful must’ve happened to Veritas. It’s too embarrassing to admit it aloud, but you’ve been browsing around his fansite more often than not as of recently—or rather, you’ve been paying an awfully close attention to the behaviors of Veritas Ratio. 

As frustrating as he can be, he tends to be meticulous and direct with his texts. Sometimes you receive the occasional ‘heh’, which honestly leaves you in an amidst confusion. Other times he sends out a schedule or a small meeting invite link, if it’s work related. 

Regardless of the cases, you’ve never gone a day without some sort of notification from him. Veritas is annoyingly punctual, and it’s unlike him to run late.

You fight off the impending thoughts from earlier and swing the door open.

“Just… take me to a convenience store,” you begrudgingly crawl into the passenger side of the car, clutching your bag to your chest and pointedly avoiding eye contact with the man. Sampo's lips curl up but he doesn’t voice any teasing. At least that’s the only good thing he’s done so far. “I gotta pick up a few things for Veritas. It’s not terribly far from his place.”

Right before Sampo’s mouth opens fully, a blaring sound of a horn rings in the air, making both of you jump. Swinging your head around with your heart lodged in your throat, you see a forming line of vehicles right behind. 

Sampo revs up the engine and forces out a curt laugh, adjusting his rear view mirror. “Let’s see that address, yeah?”

When you finish typing it in his GPS, Sampo manages to let out a long whistle. “Finance District, huh? What an upgrade.”

“I thought you said no bad mouthing.”

“I wasn’t! Swear Bronya’s ring on it,” he lets out a small laugh but, again, he doesn’t mean it. You would know. You used to know everything about him—which laughs he was faking and when Sampo wanted to make a dig at someone, something, or everything.

He must really dislike Veritas.

Sampo offers little to exchange as he drops you off. 

He’s got his head fixed onto the road, one hand drumming against the steering wheel while the other lowers the volume of the radio. Outside from a few poor attempts of catching up, rigid silence stretched throughout the ride. 

“Tell him I said hi, will you? Hope he’s alright.” Sampo chirps out, but there’s a look in his eyes as you step outside onto the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder. With the frames covering half of his face, knees bouncing in the driver’s seat, it’s no rocket science to know he couldn’t care less.

Some pang of irritation sends a jolt through you, providing you with enough motivation to fully exit the vehicle and wave him off without saying a proper farewell.

The city feels different at night. 

You normally avoid going out this late because of brigades of drunk college students, reckless drivers trying to make it back home after work, and the fact that it’s still technically the middle of the workweek. The 3D billboards around the center city appear seemingly more bright and obnoxious. Large crowds start wandering the streets right after their happy hour dinner. It’s loud, disorienting, and the skyscrapers with their LED lights and advertisements blur your vision. 

Sometimes you wonder why you even bother living here. Being here feels like living inside of an IMAX action movie. You want to take the subway back home.

But you’re frustrated—angry, almost—that your research partner hasn’t even taken a time out of his day to respond back to your wall of texts. You’re frustrated that he’s left you on read. Frustrated that you’d let him get a glimpse of your personal life, only for him to pull away and ignore you when you grow concerned over his sudden absence. 

Frustrated that you even care this much.

Ten hours. It’s been approximately ten hours since you’ve sent the initial text. Thirty five minutes and fourteen seconds since the last one. 

Was he even sick? Did he slip in the shower this morning and hit his head? Is Veritas Ratio dead? No—maybe you shouldn’t jump to conclusions with the last bit. He has to be sick, or just out. Somewhere. Ugh.

Whatever. The damage has already been done. Chicken noodle soup, a tub of grated ginger, and a bottle of liquid medicine from a nearby corner store sits in your bag. If he’s sick then he’d definitely benefit from this. And, if he isn’t, then it’s just better to have these items around in case he does fall ill. 

Although the sun has already set and the breeze from the oncoming cold front is pulling through, your back and hair are drenched in sweat by the time you arrive outside of Veritas’ complex. Prior to arrival, you had a clear idea where Veritas lives from browsing his fansite again, but you’re unprepared by the sheer height of the glass turret in front of you. Floor to ceiling windows. Flatscreen TVs and white, fluffy couches that you’re pretty certain cost more than two month’s worth of salary. If you peek at another floor or two, you’re bound to catch some units that offer multiple coffee carts and a freaking chandelier installment.

The main lobby is silent as a museum, with bright lighting, gold-accented walls, and tropical greenery that aren’t even native to the country. The center of the lobby holds an even grander reception desk, a table made entirely out of white marble paired with an expansive larger than life painting of an abstract piece behind it. You’re positive that it’s bigger than the entire floor plan of your bedroom.

As you hull over to the desk, you desperately clutch your worn-down tote bag closer to keep the old stains and tiny holes less visible to the residents that were just leaving the complex whom, to your dismay, are all dressed in black tie and jewelry that you could only dream of owning in a dress-up game. You wonder what they do for work—if they even work. 

Then, as you’re standing awkwardly in front of the receptionist, you’re painfully reminded that the reason you’re here is because one of your coworkers does indeed reside here and the veil of ‘it’s okay, they’re probably living off of their parents’ fortune’ is destroyed immediately.

Fact Number Seven off of his fansite states: Doctor Veritas Ratio’s familial relations are currently unknown. It’s under assumption that his parents were inactive in his childhood and ever since he’s been raised under the watchful eyes of Professor Rond until adulthood.

The front receptionist knits her brows together, seemingly in surprise and a shred of confusion, when you state his name as your reason for visiting.

“Your relation?” She asks as she hands over the desk sign in sheet. 

Hell, even the paper they used was fancy. Glossy and heavy. Looks like it wouldn’t tear even if you tried pulling it apart. The columns are separated by name, apartment number, time of entry, relationship, and time of departure. You can only thank his insane fansite (more once) for providing you the information that he lives on the penthouse level.

You chew down on your tongue until it’s numb. “I’m his girlfriend.”

She scoffs, professionalism now fading away, and shrinks her eyes into an unimpressive stare. “Nice try, but it’s going to take more than that to get up there.”

The words ring confusion, and it must be plastered over your face, because the receptionist glowers back. You’re starting to wonder how much she’s getting paid to care this much over a simple visit. “Can’t you just ring his complex and tell him I’m here? We’re also coworkers.”

An eye roll and she starts shifting around items around the desk. “Haven’t heard that one before,” her voice drips with every ounce of sarcasm left in her body. “A visitors’ permit or you can leave before I call security.”

Your eyes blow wide. “S-Security?!”

One of her hands slowly inches towards the underside of the table when you can’t find the strength to move, seemingly feeling around for a button. A possibly large red button that will summon palace security guards that’ll have you dragged out by your feet and probably charge you for an escort bill at the end of it—with tip. 

When the woman bends lower, your hands race to your pant’s pocket, and yank out your phone, nearly flinging it across the room given how sweat ridden your palms currently are. “T-There’s really no need for that! Here’s proof that we’re together!”

The screensaver of you and Veritas at the holiday party last weekend is shoved directly into the receptionist’s face. You make sure that the brightness is on its highest setting. Your chest puffs out, uneasiness gnawing at your guts. “See? Sufficient evidence right here!”

Honestly, just how many crazed fans does Veritas receive on a daily basis? It’s ridiculous enough that you have to resort to showing proof that you’re not some obsessed enthusiast who probably wants nothing more than a strand of his hair. The last time you had to convince others that you were in a relationship was during university years. And all it took was a few shameless love bites and hickeys. Granted, you wouldn’t resort to doing that now, and certainly wouldn’t even dare to bring that idea up to Veritas.

 If Veritas has ever encountered and dealt with these types of fanatics, you have to applaud the fact that it’s never been brought up. And maybe you shouldn’t be all that surprised that he decided to reside at a grand place such as this. In fact, you’re starting to notice a particular pattern when it comes to Veritas and inconveniences. 

“Huh, never seen him that cozy with anyone before,” the receptionist mulls over the screensaver, squinting and probably listing down a million voiceless jabs in her mind as she shifts her gaze back and forth between you and the picture. It lasts a moment too long and, just before you’re about to lose your patience for the umpteenth time today, she lets you off with a guest pass for the elevator. “My mistake, you’re free to go.”

Spoken like a true professional, you want to roll your eyes but opted against it.

You don’t even bother thanking her when you take it. You don’t even bother sparing a glance at the nosy residents in the lobby as you wait for the elevator. Should you be concerned that you’re this out of place? This was only meant to be a quick visit, a check-in and drop off of a care package (if you could even call it a proper one). But now you’re debating sending Veritas a personal billing due to all the hassle you just went through.

The elevator arrives and you don’t wait for anyone to step in after you, aggressively pressing the close button with excessive force. Your ears pop on the way up. And the sudden realization that you’re about to get a glimpse of what Veritas’ personal life is sending twists to your core.

You ring the doorbell and wait.

Silence.

Not even five seconds later and you do what any sane person would do when their research partner is actively ignoring them—you start banging on the door. Loud enough for the downstairs neighbors to hear.

“Veritas Ratio, open the door! I know you’re in there and that you hear me! If you don’t let me in right now I will call the police, and have an ambulance come to do a wellness check up—”

In an instant, the door swings open, and you nearly fall face first into Veritas’ chest. You stop yourself at the last second by gripping onto the door frame, tote bag nearly falling off your shoulder as sounds of a ragged cough break through the air. The strong scent of mint and lemon works like coffee in your veins, and you jolt upright. Stepping back, you examine all of Veritas—first, noting his uncharacteristic features.

Disheveled hair. Flushed cheeks. An irritated nose from all the supposed sneezing and wipes. Dark circles under his… Well, everything really. Exhaustion utterly seeps through his skin and into the thick air. He’s also wearing a ridiculously faded out space themed graphic tee that looks like it’s been through five years in the washer and dryer. Wrinkled grey pajama pants. And a pair of duck themed slippers. 

If Veritas didn’t look like he was on the verge of a hospital visit, you would argue that he looks strangely adorable. Though, that thought only lasts for a heartbeat when he coughs into his elbow.

“Oh my Aeons,” you widen your eyes. “You look terrible.”

“You—What are you doing here?” Absurdly, he appears to be surprised to see you. Then, he seems to realize how he looks and would probably be caught dead under any other circumstances, because he suddenly pulls away and starts shutting the door. “I’d recommend that now is a bad time—”

“What am I… Don’t be ridiculous right now!” He visibly seems shaken by your sudden raised voice, even more shaken when you stop the door with half of your body jamming in his doorway. You motion towards the tote bag on your shoulder, the weight digging into your skin. “Someone has been avoiding my texts and didn’t bother to give anyone at work a notice of calling out sick today! Which, under any other normal circumstances, is fine since we’re not obligated to know but I’m here because you’ve never missed a day of work in your career—ever! Do you know how many dramatic scenarios I had to go through in my head because of you?”

Your cheeks flush at the last bit, wondering why you even felt the need to admit that. 

His mouth tightens. “I do not require assistance.”

“Veritas Ratio,” Afterimages of him dropping dead on the cold tiled bathroom floor manifest into your mind vividly. You wiggle your body in further. “Just think of this as a favor—for helping me clean up the other day. I’ve got a little voice telling me that, if you don’t let me in, tomorrow morning you’ll end up dead. Then the police will be integrating me and charge me with negligence as the last person to have seen and contacted you.”

“You seem to have forgotten that Aventurine is also my housemate,” he says, evenly.

“W-Well, that’s…”

“And this complex is well-alarmed that if the authorities would ever inspect the footage, it’ll feature me entering and not leaving the establishment. Aventurine would be the first and last person to have interacted with me. I’m not oblivious to my own surroundings, and certainly not unaware of my own physical health. Thus rendering your imprudent imaginations to a pause.”

“That’s besides the point,” you give a final push and feel the door slightly slack on his end. Veritas side steps as you enter, rolling your eyes. “My head and shoulders are killing me, I had to convince the front desk to put me through or else I would’ve received a lifetime ban from an apartment of all places, and my hypothetical boyfriend didn’t even tell me that he wasn’t coming into work today.”

Veritas’ face twists into a slight wince, and turns away. “I needed to catch up on some rest. There’s really no need to stop by but, since you’re so insistent on staying, I want to make it clear that you’re here on your own accord. I do not need your help and I’m perfectly fine. A night’s rest should be sufficient enough.” The last bit of words barely make it pass his lips when he descends into a violent coughing fit.

Oh, Aeons, he’s really making this harder than it needs to be. 

Unconvinced, you lean into his space, pressing the back of your hand against his sweat ridden forehead—and almost gasp. His skin is practically on fire.

“You’re burning,” you pull back with a scowl. “You’re sick, Veritas.”

As if voicing it brought any more truth to the situation, he barely makes it a step into the living room when he starts swaying over his feet, doubling over and clumsily finding the closest furniture for support. His knuckles turn white as he grips onto a bookshelf, breathing uneven and ragged.

Your heart pangs at the sight.

“Veritas—”

“The restroom,” Veritas coughs into his first, vocals sounding as if someone dragged a dry rag through his throat. He barely manages to find the strength to pull himself upright. 

Slipping off your shoes and bag, you rush to his side and place one arm around him, trying to hold him up. He doesn’t flinch away, thankfully, and shifts most of his weight onto you. You nearly stumble under it. Gradually, you manage to cross the corridor and enter his living room together—slowly and awkwardly, as if both of your shoes were tied together.

As you set him down on the couch, one hand around his waist and the other occupying his shoulder, you couldn’t help but to drink in some of the sight of his apartment. 

It’s a surprising casual display of wealth, considering the type of person he normally is; a living room large enough to host a mini conference, three pristine white couches surrounding a low black marbled coffee table that probably weighs half a ton, the living room directly opens into a grander kitchen, in the corner there’s a grand piano overlooking the rest of the city, and towards the end of the other hallway there are patterned porcelain vases lined up against the wall that were most likely imported from Luofu. 

Aside from the growing stacks of well faded books and papers on the coffee table, it’s nearly spotless and glistening.

 “What do you need me to grab?”

“There should be a bottle of painkillers in the top second cabinet,” he mumbles out.

You turn to him, ready to make a snide comment about how ridiculous it is to even have two cabinets in a singular bathroom to begin with, when you stop. Looking closer, he has dark smudges under his eyes, and his hair looks similar to that of a bird’s nest. It nearly startles you. People tend to recognize him so essentially that he might as well have his own stature or TV show. But once again, you’re reminded that he’s just as fragile as anyone else—that people like Veritas Ratio can get sick. 

You’re suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to feel for his temperature once more.

After managing to convince him to rest while he’s at your mercy, you’ve granted yourself the liberty to roam in his kitchen under the context of preparing a meal for him. Though, it’s also more of an excuse to ingest his living situation.

“You really don’t need to,” he advises from the other room, though barely audible and it only solidifies your visit.

“Sounds like you need me to, which is entirely a different case.”

There’s a giant wooden countertop in the middle, four gas stove tops with a griddle in the center, a double oven, and a French double door refrigerator that’s been marred by all things magnets and postcards from Aventurine’s business outings. 

You manage to catch a few glimpses of old photos on the side of the appliance while heating up the electric kettle. Pinned directly at the top are a series of collages from none other than Aventurine. The photos all feature him, an older couple, and an older woman by his side, smiling wide with a mountainous backdrop. It’s probably his family, though the photos look a bit dated. 

You hold your breath as the kettle starts to roar to life, the water bubbling and steaming out of its opening as you skim across the fridge for any signs of Veritas’ own family. But after a few glances, there’s nothing. Only a small section of the fridge seems to have his notes written down and it’s nothing but a tiny calendar.

Sighing in defeat, you open the double doors to the fridge and hold your breath. There’s an alarming amount of fresh vegetables and packaged meat inside. A row of neatly packed protein shakes and a pitcher of what appears to be homemade tea. A bag of apples, lemons, and a half empty carton of brown eggs. On the side compartments, there’s a variety of sauces that are organized by color and height, the end resulting similar to that of a rainbow.

 Compared to the barren storage you have, as known as Himeko’s questionable leftovers and cheap takeout, Veritas’ fridge feels like an ideal prop set-up for a movie.

“Are you judging the contents of my fridge?” He calls from the living room, voice less scratchy, and doesn’t sound annoyed.

You huff, skimming through the items with envy. “Since I’ve taken the responsibility to take care of you right now, yes, yes I am.” From the corner of your eye, Veritas props himself upright and focuses his attention on you. Is he going to be staring at you all night? You clear your throat and turn back to the array of options. “Do… Do you normally cook?”

The couch shifts. “It’s my preference: more cost efficient, being aware of what’s in the dish, and avoiding any potential mishaps if Aventurine does miraculously decide to offer his assistance.” He finishes the last bit in a strained tone.

A giggle bubbles out from you. “Of course you would say that.”

The faint image of Aventurine attempting to cook right where you’re standing flickers in your mind. Rarely do you ever see him eating a meal that didn’t look rightfully curated and, judging from the tight expression Veritas throws at the wall, you can’t imagine his roommate being that skillful in the kitchen. While you want to know more of why they’re roommates in the first place, you decide to have that conversation another day when he’s not currently on his deathbed. 

And speaking about his deathbed…

“Are you planning to sit on the couch all evening? If we want to talk about a quick recovery then I’d suggest resting in bed while I get dinner started.”

“Barging into my apartment, raiding my fridge, and now ordering me into my room?” Veritas quirks a brow.

You huff. “Excuse me for trying to be worried.”

He continues. “I’d like to think this goes back to our initial conversation over obsession but, sure, ‘concern’ and ‘worry’ are the new synonyms.”

“I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” you pick up the kitchen knife and start prepping. After dicing an assortment of peppers and onions, Veritas still remains seated on the couch, seemingly deep in thought. You frown, lowering the knife onto the cutting board. “What?”

Slowly, he springs up from the seat and inches his way to the kitchen, stopping to grab something behind the small space between the wall and the fridge. In a heartbeat, he pulls out a white apron and waves it in your direction.

“It’s better if you wear this while prepping.”

You inspect the apron, noting the fine fuchsia embroidery and threading. Like everything else in his apartment, it’s probably worth more than what you normally can afford. Despite his claims of cooking every night, the apron is in pristine condition. Could it be a gift from his lavish roommate, or perhaps an heirloom from a long-term relative that he’s never mentioned. Swallowing hard, you shake your head. 

“Thanks but I’m fine with my, uh…” you glance down at your outfit, a black button up and a pair of slacks. Ideally not the best choice of clothes to wear while making a hearty meal, but it’s miles better than tarnishing his exorbitant apron. 

Veritas sighs, waving the piece of (expensive) fabric around some more. “Need me to repeat myself?”

“It’ll get dirty.”

“It’s intended that way.”

“Well, tomorrow is laundry day for me anyways so it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” Veritas gruffs and closes the space between you two. He ignores the startled noise that comes from your throat and circles behind you. The faint scent of sandalwood invades your nose.

“H-Hey! Honestly, it’s fine—”

“I don't want your clothes to get ruined.” Your whole body freezes when he leans closer into your space. Eyebrows raised, Veritas drapes the front of the apron over you, grasping the ends around your waist and tying it. “If it’s preventable then I’d rather you wear this over it while you’re in my kitchen. I believe that’s a fair request, is it not?”

“I…” You cling onto the knife, knuckles tight, as your face burns up. You’re praying that he doesn’t angle himself closer to see the flush making home on your neck and ears. When he finally steps back, probably admiring his finished task at hand, you give yourself room to breathe. “I’m not gonna get any work done if you’re still here.”

He blinks, slowly. The corners of his eyes are worn down. “Hm, is this an indication that you get performance anxiety when we’re together in the lab?”

“It means,” you say, face hot to the touch, “you’re distracting me by dragging your sickness around!”

It’s almost a mystery, or maybe a cause and effect, of how badly he’s plagued your mind this entire day; being comforted by your supervisor was nearly enough to send you down a path of a mental spiral, and having your ex offered you a lift while fighting the urge to plunge a barrage of questions was another hurdle. You thought that your usual people pleasing approach towards life would help you minimize unwarranted tension, but it turns out you’re just as susceptible.

“W-What are you staring at?” It’s a miracle that you’re able to still find strength to speak at all when he’s still fixated on you.

Veritas goes still for a brief moment and then downcasts his gaze. “It’s nothing.” Slowly, he collects his thoughts before backtracking, stepping out of the area. “I’ll be off to my room then.”

You fix your eyes on Veritas for a moment, before averting your gaze, hands finding their purchase on the cutting board and knife again. You feel a flare of guilt, being in his space and now imposing on his belongings, but he’s the one acting strange—is what you tell yourself.

You startle at the faint click of his door shutting, making you snap out of your thoughts. Ignoring the dangerous ache building in your stomach, you release the bone crushing grip on the knife, clattering it against the board, and breathe out.

“Diamond’s really got to start ending these quarterly meetings on time or else I’ll start blowing—woah, hey there,” you jump at the voice from behind. The faint scent of amber cologne fills your nostrils. “The Doc didn’t tell me that we had company visiting. How have you been, Miss Researcher?”

“Aventurine,” you crane your neck from the kitchen, hands now stiff at the stove. “Veritas—he’s, um, he’s currently sick right now so…”

“Ah, yeah, that is he, haha.” Aventurine settles his bag on a barstool by the countertop before waltzing his way into the kitchen. His bright eyes flicker to the apron then to the stove top. If he had a pair of cat ears, you’d imagine them twitching in curiosity right about now. After a brief walk around, a grin erupts on his lips. “Seems like he forgot to tell someone important.”

The pot stirring comes to a stuttering halt and you’re half tempted to deny and keep up with the fake loving act, but you have a feeling that Aventurine knows more than he lets on, so your shoulders slump. Which earns a confirming chortle from the blond.

“He’s stubborn,” you mutter.

“Surely you can’t be realizing that just now.”

“This is a different type of stubborn,” you argue. “He can’t expect to just sleep this off. I mean—has he seen himself today?”

Aventurine snorts in agreement. “You should’ve seen him earlier. If you think he’s snappy at work then he was even more snappier when I left the place this morning. A whole lot of ‘could you fetch this for me’ and ‘no, that’s not how I wanted it’, or ‘you’re being too loud’. Surprised that he’s even okay with you making him soup of all things.”

Your brows furrow. Technically it’s porridge but…

“Is he not a fan?”

Aventurines waves a hand. “Surely it applies differently for you. He complains about it being a hassle to eat and—well, nevermind that. Complaining about his eating habits won’t change anything about the meal you’re currently making.”

“But he’s been fine for the most part, right?”

“A worrywart, aren’t you?” Aventurine slides onto a barstool by the counter top, eyes studying the stovetop. “He’s not exactly the type to be open about a lot of things, I’m sure you know that much by now. Makes me wonder if he’s secretly an android in disguise.” He ponders out loud. “Throw in a random variable and his whole body goes shit out of luck. In this case, I guess he’s been having some pretty rough nights.”

Your jaw unhinges. “Is he stressed?”

“He hasn’t mentioned anything noteworthy to you? Your guess is as good as mine, Miss Researcher.” Aventurine shrugs as he slips out a small takeout container from his bag. As he opens it, you catch a glimpse of perfectly cooked steak and rice. It makes the current pick-me-up meal look like one of those packaged microwavable dinners.

Maybe you should’ve ordered out instead.

Your attention is pulled by the sudden, violent boiling of the broth. You lower the heat before the liquid threatens to spill over, and pour some rice inside, stirring it a few times. “How was work? You were complaining about Diamond earlier.”

“That I was, though it’s anything but important,” he tilts his head, bangs fringing the curious look flickering in his eyes. “Q4 is about to wrap up and revenue hasn’t been increasing compared to the previous years.” 

You hesitate. 

You’ve heard rumors about the company’s poor performance floating around departments earlier in the summer; talks about potential budget cuts and layoffs over the lack of sales were raving all over the place. Right now, it seems like most of the company has either forgotten about it or has simply chosen not to speak a word—fearing that it might manifest into a reality if uttered once more. And even though this is your first job, you know that there’s a high likelihood of something happening once the new year rolls around. The fact that they’re setting aside a small budget for new hires is telling, and there’s no prediction on what's to come after the conference at the end of the year.

Office gossiping, as it turns out, is a lot more fun when your job security isn’t on the line.

“Whoops, did I spook you?” Aventurine blinks, shoving a forkful of steak into his mouth. “Don’t pay too much attention to that. It’s all fear mongering at the end of the day to get others up in arms over nothing.” And then he leans in. “You didn’t hear it from me, but the executives seem to be banking on you and Veritas’ performance on this little project. From the details he’s shared with me so far, it seems promising and might cause some heads to turn.”

He must notice the sudden tension in your frame, because Aventurine then adds, “Where are my manners? I should know better than to bring work topics back home. My apologies.”

“I—No, it’s fine. I was the one who asked.” You stir the pot again, mind scrabbling to put words together that didn’t seem like they’re underlying with frustration. But the more time passes, the more uncertain your script becomes—it’s not something you can begin to put into words. It makes your heart hurt, so you decide to change the subject. “Where did you get dinner from? It looks amazing.”

Whether Aventurine thinks it’s because of the overwhelming pressure of having the weight of the entire company on your back, or the knowing fact that you’ll never have the chance to reach the same level as Veritas is not for you to disclose. You’re just glad he doesn’t question the blatant topic shift.

A playful smile dances on his lips. “There’s a fancy steakhouse just down the block. I’d recommend you check it out sometime whenever he recovers.”

“Yeah,” you say, trying to match his enthusiasm but failing miserably. “Will do.”

“You know,” he begins after a while, and he seems to be reaching for the right words, “Veritas told me that you’ve been seeing each other just a little under a year, yet this is the first time that you’ve showed up to our place.”

“I—oh, sorry,” you blink, suddenly feeling self-conscious standing inside their vast apartment. 

The pot is now simmering at a slow pace, the grains from the rice slowly puffing up and taking shape, soaking in the surrounding broth. The smell ends up coating the whole kitchen, but Aventurine didn’t seem to care—not that it matters to him, since Veritas mentioned he doesn’t cook. You wash up the remaining prep bowls in the sink, shutting the faucet and meticulously placing each item back to their original location.

“No, no—I didn’t mean it as a bad thing—it’s not like that at all,” he reassures. Aventurine wears a sincere smile at that. “When he first told me, I was more shocked than anything, but the more I thought about it… it kinda made some sense, haha. I’m just surprised it took him this long to let someone be by his side considering not many can put up with his temperament.”

“I’m sure he has his reservations about keeping it under wraps,” you answer, feeling a bit relieved that Veritas actually kept his end of the promise. “How do you deal with it?”

“Mhm? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Aventurine laughs. “If you ask me, I’m not exactly sure myself. He has his unique charms, I will say; thinks differently than others, and has an affinity of somehow making every conversation feel hostile. But he’s quick to pick up lies and fluff, so I guess that’s why we get along well.”

Somehow you get the feeling that Veritas started off tolerating Aventurine rather than welcoming him in his space. You let out a weak laugh. “That… sounds contradicting.”

“Does it now? Maybe he secretly likes getting riled up—you should test it out sometime, if you haven’t.” He pauses and squints. “You’re both great performers, by the way.”

Your heart leaps to your throat. “Performers at what?”

“Hating each other, wanting to lunge at each other's throats, that sort of thing,” Aventurine rests his chin against his palm. “C’mon, are you two that in love now that you’re free from your little secret? You practically fooled everyone at the company.”

Oh. 

He meant that.

You scratch your head, feeling droplets of sweat collecting at the back of your neck, unsure if it’s from the stove heat or your rising panic. “What can I say? We were determined.”

It’s getting late, by your standards at least, when dinner is ready. You have the meal prepared on a tray: the chicken porridge sits nicely in a bowl while accompanied by a glass of water and a side of roasted vegetables. Gingerly, you lift it up in your arms and you slowly start making your way towards the direction of Veritas’ room.

Aventurine strolls off to his bedroom on the other side of the flat once he finishes his meal, throwing a coy remark. “Might I also add that you’re welcome to also stay the night. I’m sure Veritas wouldn’t mind it one bit.”

You ignore the rush of heat to your face. “I’m sure he probably would. Plus, I didn’t even bring a change of clothes so—”

Aventurine’s head pokes out of his door, winking. “Wear his, instead. And if things get out of hand, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear a peep.”

Spending the night, tangled in his sheets, inhaling his scent, wearing his oversized t-shirt, and hearing his soft drowsy mumbles throughout the night is a thought in itself—an extremely distracting one. 

You force a smile and sigh through clenched teeth. “Have a good night, Aventurine.”

“Night, Miss Researcher!” He sings and finally shuts the door.

You walk towards Veritas' room, the feeling of anxiety gnawing away at your stomach as you creak the door open with your foot, softly announcing your presence as the steady flood of amber lighting drips into the hallway. 

Veritas doesn’t look up from the book he’s reading in bed, but he does briefly take the time to make space by his nightstand; his free hand shuffling a tower of files off to the side. Without the slight angry flush of red invading his face, this sight might be a regular occurrence. 

“Most people would be doom scrolling on their phones, taking a nap, or just about anything else other than reading…” you squint at the title in his hands and sigh, “The Theories of Slow Productivity—seriously? Doesn’t your body know when to take a break?”

“And most caretakers wouldn’t scrutinize their patients’ methods of relaxing,” he counters back as he flips a page. “Care to be interested in a passage?”

“Popcorn reading while your vocal cords are blocked and fried? No thanks.”

“How discourteous of you to decline,” he says this with an ounce of sarcasm but eyes the platter curiously as you shuffle over.

“You’re fine to eat on your own, right?” You ask, holding out the spoon to him.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to feed me, if that’s the conclusion your mind is jumping towards.” He somehow finds the energy to roll his eyes and takes one whiff of the broth. The initial tightness from his features fades and he brings up a spoonful to his lips. You find yourself bracing as he swallows.

“Well?” You can’t help but to sit beside him. 

Somehow the space feels even smaller compared to when you were helping him in. Of course, this could be the fact that you were both preoccupied on keeping Veritas alive and well. Now that he seems to be resting leisurely and cooped up in his bedroom and not fighting for his life by the foyer, you’re paying way more attention to detail than you would like. You’re sitting so close that you can feel the subtle shift in his breathing when he looks at you.

Veritas then adjusts himself forward from the bedframe, uprighting himself to properly consume the meal. The collar of his shirt falls slightly, exposing parts of his sharp collarbones. You try not to stare too hard as his throat bobs from him tentatively sipping at the broth. 

There’s a rare softness to his eyes as he says, “I must admit that no one’s taken the time to take care of me like this in a while.”

“Or you could just say thank you, you know,” you say, hoping to keep things light.

Veritas stills for a moment, confusion ripples over his face, before his mind catches on. A beat passes and his eyes, glazed and tired as they were before, lock onto yours. There’s a stubborn muscle twitching in his jaw that stretches all the way down to the base of his neck. “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to do this. I appreciate the efforts.”

For a split second, you feel your lips evolve into a broad grin, savoring this small moment of praise after a day of constant dread. “You’re welcome.”

If you were more in a merciless mood, you would’ve passed the remaining time poking fun at the mild power imbalance, but you decide to show some restraint. Veritas sets aside his book on the nightstand and sips at the porridge in silence. You take this opportunity to examine his living space, even though you’re now hyper aware that Veritas is watching you.

It’s, for the most part, what you had imagined—floor to ceiling windows on one side of the wall paired with thick black curtains, a work from home set up right against the corner of the room, there’s another wall dedicated to a built in shelf that’s practically stuffed all the way up to the tallest rack, and it’s strikingly spotless of any trash aside from the plastic trash bin that’s placed right by his bedside. Upon closer inspection, there’s a row of succulents planted right under a warm lamp by his desk. The thought of Veritas neglecting his own health in order to take care of another takes you by surprise, but you keep your lips sealed at that.

By the time Veritas is halfway done with the meal, he speaks up. “I heard Aventurine came back. He didn’t cause a disturbance, did he?”

A half-formed protest rises to your lips, but you end up swallowing it back down, unsure how to phrase it without inviting suspicion. You debate about asking him if there’s anything stressful going on—if he’s been getting enough sleep or had some personal troubles, but more than likely he wouldn’t be inclined to divulge in that. Aventurine isn’t wrong about his tendencies to lock up. Deep down, you just wish that it didn’t also have to apply to you, too.

“We just talked about work,” you shrug, trying to keep your voice casual. “He also said that you weren’t a huge fan of anything soupy, by the way.”

“And you believed him?”

You swing your legs back and forth. “Well, he also mentioned that you were acting a bit bratty this morning when he was leaving for work. If we also add in the fact that you wanted me gone simply for checking in on you, I guess his opinion checks out. Are you this imprudent when you’re down with a cold?”

“Imprudent? Maybe. Though I’d appreciate it if my roommate and partner didn’t talk behind my back.”

Your mind sputters over itself at his word choice but you quickly recover. “I-I’ll keep that in mind.”

He sips. “Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

You watch him swallow, his fingers flexing over the blankets, and you wonder if the expression you’re currently wearing isn’t enough to mask your true composure. You decide to carry on before he gets the chance to see you fall apart, “Why didn’t you tell me that you weren’t coming in today?”

A flicker of emotion passes through… could it be guilt?

“It’s unlike me, I know.” He sighs. “I also wasn’t avoiding your messages on purpose. Nor did I mean to put you on the spot with Ruan Mei. There’s been—” Veritas stops himself, tenses his jaw, and squeezes his eyes shut. He brings a hand up to his temple, pressing his fingers tight against it. “My judgement hasn’t been the clearest. Did something occur at work today?”

A dark curled strand of hair hangs over his forehead, tempting you to twine a finger around it. Veritas stares at you expectantly, unaware of the warm pulse of heat that he brings to you. Averting your eyes, you focus on the miniature succulents on his desk. 

“I… I got stuck in an elevator ride with Sampo.”

“Hm, a shame that I wasn’t there.”

“I handled him just fine without you.”

“And what was the outcome of that?”

“Found out that my ex really hates you, but he wishes you well.”

“He certainly has duality.”

“He…” you wince, eyes darting around the room as you force yourself to finish the sentence. “He also dropped me off.”

This time, Veritas makes a questionable noise, like he’s surprised. The spoon clunks loudly against the bowl, several times, in fact, before he finds his words. “So your former partner, who supposedly hates my guts, now has my address?” It’s more hidden amusement fringed under annoyance, you catch on.

Still, it causes you to feel a tinge of remorse, even if you do know that Sampo wouldn’t be the type to go out of his way to cause any harm. “Well, I didn’t give him the exact address—I made him drop me off a block away and—”

“He vaguely knows where I reside. Might I add that you have quite the talent of stringing along others into this so-called ‘hidden’ arrangement.”

“I kinda missed it when you weren’t talking as much,” you grumble.

“You can thank yourself for that service,” Veritas says breezily, finishing the last of his meal and setting the tray on the side.

“Aeons help me,” you sigh, rubbing your own temples to ward off a growing migraine. 

Hell, maybe whatever he’s having is contagious. Though, because he’s so tenacious in engaging in the conversation all of the sudden, you do a quick look over at his form. Veritas certainly looks less beaten up compared to earlier, but just to make sure—

As you lean closer, he shoots you a skeptical brow, jaw pulled back.. “What are you doing?”

“Checking your temperature,” you say in a quiet, controlled voice.

You quickly realize that he’s purposely avoiding your eyes, and that he seems distracted by something. There’s a rare weariness to his usually perspective eyes. He sucks his teeth in when your hand makes contact with his forehead. It’s still unusually warm, but not as hot as before.

You make a small, pleasant noise when you pull back. “Take tomorrow off.”

Veritas finally forces himself to meet your gaze. A tiny scowl appears. “I didn’t take you to be my personal physician.”

“Well, guess you have to return the favor one way or another. Plus, you did call me your caretaker just a moment ago.”

Naturally, he refuses to let that comment derail his side of the conversation. “How charitable of you to offer. However, I'll have to respectfully decline.”

“I’m serious, Veritas.” You cross your arms. “Tomorrow’s Friday and then it’ll be the weekend. We’re ahead of schedule and I’m sure your interns will survive another day without their precious teacher. With the help from your email, it seems like Ruan Mei has no objections to anything so far. Plus, I can swing by again, grab you some takeout if tonight’s meal wasn’t… up to standards.”

“I’m not worried about that. Dinner was palatable, there’s no reason to fret over it.” Veritas quickly affirms and swallows slowly. “There just so happens to be…” He adjusts his position in bed, sitting up straighter against the headboard. “There’s going to be company over tomorrow.”

“Tell them to reschedule,” you throw back, feeling mildly irritated that he would say such a thing. “You could barely walk yourself earlier.”

He makes a small frustrated noise, unsure if he’s annoyed at your stubbornness or himself. After a fruitless attempt to stare you down, Veritas eventually loosens his shoulders. “You… you’re not letting this go, are you?”

“Nope,” you emphasize the word with a loud pop. “You should know better than anyone else how to move around, let alone host an event, before your body fully recovers. I don’t want to wake up the next day to find out my chaperone passed away.”

“Since you’re so troubled over my health, I’ll give in just this once; clearly you’ve already made up your mind on this matter.” He blows out a breath and reaches over to the nightstand, pulling out what appears to be a small leather bound planner. He flips to a page and squints. Of course he has all his plans written down. “Their flight lands around early evening. It’ll be difficult for them to reschedule since they’ve planned this trip far in advance the prior year.” Veritas carefully gauges your reaction.

When you elect to stay silent, he continues, “This is merely a suggestion, though I’d also strongly advise you to stop assuming that you can solve every problem or that every situation has to involve you.”

He adds the last part quietly.

Blood rushes to your cheeks and your heart stutters. “I—Okay.” Slowly, you swallow down your objections.

Then it’s eerily mute enough in the room that you can hear the small creaks and groans from the floorboards as you anxiously shuffle around your weight. Suddenly, everything seems to be shifting. Tilting, even. Darting off the tracks and script, and you’re unsure how to slow down, if you can even make it stop—uncertain if you want it to even stop.

“On one condition,” you hesitantly say.

“And that would be?” Veritas says warily as he considers the idea.

As you study him, still raw and vulnerable in his obvious exhaustion, an odd feeling starts blooming in your chest—a kind of feeling that twists and tugs at your muscles, tender like flesh but sharp like a bed of needles. It’s then that you understand how hard it was for Veritas to let you do all those things in the first place, even if it wasn’t his first choice. Hard for him to decide to let you in and allow you to witness his current weakened state, interacting with parts of his inner social circle, and getting a small glimpse of his lifestyle.

Strangely enough, it makes you want to be braver, too. Another offer in return, but this time it’s not based on personal gains.

You take a deep breath. “If you’re ever feeling sick, tired, stressed, or need help with something—let me know. I promise I won’t intervene, because you clearly have your own life and I have mine. But you don’t have to push everyone who’s concerned about you away just because of pride.”

Veritas opens his mouth, starts to protest, but you continue over him, knowing that you’re probably crossing an invisible line—and a multitude of other unspoken boundaries—but you don’t care. 

“We’re both in this together, as project partners and as… friends,” The word clamps down in your mouth strangely, as if it tastes unfamiliar. Clearing your throat, you regain your composure and carry on, ignoring the warmth in your ears. “I want to be a person that you can turn to and be honest with. I don’t always want to see the best version of yourself, Veritas.”

There it is again—that look of deep contemplation. Veritas sees something in your face—impenitency, maybe, or all the worry that you’ve been trying to desperately conceal—and he ends up nodding. There’s a cough, one that’s more of clearing his throat out of awkwardness rather than phlegm, and he burrows a bit deeper underneath the blankets just until his legs are fully extended. You’re positive that it might be the lighting’s fault, but from your view it looks like his cheeks had gone just a bit pink. 

“I suppose that’s fair.” He sucks in a breath in return, his lips curve in a tiny smile. "I wouldn't go through all this trouble for just anyone else."

“Okay,” you say, closing your eyes against his words.

Friday afternoon comes all too quickly.

You spend the rest of the day labouring over your usual tasks at work, which normally would take nothing more than a few hours before heading home early for the day, but your mind was preoccupied by something else. Somebody else. Specifically, somebody’s friends. You’re never the one to really put much thought or care into your appearance, nor do you care about making good impressions when it comes to Veritas, but suddenly it’s all you can think about.

This morning, before you left the house, you dressed yourself in a breathable light sweater paired with a pair of flowy crepe trousers. You didn’t want to look too stuffy as the night before, but didn’t want to show up to his apartment as a slob either. Though, if Veritas’ mind is in the right place today and gets the impression that you dressed up for him and his friends… you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.

So when you arrive in front of his flat that evening, dusting yourself free of any lint on the way up, you nearly stop dead in your tracks when you hop off and are immediately greeted to the backs of two men and their bickering.

“—are you sure this is the place?” The taller male asks.

“I’ve already confirmed it three times,” says the ashen haired male next to him, voice tight and tired. “There’s no need to ask if you’re not going to take my answer for it.”

The blond squints at him. “Confirmation isn’t the worst thing in the world!” He motions his arms, wide and pointing at the door and everything within its pristine and vast parameters. “Veritas never mentioned anything about staying in a penthouse! I would’ve thought he’d be a little more of a simpler man!”

“Considering it’s been nearly half a decade since our last visit, I’m inclined to say that people change, Kaveh.”

“Ugh! Now you’re making it sound like that I think he’s gotten prideful,” the man named Kaveh mutters. 

“Let’s not waste all of our efforts to come here,” a strained yawn comes from the other man’s throat. “We’re lucky enough that the hotel isn’t that far from here but the night is still…” A sudden pause and Kaveh blinks, tilting his head. 

“Still what?”

As if on cue, your phone chimes with an incoming call from none other than Veritas. You haven’t realized that you’ve been so engrossed in the conversation and had missed a few texts from your fake boyfriend. The men turn around at the sound, body language turning tense as the blond gives you a weak smile while the ashen haired male blankly stares, as if assessing you.

You can only emit a quiet ‘hi’ before picking up the call. The men stare at you quizzically as you croak out, “I’m outside of your place right now. Also with, uh, company.”

a/n: im teasing alhaitham and kaveh appearance at the end omg i know what a cliffhanger alksfhadfhsk i had the scenes written out before hand but realized that it would've been too long of a read i think ,,, but thankfully that means that next chapter is about 7 pages in already and certainly has a lot juicer scenes as romcom MC and Veritas start to break down their walls in front of each other ❤️

also this might be an unpopular opinion but i headcanon kaveh to be slightly taller than haitham LOL but this is coming from a person who sees kaveh as the dom one in their relationship /shot

taglist (just ask or write in the comments below hehe): @pookiebearcave @sstarstrucc @sunnymain @popponn @astolary @callilysto @greenfurret @judasgot-it