✰ pearl!

“This is the Steel Team” the section chief says, walking ahead of you. “As of today, she’ll be joining us as an intern.”

Heads look up almost in unison... some curious, others clearly sizing you up. You give a slight, polite nod. You don’t overdo the smile, but you don’t look down, either.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you” you say. “I hope to get up to speed quickly and contribute however I can.”

A few people nod back. Someone murmurs a “welcome.” Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, you see him.

He’s sitting at the back, facing two monitors, his back rod-straight and his shoulders tense. He hasn’t moved an inch since you walked in. He didn't raise a hand, greet you, or smile. He barely glances up—just enough to register you like a new variable in a system that’s already running perfectly.

There’s something about the way he sits there, impeccable and distant, that sets him apart from the rest. It’s as if he doesn't quite belong to the team, yet is somehow the very thing holding it together.

“Baek-gi,” the boss says, turning toward him. “This is Y/N. She’ll be supporting market analysis and reports. I want you to bring her up to speed.”

He blinks exactly once.

“Understood” he replies.

His voice is low but steady. There’s no emotion in it, but no rejection either. It’s simply… functional. Neutral.

The boss keeps talking, rehashing things you’ve already heard from HR. You nod and take mental notes, but your attention inevitably drifts back to Baek-gi. He isn't looking at you. He’s already back to the screen, as if your presence were a minor footnote.

When the impromptu meeting breaks, the team returns to their routine. The clatter of keyboards fills the space. No one gets up to greet you again, but that doesn't bother you. You’re used to earning your place.

“Y/N, over here” Baek-gi says without looking up.

From his tone, you realize it’s not an invitation. It’s an instruction.

You walk over to his desk. Up close, you notice details you missed before: the surgical precision of his paperwork, the total lack of personal items, the simple watch on his left wrist. Everything about him feels calculated to avoid distraction.

“Sit” he indicates, pointing to an empty chair at the desk next to him.

You do so without hesitation.

He slides a folder toward you containing a list of requested reports and specific instructions for each.

“These are the formats we use. Do not improvise, and do not change a thing without clearing it with me first,” he begins, his eyes already drifting back to the computer. “If you have any questions, dont hesitate to ask. If possible, bring the reports to me first... that way, if you make a mistake, you can fix it before it reaches the manager.”

You look up.

“Is there a specific deadline?” you ask.

Baek-gi pauses for a fraction of a second and turns to look at you for the first time. His eyes aren't hard, but they are incredibly attentive. It’s as if he didn't expect you to speak up so soon.

“Today” he says. “By six. You can use this desk for now.”

“Got it” you nod.

There is no “thank you”, no “welcome.” Baek-gi is already back to his screen before you can even set the folder down on your new workspace.

He put me right next to him, you think. He is really going to keep me on a short leash.

“In that case, if I see anything that could optimize the format, I will run it by you first” you add calmly.

There’s another tiny beat in the conversation. You see him swallow.

“Go ahead” he responds. “But don’t waste time trying to stand out.”

And even though his words are blunt, they don't sound like a warning. They sound more like a foregone conclusion.

You stand up, take off your blazer, and hang it on the rack behind you. You see his own grey coat there, clean and pristine just like him. You turn back and settle into your spot to his right.

“That’s not my intention” you say, turning back to your desk. “I just want to do the job right.”

For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't much, just a slight tightening of his jaw. He doesn't answer, but he doesn't go back to the screen immediately, either.

You face forward, pull out your planner, turn on the computer, and open the folder. The documents are dense, technical, and full of figures and charts. Exactly what you expected.

You work in silence for hours, completely focused. You take notes, double-check calculations. You don’t ask unnecessary questions. When in doubt, you check twice before deciding to consult him.

Midway through the afternoon, you get up to get some water. Glancing at Baek-gi’s desk out of the corner of your eye, you notice him frowning at his screen. Something isn't adding up. You say nothing and keep walking.

When you return, you realize one of the data points you’re using matches the problem he was having. You correct your table and add a clear, concise explanatory note. No fluff.

At five fifty-five, you turn your chair and stand up beside him.

“Baek-gi” you say.

He looks up, clearly annoyed by the interruption… until he sees the folder in your hands.

“Here it is” you continue. “I reviewed the reports from the previous quarter. There was a slight discrepancy in the second chart. I’ve flagged it for you.”

You hand it over.

He takes it without touching your hand and opens it. He scans the pages quickly, far too quickly for someone who isn't paying attention.

The silence stretches out.

“It’s good” he says finally.

Nothing more, but you nod, satisfied enough with the evaluation. You turn to go back to your seat, but his voice stops you.

“Where did you come from?” he asks. You sit back down, looking at him over your shoulder.

“I did the first part of my internship with the Sales team.”

He nods slowly, as if that explained something he hadn’t said out loud.

“I can tell” he responds.

You’re not sure if it’s a compliment or a neutral observation. You don’t ask. You turn back to your screen.

“You know, Y/N… that quarterly shift you marked? It actually makes this entire report I’m reading make sense,” he adds, breaking the thin silence between you. “Thank you.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. He really was praising you.

“Oh, it’s just part of the job,” you slip out, trying to sound modest but unable to hide the glow of being recognized.

From that moment on, though you don’t know it yet, Jang Baek-gi no longer sees you as just “the new intern.”

And in his world, that is the first crack in the armor.

(...)

Over the following weeks, time begins to organize itself around a precise routine.

You arrive early, and Baek-gi is already there. You greet each other with a nod, you sit beside him, you turn on your computer, and you get to work.

The conversations are functional, but they exist.

“Y/N, get last month’s report.”

“I think the copier is jammed.”

“Baek-gi, do you have the stapler?”

“Double-check this figure.”

No personal questions, no awkward silences. Just shared efficiency.

And yet, things change.

You start to notice the way he sighs just before a meeting. You realize he hates Excel sheets with bright colors and that he knows exactly what time you get up for coffee.

You no longer jump when he speaks to you without looking; you don't mind when he leaves the trash can on his side of the cubicle. You even start mimicking his neatness at your own desk.

It’s just more comfortable this way, you tell yourself.

You are close all the time... too close, perhaps, for two people who barely know each other outside of work.

But then, during a weekly meeting, you make a mistake. It isn't a huge one, just a prep session for the board meeting, but it’s visible.

A misplaced figure in a presentation that the manager is reviewing in front of the whole team. The projector illuminates the room, and the atmosphere turns heavy.

“Who put this together?” the manager asks, his voice dry.

A sudden silence falls.

You recognize the error instantly, and your stomach drops. You open your mouth, ready to own it, because you know you should.

“I did” Baek-gi says before you can.

You whip your head around to look at him, your throat tight. The manager turns to him, clearly annoyed.

“You?” he asks incredulously. “I thought you were the golden boy of presentations. The last thing this team needs is for you to start messing up simple slides.”

Baek-gi doesnt respond. He bows his head slightly and clenches his jaw. He doesn't justify himself, nor does he explain. He doesn't mention your name. He simply takes the hit.

“This cannot happen again” the manager continues. “Be more careful.”

“Understood” Baek-gi replies.

That’s it.

When the meeting ends, everyone drifts back to their desks as if nothing happened. The murmur of the office returns, and the sound of typing fills the air.

But you can’t focus. The knot in your chest feels like a physical weight. Guilt floods through you.

It shouldn't have gone down like that. It was your mistake, and you should have been the one taking the heat. And why was the manager so hard on him? You didn't have to be a genius to know he was the most efficient employee in the Steel department.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him sitting in his cubicle, body rigid, staring at his screen without moving. His shoulders are tense… far too tense.

You stand up without thinking.

In the breakroom, you fix two coffees. The aroma calms you slightly, but the feeling in your chest remains. You take both mugs and head back.

You approach slowly and set one down in front of him.

“Why did you do that?” you ask quietly.

Baek-gi looks up, startled. He looks at the mug, then at you.

“Your training period isn't over yet” he responds. “Until it is, I am responsible for your performance.”

It’s the correct answer, professional and cold. You sit down beside him and take a sip of your coffee. He does the same, closing his eyes as if the drink were an oasis in the desert.

You drink in silence.

“Thanks for the coffee. It’s exactly how I like it” he says after a few seconds, as if trying to close the subject.

Of course, you cant tell him you already know exactly how he likes his coffee. So instead, you don't let him deflect.

“I still think the way he treats you is unfair” you whisper, leaning slightly toward him.

Baek-gi goes still. He takes another sip.

“Dont worry about it,” he replies, also in a whisper. “The manager is always like that.”

His words don't convince you, but something else distracts you.

You are closer than ever. Close enough to notice things you hadn’t registered before: the sharp line of his profile, his long fingers wrapped around the mug, the way his eyes seem larger behind his glasses.

He is undeniably handsome.

You look at the mug in his hands. Making him a drink was a small, simple gesture. But the ache in your chest settles as you see him accept something from you without pushing it away.

It’s the first time you’ve done something like this for Baek-gi.

And, without knowing it yet, you decide it won’t be the last.

(...)

A month has passed, and your training period is over. There are no formal announcements or rounds of applause, just a brief email and an update in the internal system. From that moment on, you are no longer “the new intern who needs watching,” but a real cog in the team’s machine.

Baek-gi notices immediately.

You still sit beside him, but something changes in the way he speaks to you. His instructions become more precise, and his corrections more stringent. He no longer softens anything out of consideration. He expects the same level from you as he does from the most senior interns on the team.

And you deliver.

You show up with complete reports, you anticipate errors, you visualize long-term problems, and you don’t flinch when he points something out. You just fix it.

This reassures him and, at the same time, unsettles him.

Mornings start to repeat in an almost ritualistic way. You arrive with a coffee in hand, and so does he. Sometimes you say nothing... other times, you exchange brief comments while booting up.

“My mother called yesterday” you tell him one morning. “She doesn't really get what an internship is, so she thinks Im still just studying, not working.”

He raises an eyebrow slightly.

“Mine still thinks I sleep more than five hours a night” he lets out, and you laugh.

It’s a tiny confession. But it’s a confession nonetheless.

You talk about small things: siblings, long commutes on public transport, where to find decent food near the office.

If Baek-gi goes to the shop, he always asks if you need anything. Usually, you say no. Sometimes, you accept.

One day, you leave a small package on his desk.

“So you don’t lose track of important pages” you say.

They are pastel-colored Post-its. He doesn't love them for his perfectly ordered space, but at least they aren't neon. Baek-gi stares at them for a few seconds as if he doesn't know what to do with them.

He doesn't put them away, and he doesn't throw them out. He just leaves them there and starts using them.

That, too, is a choice.

However, as your role becomes more official, he grows more demanding. He asks more of you and expects more. He corrects you with less leeway, and while it isn't unfair, it is severe.

You don’t complain. You know his words are advice meant to sharpen your skills. No one else can teach you what you need to know better than him.

It’s during a group lunch that everything becomes clear to him. Not because of anything you do, but because of the others. He begins to notice the glances, the low comments, and the smiles that light up when you speak.

Baek-gi watches, in spite of himself. He sees how some of the male coworkers look at you a little too long. How they try to sit near you. How they find any excuse to talk to you.

He tries to ignore it.

It’s none of his business, and he shouldn't care. Besides, he has no right to feel anything about it.

Or does he?

Without realizing it, he starts looking for you the moment he walks into a room. It bothers him not knowing what you’re thinking when you smile at someone else. He notices immediately if you aren't at your desk, and he gets irritated when he sees you leaning in too close to someone else to check a screen.

He says nothing. He never says anything. It’s not his style; he prefers to bottle things up and repress them. He just clenches his jaw, works harder, and focuses on what’s in front of him.

Company policy forbids relationships between employees, much less between employees and interns. That rule had always seemed logical, orderly, and necessary to him. It had never been an issue.

Until now.

Because what he’s feeling isnt something he can easily label. It’s not overt desire, nor is it a clear intention. It’s a constant discomfort, a level of attention he can’t switch off, a presence that imposes itself on him even when he isn't looking.

He starts pushing you harder, more than any intern with more experience than you and he realizes it too late. He corrects you with unnecessary harshness. You look at him a second longer than usual, but you say nothing. You just nod and get back to work.

That disarms him more than any argument would.

Baek-gi knows something is spiraling out of control inside him, and what bothers him most isn't that he cares about you.

It’s that he no longer knows when it started, or how much longer he can hold it back.

(...)

The news arrived on a random Tuesday, in the least dramatic way possible. A brief email in your inbox, a ten-minute meeting in the manager’s office, and a “we’ll be waiting for your response” from a head of another department.

When you returned to your desk, the air in the Steel cubicle seemed to have grown thicker. You sat down with an unusual slowness. Baek-gi, whose ears were tuned to every single one of your movements, noticed the shift immediately. It wasnt nervousness... it was a kind of contained tension, as if you were carrying a physical decision on your shoulders.

He didnt ask what was wrong. He never asked questions he wasn't sure he wanted the answers to. His fingers kept moving across the keyboard in perfect rhythm, but his eyes flickered a millimeter toward the reflection on your monitor, searching for a clue.

It was you who broke the silence.

“I was offered a spot on another project” you said, without looking at him. “It’s with another team… within the company.”

Baek-gi’s rhythmic typing stopped dead. The silence that followed was deafening. He looked up slowly, adjusting his glasses with a gesture that betrayed his rigidity.

“Temporary?” he asked. His voice was functional, almost clinical, but you saw his knuckles whiten against the desk.

“Not necessarily” you replied. “There is a better chance of being hired as a permanent employee with that team.”

Permanent. Another team. The words hung between you like a heavy, immovable object. Baek-gi nodded once. His expression didn't change, he didn't frown... he did nothing to betray the dull blow he felt in his chest.

“That makes sense” he said. “Its a good opportunity.”

He said it as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times in the mirror. Like he’d spent years preparing to be the perfect professional who accepts defeat with grace. But you knew that tone. It was the same one he used when Manager Kang pushed him to the limit.

For the rest of the morning, he worked with a fierce intensity. He corrected reports, answered emails, and gave instructions with a cutting clarity. No one in the office would have noticed anything strange, except you. Because every time you stood up, he looked up. Every time you spoke to someone else, his jaw tightened. He was recording every minute of your presence as if trying to memorize the sound of your chair as it turned.

At lunchtime, when the office murmur died down, he stood up and adjusted his grey blazer.

“Lunch?” he asked. He wasn't looking at you, but there was a note of urgency in his voice you hadn’t heard before.

(...)

The restaurant was quiet, a refuge of dark wood and dim light away from the clatter of keyboards. You sat across from each other. For the first time, there were no screens or reports between you, just the steam from the food and a space that felt far too small.

Baek-gi was slow to speak. His long fingers circled his water glass with nervous precision.

“I want you to stay with the team” he said finally. It was direct and professional, exactly what you expected. “I’ve reviewed your learning curve. You are indispensable for the upcoming quarterly reports.”

You took a deep breath. You knew this was his way of saying he needed you, but it wasn't enough.

“I know, Baek-gi, and I really thought about it” you answered softly. “But with the other team, I have a real shot at career growth. To stay with the company on a proper contract. I don’t want to be a permanent intern.”

He tightened his grip on his chopsticks. The logic of your argument was irrefutable, and that was what hurt him most: the fact that your decision was the right one.

“I understand” he whispered, and for a second, he looked down, defeated. “Thank you for telling me.”

Lunch continued in a dense silence. But when you finished and made a move to get up, he reached his hand out across the table. He didn't quite touch you, but the gesture stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait” he said. “Stay a moment longer.”

He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it wasn't the voice of the Steel Team’s model employee. It was the voice of the man who watched you out of the corner of his eye every morning.

“I didnt ask you to stay just for the team” he confessed, and this time he held your gaze, letting you see all his vulnerability. “I did it because… because I’ve gotten used to you. More than I should have. I’ve gotten used to your coffee, to your notes in the margins of my pages… to knowing you are there to my right.”

He paused, swallowing hard.

“I’m not good at these things. I don't know when it happened, but the idea of walking into that office and your desk being empty… I can't process it. I dont want you to disappear from my life just because you’re changing floors.”

He leaned toward you slightly, completely forgetting protocol and his surroundings.

“I’m not asking you to give up your career. I know that permanent position is what you deserve,” he said sincerely. “I’m just asking that this... whatever this is between us, doesn't end with your transfer. Stay with me. Outside the office.”

The silence that followed wasn't tense anymore; it was warm. You looked into his eyes and saw the fear of rejection hidden behind his lenses. Then, you reached out and, for the first time, covered his hand with yours. His skin was cool, but under your touch, you felt him relax instantly.

“Baek-gi” you said with a smile you didn't try to hide. “I’ve gotten used to you, too. To your sighs before meetings and the way you organize your Post-its.”

You squeezed his hand firmly, confirming you weren't going to let go.

“Yes, I want to” you continued, and his eyes lit up with almost childlike surprise. “I want to try this with you. I don't care if it’s complicated or if we have to hide from HR for a while. I’m not going to disappear from your life, Baek-gi.”

He exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for months. He didn't give a huge grin, because that wasn't him, but his eyes softened and his jaw finally relaxed. He turned his hand over to interlace his fingers with yours, with a grip that said more than any words could.

“Then” he said, regaining a bit of his serious tone but with a new spark in his eyes, “I suppose I will have to start finding excuses to head up to your new floor every day.”

You laughed, and for the first time in a long while, the future didn't feel like an uncertain market report. It felt like something that was, finally, under control.

(...)

Six months later, the routine at One International remained the same: the roar of printers, the scent of burnt coffee, and the constant chime of the elevators.

However, for you, the map of the office had changed. Now, the 15th floor, your new professional home as a permanent employee, and the Steel Team were connected by an invisible thread that only two people knew about.

It was ten past six in the evening. You approached the elevator bank with a briefcase under your arm, trying to maintain that expression of “professional exhaustion” that everyone wore at the end of the day.

The elevator stopped with the same metallic chime as always. When the doors opened, you saw him.

Baek-gi was there, standing in the right corner, in his impeccable grey coat, eyes fixed on his phone. He didn't look up when you entered, but you noticed his thumbs freeze over the screen.

“Good afternoon” you said with formal courtesy, stepping in beside him.

“Good afternoon” he replied, his voice low and functional.

A group from Logistics piled in behind you, filling the space and forcing you back until you were shoulder-to-shoulder with him. To any observer, you were just two colleagues sharing a boring ride down. But in the dim light of the elevator, taking advantage of the group in front loudly discussing traffic, Baek-gi’s hand slowly descended.

His fingers found yours with blind precision. When your hands interlaced, you felt the heat of his palm against yours. He didn't look at you... he kept watching the floor numbers descend on the light panel, but he squeezed your hand with a grip that was both possessive and sweet. It was his private language. I missed you today, that squeeze said.

The elevator stopped at the 7th floor. The Logistics group got off amidst laughter and goodbyes. For a brief second, the doors closed, and you were completely alone.

The dense silence that once made you uncomfortable was now your ally.

Without letting go of your hand, Baek-gi moved with a speed that always surprised you. He gently pinned you against the metallic wall of the elevator, shattering the professional distance he worked so hard to maintain outside those four walls.

“You’re late” he whispered near your ear. His voice was no longer functional... it was warm and playful.

“I had to close the sales report” you replied with a smile, looking up at him.

Baek-gi didn't wait for the rest of your explanation. He leaned in and stole a kiss, one that tasted of coffee and the pent-up urgency of someone who has spent ten hours pretending not to love you in front of a hundred people. It was a firm, steady kiss, marked by the graze of his glasses against your cheek and the scent of his citrus cologne.

He pulled back just a few millimeters, his nose brushing yours, right as the chime announced you were reaching the ground floor.

In the blink of an eye, he regained his upright posture. He adjusted his blazer and let go of your hand, giving you back your personal space just before the doors slid wide open to the main lobby.

“See you tomorrow, Y/N” he said aloud, shifting back into his respectable colleague persona as he stepped out.

“See you tomorrow, Baek-gi” you replied, walking a pace behind him.

You watched him walk toward the exit with his determined, elegant stride. No one in the lobby would ever suspect that this serious, structured man had just broken every company rule in a thirty-second elevator ride.

This time you half expect it, which sounds weirder than it is. 

But as you wake up and smell that telltale aroma of grapefruit and Mint, you know exactly where you are.

You turn slowly to check the time. It’s around midnight.

You went to bed fully clothed, phone in your back pocket. The stranger seems to have had the same idea, the fabric of his shirt soft against your fingertips

He wakes up as you slip out of bed, waving your phone to start the flashlight app. So much for snooping around to get intel on him.

“Who are you?” He asks, which is totally the wrong question if you’re a creep who kidnaps people.

“I should ask you the same thing. And you should answer first since this is your place.”

“My name’s Iida. Iida Tensei, to be exact.” He rubs his face. “And I didn’t take you here. I went to bed like normal and woke up with you beside me.”

“Oh. Well, I mean. It hasn’t happened in a while, but it could-”

“Your Quirk?” He asks, making sense of your stuttering before you can. “It’s teleporting, right? Does it malfunction sometimes?”

“Well, it used to, as a kid.” You explain, shame flooding you, “I can only teleport to places I know because I have to see them in my mind. But I don’t know you, right?”

“Maybe I saved you?” He offers. You scrunch up your nose.

“I am- I was a hero. Ingenium? Maybe you heard of him?”

“Oh,” you nod slowly before shaking your head, “well, I’ve heard of heroes, because who hasn’t, but not of Ingenium, sorry. Never had to be saved either.”

“Sorry.”

You laugh, short and abrupt, but in all honesty. “Why? I don’t think getting saved is such a nice thing, right? It means you were in danger before.”

“Oh, but it’s an experience for sure. I mean… When I was a kid, I was-” He stops and you’re not sure why you do it, maybe it’s the softness of his features or the sound of his voice, but you urge him to speak.

“I got lost, once, as a kid. I still remember how helpless I felt and how a hero saved me, and took me back to my parents. I haven’t seen him around since, but I still remember his name. Gran Torino. I knew before… that I was going to be a hero, but that cemented it as something I really wanted to be.”

“Wow,” you breathe, a little awkward in the face of something like that. “I just became a mechanic because my Dad’s one too.”

He laughs, but he doesn’t invite you to speak and you realize that you’ve overstayed your welcome anyway. Not that there was ever any welcome to begin with. You stumbled in here on your own, bothering this nice, attractive man.

“I’m… I’m going to get going now,” you stutter, “and I promise it won’t happen again.”

He doesn’t move to get up. Maybe he only put on a shirt but not shorts?

You try not to think about it when you teleport away.

Nothing happens for over a week, long enough that you begin to think of it as an outlier, brought upon you by the return of your period.

Now that that’s over you only have to get checked out for future disasters.

But then you open your eyes to darkness and the smell of Grapefruit and Mint and you know, without a doubt, that you’re back.

“Iida-kun?” You ask, voice soft with shame.

You reach out your hand and touch his face, surprised to find a slight stubble. But it gets his attention and only a second later you blink against the light. 

It’s gone just a second later and as a blanket is thrown over your head you remember that you went to sleep wearing nothing tonight. In your defense, the AC was broken.

“I’m so so sorry,” you point out, voice shaking, “I don’t know… I thought it was my period.”

“It’s okay,” he huffs. You wonder if he’s blushing. 

“I’m leaving, okay,” you tell him, embarrassment flooding you. “Sorry.”

Half an hour later you find yourself pressed into his side once again, though this time better dressed. He’s not, however. 

You teleport away once again, this time without waking him.

But as you open your eyes to the morning sun filtering in through the half-open blinds, there’s an arm slung over your shoulders and a warm, naked chest pressed to your back.

You’re back. Again.

It’s Sunday and you don’t have to be gone right away, so that’s your excuse for letting your eyes wander through the room. 

His bedroom is clean and organized, with books and sports equipment in every corner.

And there are pictures, tons of them.

Right next to the alarm clock is a picture of a little boy. He looks just like Iida-kun and with a pang, you realize it must be his son. What lies on the other side of his bedroom door? How many children does he have?

This bed is barely wide enough to house two people, so you don’t think he’s married, but-

A pained groan interrupts your thoughts. 

Before you can react, though, Iida pulls you closer, his arms now crossed over your stomach.

He’s mumbling something, his voice laced with pain.

“No, don’t, please-” he begs, “help, someone- Help!”

That’s when you feel it, the telltale signs of your Quirk activating. But you’re not teleporting anywhere, not that you could after doing it so much this night already. And you’re not the one who activated it.

For a second you’re floating, disappearing slowly into thin air. That’s not unusual, it happens mostly when the space you want to go is already occupied or too far away.

But when you materialize again, you’re back where you started, right in Iida’s arms.

That’s when it hits you.

You didn’t teleport to him. He teleported you.

But how? And how are you going to explain that to him?

If Iida is weirded out by the fact that you’re a) back in his arms again and b) not making any move to get away from him, he’s not showing it.

Instead he wipes a hand over his face and plants himself back into the pillows.

“I think I need a coffee,” he tells you after a minute.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t say no to that either.”

“Would it be terribly rude to ask you to make it?” He lifts his head again to squint at you. “Or help me out of bed?”

“Help you out of bed? What are you, eighty?”

He smiles shyly. “No, I’m paraplegic.”

Blood rushes to your face as you realize what that means.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t know.” A hand rests warmly on your forearm. “But the choice is yours.”

You huff for a second, trying to reel in the shame before getting out of bed and walking around it. There’s the wheelchair you should have noticed earlier. 

“What do you do if you need to pee?” You ask as he leans heavily onto you before swinging himself into the chair.

“Hold it in,” he tells you with an embarrassed smile. “But I’m working on getting into it myself.”

Your nerves bubble in your throat as you approach the door only to release in a soft sigh when no little kid is waiting on the other side.

“Your… uh… son doesn’t live here?” You ask as you follow him into the kitchen, too aware of your messy bedhead and your sleepwear-clad form.

“My son?” Iida turns to squint at you. “I don’t have a son.”

“The picture on your nightstand. I noticed it.”

“Oh,” he laughs softly, “that’s my little brother. We’re fifteen years apart, but I should really get a new picture in there. But he looked so cute back then. Not that he’s not looking cute now, I-”

“I get it,” you nod, “I still have a picture of my cousin in my wallet from when she lost half of her teeth.”

“Quirk coming in?” He asks and you snort. “Yes, actually.”

“How am I calling you here?” Tensei asks. He offered you his first name over that first cup of coffee, called his mother to let her know he wouldn’t need help this morning while you fried eggs for breakfast.

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly, “that never happened to me before.”

“But you knew it was possible?”

“Actually,” you breathe loudly through your nose, “I only realized that it had to be that because I was in the middle of teleporting this morning when I was already here only to land back where I was. It’s like reloading a page, you know? You just get back to where you were.”

“But we don’t know each other,” Tensei points out, “or do we? What school did you go to?”

You name it, all of them. Nothing seems to ring a bell. 

“When you…” you hesitate but he urges you to go on, “When you reloaded me, so to say, you were… you were calling for help.”

Tensei pales, his lips stretching into a straight line.

“You don’t have to tell me what that was about,” you add on quickly, “I just thought… maybe us teleporter Quirks are like a helpline? And I was just the closest one?”

“You think so?” He asks, voice strained.

You shrug. “What other possibility is there?”

But there is one. One you don’t even want to think about.

What if the Universe with its laughable humor, decided you were right for each other? 

No, that would be too crazy.

-

Just because you know why it happens doesn’t mean, however, that you know how to stop it. And as you start waking up in his bed more often than not, it seems only logical to go with it.

“Morning,” you mumble, knowing where you are without having to open your eyes. The telltale aroma of Grapefruit and Mint gives it away.

“Morning,” Tensei yawns, unmoving.

You can feel yourself slipping back into sleep, the warmth of him, the softness of the bed pulling you back in. Five more minutes won’t hurt.

“What did we say?” You ask groggily, face planted against Tensei’s chest. “You gotta wear a shirt to bed.”

“Sorry,” he rumbles but doesn’t move. “What time is it?”

“Too early.” You close your eyes again. He doesn’t move either.

“Shit, I’m late for work.” Your jump out of bed is thwarted by the blanket around your legs and you fall unceremoniously onto your face.

“I’ve got a spare toothbrush if you want it,” Tensei offers.

“I have no clothes.”

“Bring them next time,” he smiles, grabbing the hand you’re offering and pulling you up.

He blushes seconds later when he realizes how that sounded.

“I mean, only if you want.”

“Sure,” you agree easily because he really is good-looking, “if you make the coffee in the morning?”

“Brother, I wanted to check in before schoo-” 

You make the mistake of shooting up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

The guy in the door looks like Tensei’s Doppelganger, mouth wide open as he takes you in.

You wrap your arms around your torso, realizing a little late that your skimpy tank top might be a bit too revealing for a- how old is Tensei’s little brother again?

“Tenya,” Tensei starts blubbering that second, “You’re… I didn’t expect you this early- I’m…”

“This is my cue to leave,” you mutter, but stop when Tensei’s arm presses you back into the pillows.

“Stay,” he breathes out, eyes flickering over your face before he turns back.

“Sit,” he asks his brother, “we can explain.”

In all honesty, you don’t really know why you stay. 

It’s not like Tensei could do anything about you leaving, really. He has no idea where you live, doesn’t even have your number saved or something like that. And he still has no idea how to activate your Quirk on command…

But you stay, blanket pulled up to your chin to spare the youngest Iida’s innocence.

He’s fun to watch, little Tenya, taller than you without trying, yet turning smaller and smaller in his older brother’s presence.

It’s not hard to guess that Tensei’s his hero.

Tensei’s voice is calm and collected as he explains. You don’t even try to help him sort through this mess, instead letting your eyes wander over his features. He’s not wearing a shirt and his back, turned to you, is covered in scars, like a spider web of history. 

Your hand itches to smooth across it, letting the warmth of his skin seep into your fingertips. 

He’s got a few Moles too, sprinkled across his milky white shoulder blades like freckles over sun kissed cheeks. 

“Are you even listening?” Tensei turns his head and you blink a few times to focus.

“Sure,” you lie effortlessly, not missing how his lips quirk into a smile. 

His eyes are warm as they move over your face and you have to force yourself not to hide away. You’ve never seen a face this attractive turn so soft before, at least not when looking at you.

“I’m… I’m leaving then,” Tenya adds, voice a little strained. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Sure,” you nod, just as Tensei asks him not to rush. 

It’s weird. You want to leave and you want to stay longer, want to keep this bubble around the two of you, yet go out and scream from the rooftops that this man might feel things for you.

Work calls, though, and even though you stay as long as you can - helping him out of bed and into the shower, making coffee while he gets ready, thinking about kissing him while he sits on the other side of the table, talking about his plans for the day - you have to leave eventually. 

You hug him awkwardly, trying not to sink into his hold even though you want nothing more.

“See you next time,” you say with a wink, expecting to be back in the evening.

But Tensei does not call for you.

-

One week passes without finding yourself in his bed.

You have no means to contact him other than teleporting into his apartment and you don’t dare to do just that. What if he’s having guests over? 

What if- and the thought is making you nauseous - you end up teleporting into his bedroom only to find him making out with someone else?

Wait. The thought of someone else implies that he made out with you too. He didn’t and it’s not like you can blame him for that, right? 

Looking down at your hands, the skin oil-stained and chapped, you can’t help but feel unworthy of him. Former Heroes do not mingle with basic mechanics. 

You go out drinking the second week, trying to drown your sorrows in cheap beer and awful music.

“What about him?” Rumi, your best friend points toward a guy in the corner, red wings folded behind his back. He’s attractive, but there’s also something unsettling about him, the way he seems to be watching everyone without a care in the world.

“No,” you shake your head. You don’t feel like erasing the memory of Tensei’s touch - as platonic as it had been - from your skin by being with someone else. And even if you did, you wouldn’t pick someone who’s definitely way above your league.

“Oh, come on.” She takes a shot and winks. “I’m going to talk to him if you don’t.”

“Suit yourself,” you say when you notice someone else. 

His hair is jet black, reflecting the bright lights overhead that flicker over his heavily scarred skin. His eyes, a bright turquoise, move over the people with cold carelessness. Something drops in your stomach when his gaze crosses yours.

You grab Rumi’s arm. “We need to leave,” you tell her, and there must be something in your voice that cuts through her haze, because she nods, following you toward the door.

Shivers are running up and down your back as you wait for a Cab, chatting up a few girls who are waiting by the door, convincing them to join you and your friend.

“Oh shit,” Rumi says, moving to get out of the car, “I forgot my jacket inside.”

“I’m getting it,” you tell her, pushing her back, “I’ll see you there, okay?” 

She hesitates, but you’re already out of the car, closing the door with a click.

Inside, the mood has shifted, though not many seem to have noticed, too far gone already in their haste to get drunk. 

Sweat’s running down your back as you move through the crowd, looking for the flimsy black jacket. 

You smell it just as you reach it. Fire. Something’s burning. 

It’s hard to tell from back here and even getting up on a barstool barely helps. That is, until you turn, spotting the guy with the turquoise eyes behind the bar. His hands are filled with flames and his eyes burn the same.

He notices you at the same time, lips curling into a cruel smirk. Not far from him is the fire alarm and you lunge forward to pull it. Something collides with your shoulder, pain curling around it.

You scream just as the alarm goes off, cutting the music like one does a ribbon. The sprinklers go off immediately, but you’re already halfway gone, panic setting off your Quirk.

You have half a mind to think “Somewhere safe” before the room disappears before your eyes.

Grapefruit and Mint.

It cuts through your panic like sunlight through a rain cloud.

“Tensei?” You rasp, trying to make sense of it. “Tensei?!”

The light comes on and you find yourself sitting on the bedroom floor, hair damp, jacket clutched in your hands.

“Are you okay?” He asks, before sucking in a breath. “What happened to your shoulder?”

“I think- I think I just got attacked.”

“Let me see. Can you get up? What happened?”

You dissolve into tears under his gentle care.

Tensei thinks you should talk to the police.

You think everything else would be a better idea. 

“I’m not supposed to use my quirk,” you tell him, again and again, as he pours you a cup of chamomile tea in the morning. “What if they fine me? What if- what if they take it away?”

“They’re not going to take away your Quirk just because it activated by itself. You might get a slap on the hand for using it too much if they knew, but you’re not hurting anyone with it, are you?”

“Can you check the news?” You change the topic, unease swirling in your stomach. “See if there’s something about the bar?”

He dutifully picks up his phone, giving you a second to take him in.

His sight eases your mind. He looks just like he did two weeks ago like he always looks in the morning. Soft and warm and reassuring, like all you need to do is climb into his lap and forget the world.

You want to ask if he missed you, but you don’t dare to.

“Nothing,” he says, putting his phone down. “Would you- would you feel better if I accompanied you to the police?”

“How would we explain that we know each other?”

He blushes. “We could… we could say that we’re… friends?”

The unease in your stomach is getting harder to ignore. Or maybe you’re hungover as well.

“Why didn’t you call for me… uh, the last few weeks? Are you getting over your nightmares?”

Tensei huffs out a tired laugh. “I’m taking sleeping pills. I’m not a fan of them, but they seem to be working. I thought… maybe you left before I woke up or something.”

“No, I thought…” You swallow nervously, looking down at the table before shrugging as if you don’t feel as much as you do. “Maybe you found someone else you could teleport into your bedroom.”

You realize how it sounds just as you say it, but it’s too late to take it back.

His hand moves to cover yours, a warm weight that seems to settle your nerves with the smallest touch. “I’m barely managing to figure out how I got you, I’m not switching things up.”

For a while, you two sit in silence, unmoving. 

Eventually though, Tensei speaks again.

“If you let me, I’d like to accompany you to the police, okay?” 

You’ve only been to the police once before when a car you had been working on turned out to be stolen. Everything, from explaining how you noticed to how you got that client in the first place, had been a terrible, terrible experience.

But walking in with Tensei is like stepping into a different world..

One officer, a mutant with a cat face, comes up to you almost immediately, shaking Tensei’s hand with a smile.

“What brings you here, man? Long time no see.”

“I’m- my friend here,” Tensei points to you, “got attacked in a bar yesterday. Nothing in the news suggests that you know about it, so we wanted to inform you right away.”

“An attack?” Green eyes flicker to you. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you mutter just as Tensei disagrees. “First-degree burn on her shoulder. I did the best I could last night when she came by, but I’m no doctor.”

“I’ll call someone to check in on you. Come in, come in. Do you want coffee? Donuts?”

It clicks by the third person who walks in. They all assume that you’re not just Tensei’s friend, but his girlfriend.

It’s in the way they smile at you, unassuming, chuckling when you name your profession.

“Fits like a glove, doesn’t it?” They say, preening when the words light up a feverish blush on 

Tensei’s cheeks.

He holds your hand when a nurse examines your shoulder and you wish that this was real, that you’ll step out of this building and continue just like this. 

But living in his world for a day, where police officers joke around with you and doors open that you didn’t even know existed, just highlights how far apart your lives truly are.

As it turns out, you seem to have met Dabi, a villain who’s rather new to the scene. You can tell, just by the looks exchanged and awkward silences filling the room, that he’s someone you don’t want to mess with.

“It would probably be better if you didn’t go home for a while,” Detective Tsukauchi announces. “If this is a bar you frequent regularly, it wouldn’t be hard for him to figure out where you live.”

“My friend-” You start just as Tensei says “You can stay with me.”

You tense, just as Detective Tsukauchi smiles and nods.

“An excellent idea. We can escort you home if you need to pack some things first.”

“Oh, no-” You shake your head and wave your hands at the same time. “Getting escorted by the police to my place would just open the door to more trouble. If you could… like… give me a proper written excuse so that I can use my quirk, I can do that in one trip.”

“I’m afraid that I-”

“Tsukauchi, Sir-” Tensei lays it on thick with the charm, “I think in a situation like this you could make an exception, right? Don’t you have Officer Moroi on your team as well? You could still consider it an official escort if she did the teleporting.”

And so, half an hour later, it’s decided.

Officer Moroi’s Quirk is almost the same as yours, although she needs exact coordinates and is able to teleport other people - and stuff - as well.

Saying goodbye to Tensei is an awkward affair. Detective Tsukauchi is going to take him back to his apartment while you pack your things.

You move in for a hug, a handshake too formal for what everyone assumes you are. Tensei moves as well, but you misjudge his intention as wanting to hug you as well. His lips end up on yours for the briefest moment before you pull back, his face as red as-

“Oh,” you cough awkwardly, turning around. “Detective, I… I just remembered. There was another guy at the bar, with wings, he was looking-”

Tsukauchi doesn’t even blink. “No worries. We’re aware of him.”

“You-” Tensei’s hand curls around yours, pulling your attention back to him.

“Stay safe, okay?” He asks, face still flushed. “I’ll see you later.”

-

“I’ll take the Couch,” you offer in the evening, your things awkwardly merged with his. Your clothes stuffed into his drawers, your toothbrush sitting in the same cup. 

Tensei made dinner, told you stories from his past, and checked your injury, warm hands seemingly everywhere at once.

“Are you sure?” He asks, rolling through the living room. “There’s more than enough space in my bed and we’re kinda used to sharing it, don’t you think?”

“Well, yeah, but that was then-” You trail off, not really sure where you’re going with this.

His features stay relaxed as he nods, moving toward his bedroom.

“Do you want some help-”

“I got it,” he sends you a smile you can’t help but question. “I told you I’m getting better at it.”

So you’ve got nothing to do but slip under the covers and stare at the ceiling, trying to blend out the thrumming of pain in your shoulder.

You can hear him breathing, even from this far away, and it calms and upsets you at the same time.

He’s here. But he’s so far away.

Quietly, he calls your name. 

You consider ignoring it for a second, pushing him a little further away. For your safety or his, you’re not sure.

Still, your voice slips out anyway.

“Yes?”

“Are you scared?”

“Of what?” You ask, surprised.

“Being in a relationship.”

You swallow harshly. Has it been this obvious?

“I am, you know,” he admits, “and I was wondering… if you feel the same.”

You blink up at the ceiling, your mind racing ahead. Whatever you do now, it can make or break… whatever this is, between the two of you.

“You know,” you answer, slipping out of bed, “I have called myself a lot of things. I have been called a lot of things, too. But I don’t think I’ve ever believed that I was scared of something.”

You stop in the doorway to his room, your eyes getting used to the darkness. He’s facing you.

“So you’re not scared?” He asks, voice thick.

“Oh no, I’m scared shitless,” you admit, walking the short distance until your knees hit the bed frame, “but that has never stopped me from doing something. What about you? Doesn’t being a hero mean something similar?”

He’s warm as you slip under the covers, your whole body sucking up that familiar aroma of Grapefruit and Mint, your head almost falling into place against his shoulder.

“It’s a different kind of fear, I guess? You can train how to be a hero, from fighting Villains to rescue missions. You can’t train being in love.”

“Mhm, some people definitely try,” you joke, your hands unable to rest, moving across his chest until you can feel his heartbeat pick up beneath your fingertips.

“Tensei?” You ask, basking in his warmth. “Have you been in a relationship before?”

“No,” he admits, one hand a soft pressure on your lower back. “I dated around a little after school, but I was so busy building up the business, spending time with Tenya, I just…”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. You think you’ve got all the time in the world and then you’re thirty, everyone else has already had kids and you wonder where you went wrong.”

“Would you-” He stops, but his heart races, you can feel it.

“Yeah?”

“Would you go on a date with me?”

“Usually,” you tease, because his voice quivered in a way that doesn’t fit his sturdy frame, “I don’t ‘sleep’ with guys before a first date. You kinda messed with my rules here.”

“Sorry,” he rasps, trying to play along.

“It’s fine,” you move a little, pressing your lips against his cheek. “You did wine and dine me today, after all.”

-

You could get used to this.

Tensei’s still asleep, mouth half-open, face mushed against the pillow. You can’t stop your curious hands from traveling, rubbing soft circles into his warm skin, following the spiderweb trails of his scars, pressing a teasing kiss to one of his moles.

He groans softly, hands twitching by his side.

“What time is it?”

“Time to relax,” you tease, pulling one of his arms around you. He snorts.

“I would, but I really have to pee.”

“Oh, what a shame,” you move to sit up, untangling him from the blanket. “But we can slip back into bed after if you want. Although I am craving breakfast.”

Tensei blinks up at you but doesn’t speak. You blame it on him not being a morning person and help him into the bathroom, before moving toward the kitchen, prepping a quick breakfast.

He’s already back in bed when you step into the bedroom. 

Sleeping with, or rather, next to Tensei, has taught you a few things about him so far. He runs hot, he likes to spoon, and he makes the softest little kitten snores when he’s sleeping on his back.

But living with him, just for a day or two, shows you so much more.

He pretends to be a morning person, but it takes a while for his brain to kick in. The smell of him, Grapefruit and Mint, comes partly from his Quirk, the engine jets in his arms being powered by Grapefruit juice, and partly from his absolute obsession with everything Mint scented. Bodywash, Shampoo, Deodorant, he even has Mint scented Candles sitting all over his apartment.

Tensei obviously works out a lot and hasn’t stopped after retiring from being a Pro Hero, the dumbbells in the corner showcasing not a single speck of dust, but he has no trouble lounging on the Couch with you, asking about the book you’re currently reading, or bothering you with the most insane questions about the show you offer to watch.

He’s a family man, too, and you suspect that there is only one reason you’re not absolutely plagued by visiting family members right now.

“Did you tell your parents not to show up?” You ask as you pull on your shoes. Tensei had asked to go out for a little stroll and since the weather was playing along, you had no choice but to agree.

“Uh, yeah, how did you know?”

“I’m a woman, I can tell.”

He sends you a look and you falter. “Okay, fine, there’s a Calendar by the door that has everyone’s name on it. Your parents would have come by today.”

“Oh that,” he nods, face clouding, “I’m trying to become more self-reliant. I know everyone’s just trying to help, but-”

“It’s stifling,” you finish his sentence and he nods, smiling a little.

“You get it?”

“Oh yeah, my Dad is the worst when it comes to this. It doesn’t help that we live in a district that has quite a high crime rate. I’m not dumb, but he’d like to see me somewhere safe.”

“As every parent would, probably. Where do you live?”

“Why, do you wanna know if you went on patrol there?”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t, I would have noticed you.”

There’s a teasing tone to it, letting you know that he’s flirting. He’s not bad at it and since you’ve been doing nothing but cuddling all day, you dare to lean down and kiss him.

-

If Rapunzel was a man, he would look like the guy following you.

He’s dressed as a civilian, his long, blonde hair tied into the prettiest messy bun you’ve ever seen. And the size of it…

Tensei recognized him yesterday at the park. Apparently the Police are really concerned with your safety, sending him over to keep an eye on you.

“He’s nice,” Tensei had declared. “You don’t have to worry about him. His Hero Name is Present Mic, you might know-”

“No,” you shook your head, “Never heard of him.”

“Any Hero that you do know?”

“Well, All Might, of course,” you smiled. “But my favorite Hero is Laundry Hero: Wash.”

Tensei laughs. “I could never have guessed that. Sounds like a story I would like to hear.”

Your phone alarm pulls you out of the memory and you turn it off, blinking yourself a little more awake in anticipation of your stop.

Tensei doesn’t live that far away, but you still need to take three different trains to get to work, now that you can’t just teleport into your apartment and walk the short distance from there.

Goldilocks, err, Rapunzel, follows you out, whistling a tune. You don’t know how he does it, but he manages to fit in with the crowd of blue-collar workers.

 -

“So you got yourself a boyfriend?” Rumi, best friend and also best car-saleswoman you know, is eating her lunch across from you. “Without telling me?”

“It’s not like that,” you argue, well aware of the tall man dressed in jeans that must be Rapunzel’s replacement for the day. “It’s complicated, okay?”

“I know complicated, but that sounds like a whole ‘nother level,” she takes a sip of her diet soda and pins you down with a glare. “If you’re staying over at his place already it’s a big deal.”

“Yeah,” you fiddle with your utensils, “I know, he’s just… he’s so safe, you know?”

“Safe?” Rumi furrows her brows. “Explain.”

“Like, he’s so… funny. And warm. And caring. Last night we were fighting about who gets to cook Dinner, and- What?” You cut yourself off when you notice her wry smile.

“Oh, you’re so far gone, it’s hilarious.” She chuckles into her drink. “Bring him in some time, will you?”

“We’ll see,” you put your stuff away, “My dad would most definitely love him, for sure.”

Your phone rings at that moment and you pick up, heart hammering in your throat at the sight of Tensei’s name on the display.

“Yes?”

“Hey,” you can hear the smile in his voice. “How’s your lunch break? I’m in the store right now and wanted to ask what you want for Dinner tonight.”

“I thought I was going to make Pizza?”

He laughs softly. “Fine, you can make Pizza tonight. Do you want ice cream for dessert?”

“Oh, yes, please. Mint-Chocolate Chip, if possible.”

“Mhm, no, not possible, that box is already reserved for me.”

“Well, you gotta learn how to share one day.”

Rumi’s grinning like a madman when you finally put your phone away.

“What?” You ask, fighting against the warmth bubbling in your chest, the smile that’s threatening to overtake your face.

“Nothing,” she giggles, “nothing at all.”

-

“What’s the verdict, Doc?” You ask as Tensei finishes changing the bandage on your shoulder. 

He huffs with amusement, the sound cut off by the closing of the door.

“Tenya?” Tensei asks, a tone in his voice that can only be worried. You turn.

Tenya’s face is bruised, dark blue hair full of grime. 

“Nii-chan?” His eyes flicker over to you, face closing off the hurt and exhaustion he’d shown seconds before.

“I should leave-” you start, realizing half way that you have nowhere to go. Tensei’s hands are still warm on your shoulder and even though he’s pulling away, his hold on you stays, his eyes flickering between you and his brother.

If he has to decide between the two of you, you’d rather have him pick Tenya.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, getting up. “I’ll make you something to eat, give you boys some privacy.”

Tensei’s apartment is bigger than yours by a mile but not huge.

You can hear them talking, the tone of their voices heavy.

At one point you think you can hear one of them crying, the sound squeezing your heart like one does a lemon. Should you check on them? What if it’s Tensei crying?

The food getting ready decides for you. No one likes burnt Pizza.

“Coming in,” you announce your arrival softly, feeling relieved and a little guilty when you realize Tenya had been the one crying.

“Hey, big guy,” you place the dish in front of him, “hope you like this. If you want, I can disappear again, the choice is yours.”

“I’m fine,” he wipes his eyes on his sleeve, leaving a smear of dirt across his nose before he puts his glasses back on. “You can- You can stay. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s fine. Tensei was your brother first. And I’m warning you, if you let me stay, I’m going to ask you all sorts of questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, for starters, I definitely need to know your favorite flavor. Because your big brother here is obsessed with everything Mint flavored and I need to know if it runs in the family.”

“I do like Mint,” Tenya offers, cutting off a first slice of Pizza. 

You know very well that this is just a means of distraction, that talking about what’s bothering him would be a lot better, but still… you need to start somewhere, right?

Tensei’s hand squeezes yours under the table as Tenya rambles on about different flavors he cannot choose between.

“He asked if he could sleep over,” Tensei explains as soon as Tenya disappears into the bathroom. He sighs. “When I-” He stops, gestures to himself, the wheelchair. “When this happened, it hit him hard. I was in a coma for quite some time and he’s never been without me, really. We were always very close. I know that everything changed, but there’s something to him now… something that wasn’t there before. It’s like something turned dark inside him.”

“That does happen sometimes,” you agree. “When you realize too early on that life’s not fair. That people are more vulnerable than you thought they were.”

Tensei takes a shuddering breath and your hands rush to hold him, console him in any way you can.

“Do you want to share the bed with him?” You ask, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. You’re not usually this touchy with guys you’re interested in, but you usually don’t feel this safe around guys you’re interested in. You’re starting to act all weird and mushy around him and it’s a little unsettling sometimes.

Tensei laughs. “I don’t think we’d fit. But we could keep the door open.”

“I think it would be good for him if you could admit that you’re still having nightmares.” The words slip out before you’ve really thought about them, but you don’t want to take them back. “Not that you have to do it right away,” you ease the sting of them, “but it can help, sometimes, to know that the strongest people are also afraid of something.”

“Maybe,” he offers, and you leave it at that.

-

Toshi nudges your feet, walking by. You roll out from under the car to check what’s going on, surprised to see Tensei in all his glory.

He sits tall in his wheelchair and the shirt he’s wearing is one of your favorites, bringing out the blue in his eyes. 

“Hey,” you greet him, a little self-conscious about your dirty overalls. “What brings you here?”

“I had an appointment not far from here and thought I could check in on you. When’s your lunch break?”

You squint up at the clock in the corner. “Half an hour.”

“I can wait, if that’s okay with you. Is that alright? I can leave too, if you don’t want company.”

You don’t want company, but you want his company. 

“Stay, please,” you say, swallowing the weird feelings that are swirling in your chest. “You can share a cup of coffee with Rumi in the office, if you want. You know how to get there?”

He nods, smiling as he turns his wheelchair and rolls out of the garage.

You can feel all eyes on you, but you’ve never felt less like discussing your personal life with anyone, so you roll back under the car. There, at least, you can ponder why him showing up has made you this nervous.

Tensei knows you’re a mechanic. And he’s obviously not bothered by the fact that this isn’t some fancy-schmancy auto repairs shop. So if he doesn’t think bad of you, why do you do it?

Tensei’s laughing with Rumi and your Dad, of all people, when you walk into the office. You tried your best at cleaning up, but you still feel dirty in comparison to Tensei’s perfectly ironed clothes.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, leaning into your father’s hug. His overalls look worse than yours. 

“Rumi called and asked me to come check out one car. She suspects some foul-play.”

“Ah.” You shoot her a glare, but she smirks, playing innocent.

“And how lucky I came in right away,” Dad adds, “so I could get to know this guy. Did you know that your mother got saved by his father once? I remember it clearly, it was this awful purse-snatcher guy and Ingenium saved the day. He really was a fine lad, you got to tell him I said hi,” your father slaps a heavy hand onto Tensei’s shoulder. You flinch at the ink-stains he leaves in the fabric.

“I will. Father remembers all of his saves, so I’m sure he’ll be delighted to hear from you. But I think we should get going, if we want to make use of our time,” Tensei turns to you. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Leave where?” You furrow your brows. 

“There’s a park nearby and I thought we could get a stroll in, what do you think?”

“Eh,” you falter for a second, but Rumi’s less than subtle head movements tell you to go along. “I guess why not?”

“Do you always have to be out in nature?” You ask twenty minutes later when you’ve found a place that’s to Tensei’s liking, a tall tree creating enough shadow for the two of you to sit under.

He blinks. “I guess… I guess I like it a lot, does it bother you?”

“Not that much,” you admit, “It’s just a little surprising, I think. How was your day so far?”

Tensei’s face turns serious, your heart thundering at the sight.

“You know,” he starts, fiddling with a napkin, “I’m supposed to undergo surgery in a week or so.”

“Oh? What kind?” Surely, it’s nothing big, you tell yourself.

Tensei sighs, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly.

“It’s experimentative surgery. I have a twenty percent chance to walk again.”

“And the other eighty?”

He chuckles, but it doesn’t sound amused. “I try not to think about it.”

“And you’re supposed to do it? Or is this just an option you’re thinking about?”

His eyes flicker over your face. “It’s an option. My mother doesn’t want me to take it. Tenya’s all for it, although I haven’t really disclosed the risks to him.”

“Tenya wants you to be the person he knows you as. You’re his hero. No one wants to see their heroes fall.”

Tensei sighs, shoulders slumping. It hurts to see him that way. Before you can stop yourself, you’ve climbed onto his lap, dirt be damned.

“Hey,” you say, cradling his face in your hands. “Talk to me?”

“I just want everything to be how it used to be,” he admits. “I want Tenya to be happy again.”

Behind your ribcage, a flame of hurt starts licking at your heart. You push it aside, focus on what he’s saying.

“He’s becoming a hero, right?” You ask, “Doesn’t that mean… He’ll have to face these things eventually, will he not?”

“Yeah, but- but not like this. Not on his own. I’d be by his side, fighting alongside him.” 

Tensei’s hands dig into your hips now. Your heart stutters with his next words, sensing something beneath them that your mind isn’t ready to process yet.

“If I could turn back time, I would. Even if it meant being a coward that day. I just-” He breaks off, resting his head on your shoulder. You let him cry it out, your food long forgotten.

-

Tensei’s smiling again by the time he leaves, though you can still see the sadness lingering in his eyes. 

Your mind is fogged up as you work and you need twice your usual time for even the most basic tasks.

Rumi’s sending you looks, but you’re not ready to talk about it yet.

It’s on your way to the train station that someone pulls you aside.

You recognize those red wings instantly.

“Yo!” The guy smiles, but it’s not friendly, “Have you heard anything from Dabi?”

You blink, trying to move away, but his grip on your arm is firm.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ah, don’t play it like that.” He smirks. His eyes are a mesmerizing golden color, but they hold no warmth for you. “I know you had intel. What I don’t know is why you came back into the bar?”

“Intel?” You finally manage to rip your hand out of his grip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I told Tsukauchi about you and he knows you were there. I’m going to let him know you’re not unimportant as he thinks you are.”

You ready yourself to teleport, cursing the time it still takes - it’s not like you had much chance to practice - when he laughs. It transforms him, the cold, harsh lines bleeding from his face.

“Oh, so you really know nothing,” he says, voice easy as if he’s just talking about the weather. He waves at someone, who turns out be Rapunzel, hiding behind a nearby pillar.

“You were right, Mic, she really knows nothing.”

“Excuse me?” You ask, equally horrified and … You’re not sure how to name that other feeling, just that it leaves you feeling weak, like a terrible cold. 

“Ah, I’m glad.” Rapunzel- Present Mic, you remind yourself, grins at you, blonde mustache dancing above his lips. “Just taking care, you know. Can’t be careful enough these days.”

In less than a minute, both of them are gone and so is your train. 

All you want to do is teleport over to Tensei and let him make sense of this interaction. But using your Quirk out in the open is never advisable when you’re not a registered Hero, even in a place like this. 

So you find yourself a secluded space to wait for the next train - or teleport, depending on what’s shorter, your patience or the wait time - and sit down to think. 

Your mind’s still reeling from today’s revelation.

In about a week, Tensei will undergo experimentative surgery. He might be able to walk just fine after that, be who he used to be before it happened, whatever it is. 

You try to think of him, standing up. He’s going to be tall, for sure. Probably leaning in the doorway with that lazy smile he always wears when you get home.

But- if everything turns the way it was before, where will that leave you?

Because before, he didn’t have time for a relationship, nor did he want one. He was busy prepping his agency for when Tenya was ready to join him and there’s still a few years until that can happen. 

And even if he wanted to scale down his work hours, there’s a difference between dating an Ex-Hero and an active Hero. Not just in the risks he takes, but also in his public image.

Dating you, with your job and your origin, your ties to a part of Tokyo that’s less than stellar. You can’t help but think of yourself as a stain on his public imagine, much like the oil stains your father - and you - left on his outfit today.

Your train arrives, but you don’t get on. There’s still too much to think about.

-

“Where were you?” Tensei waits for you in the hallway, brows furrowed. “You didn’t pick up your phone.”

“Thinking,” you say, plant yourself in front of him without taking off your shoes. “We need to talk.”

“Do you want to sit down-”

“If you want things to be how they used to be,” you talk over him, needing to get this out, “I will no longer be here.”

Tensei stops, mouth half open.

“I’m not offering you a chance to turn back time. There might be people with a Quirk like that, but I don’t have it. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today and I… I don’t want to hold you back. I understand why you want to get back on your feet and I’d never be in the way of that, but I don’t think we could be together if you returned to being a hero.”

“Why not?” His voice is too soft for a man this sturdy. 

You turn your eyes toward the floor.

“Because you are you and I am me and we do not fit together.”

“I think we did pretty well,” Tensei argues and you pull your shoulders up to your ears.

“Yeah, because at the moment you’re broken. I do fit well with broken things, not with those who look new and shiny.” You can’t stop your hand from reaching out, touching the oil stain that’s still on his shoulder.

“I leave stains, Tensei. And you’re a Hero in a white suit.”

“So that’s it?” He asks after a moment of silence. “You’re just going to leave?”

“Staying would just prolong the hurt, wouldn’t it?” You wring your hands. “You don’t even need me anymore. You sleep fine.”

“It’s not about sleeping,” his fingertips dig into the armrests of his wheelchair. “It’s about the time in between. I want to be awake with you.”

“I know,” you swallow the pain, “but that doesn’t make everything alright, does it? I’ll… I’ll get my things, okay? Apparently, I can go back to my place.”

Tensei watches you quietly as you grab your stuff.

A few times you can tell that he’s preparing to say something, but he doesn’t.

“Goodbye,” you tell him, heart heavy, longing for nothing more but to crawl into his arms and stay there, the whole world be damned. “I hope everything turns out alright for you.”

-

Rumi thinks you’re stupid.

You think you’re stupid.

You’re not sure what your Dad thinks, because you haven’t yet told him about the whole affair.

But from the looks he’s sending you over a plate of what you fondly call “Dad’s hodgepodge”, you’ll find out pretty soon.

“So,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “That guy in the wheelchair.”

“What about him?”

“He’s your mate?”

You fight the flinch, but your face must betray you. Your father chuckles.

“You know, you come right after your mother.”

“I know.”

“Mhm, do you?” He cocks his head to the side to squint at you. “Because I don’t think you do. Did you know that your mother accidentally conjured me up one day?”

You freeze, food halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

“Yeah,” he nods, a wistful smile on her face. “She was so done with dating, she sat down, thinking long and hard about what she wanted in a man, and then wished for it to appear, in one person, thank you very much. A few seconds later I sat in the middle of her room, plenty confused. Didn’t know my Quirk could be turned on me like that.”

You gape at him, mouth open. 

“That’s not what you told me! At all!”

“Well,” he takes another sip. “Didn’t want you to try and recreate it. You’ve always been a curious kid.”

“But-”

“Ah,” he shakes his head at you. “Don’t talk back to me. Your mother would be disappointed.”

“Mom would be disappointed if I didn’t talk back,” you snap and he grins, bright like you know him.

You drop your head in your hands. 

“So what if he teleported me to him?” You ask, face hidden. “That doesn’t mean we will automatically work out.”

“No,” your father agrees, “but I don’t think we raised you to be a quitter. Or to be ashamed of where you came from. You used it as a motivation, became something we could be proud of. But I’ve noticed, lately, that you’ve lost your goal out of sight. Didn’t you want to get out of this part of town? Open a garage in one of the nicer districts and take me with you?”

“So you’re saying I should milk him for what he’s worth?”

Your Dad laughs.

“No. But I think you should at least try to see if you can work things out before you decide it will fail. And before you ask, Rumi didn’t tell me a thing. You’re just bad at hiding stuff.”

“Am not.”

“Am too. Eat your food.”

-

Tensei messages you every day. It’s not much, just a few details of what’s going on, but he’s persistent, even though you don’t respond.

Today’s text has you freezing though.

“Talked to Tenya. He’s as torn about going through with the surgery as I am, now that he knows the risks. Hope you’re doing well.”

The letters are dancing in front of your eyes. 

Tensei’s just as scared of things as you are. But while you were the one to take the first step, slip into bed with him when you could have run away, he’s the one keeping the conversation going.

You pick up your phone and start to type.

But isn’t that cowardly as well, you wonder, staring down at the words. You should tell him in person.

His apartment, however, is empty. 

At first, there’s no hint as to where he could be, until you reach the Calendar in the kitchen, tomorrow marked. Tensei, thorough in everything he does, has written the name of the Clinic next to the appointment.

Not that it’s of any use to you now, when visitation hours are most certainly over.

You pace his living room for a good minute before you realize, a little late, that you don’t have to deal with those anyway. All you have to do is focus on his face, the familiar smell of Grapefruit and Mint and-

Tensei groans, loudly. You’ve landed on top of him.

“Shit, sorry,” you climb off of him as quickly as you can, expecting the telltale smell of Hospital disinfectant and the crinkling of cheap linen.

Instead, your legs land on a mountain of plushies instead of the floor and when he turns on the light, you come face to face with a lifesized poster of a Hero named Gran Torino, the name all but plastered above his head.

“What are you doing here?” Tensei asks, voice groggy, “Am I dreaming?”

“Are you not in the hospital?” You ask back, trying to see more of this strange room. There’s sports equipment in the corner and pictures on the wall. 

Wait, is that Tensei with his front teeth missing? 

“I’m at my parent's place,” he whispers, turning the light off. “What are you doing here? Did I- Did I summon you again?”

“No, I wanted-” The darkness doesn’t make it easier to speak, instead you’re so much more aware of his body and his smell and the warmth he exudes. “I wanted to be there, with you. For the surgery or whatever you decide to do. I didn’t want to send you just a message, though, so I turned to your apartment but there was only a note on the calendar-” Tensei pulls you into his arms without a word.

“Are you going to leave again?” He asks after a while, voice muffled by how his face is pressed into your shoulder.

“Only if you send me away,” you promise, your hands finding the scars on his back, the spiderweb familiar, though not yet burned into your memory. One day they will be, you think, hoping that it’s true.

“Not sending you away,” he says, pulling you down. “And about the surgery-”

“You can do whatever you feel like doing,” you promise, “And I’ll do my best to support you.”

He laughs softly. “Even if means having breakfast with my parents tomorrow? Accompanying me to a different surgeon for a second opinion? Sitting with Tenya and my parents while I’m undergoing surgery that could kill me? Or pushing my wheelchair around until you need your own in case I decide against surgery?”

“Out of all those options, breakfast with your parents sounds the most daunting,” you confess, “but if they don’t bite my head off for sneaking into your room in the middle of the night to turn their innocent son into a Rebel, I can be swayed.”

“What about the rest?”

“You’re not the only one scared of relationships,” you admit. “But I’m not willing to let that fear stop me. You might have to remind me, though, sometimes. I don’t have the best memory.”

“Deal,” he says and you don’t need light to know he’s smiling. You can feel it, the curve of his lips, pressed against your own.

- x -

“Tensei?” Tenya calls from the front door.

“Taking a nap,” you call back, “I’m in the kitchen.”

It surprises you yet again, how Tenya’s still not done growing. He’s blinking in that tired way that tells you that school has been hell, but he still moves to hug you before he descends onto the Couch. 

Your apartment is closer to his school than his parent's house and even if it wasn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d still show up at least once a week.

In a few months, right after graduation, Tenya will start working as Ingenium, the newest member of their family to properly carry the name as a Pro Hero.

Tensei is insanely proud and so are you.

You take one look back at Tenya’s sleeping form when you feel it, the telltale signs of your Quirk activating.

You have just enough time to drop the knife you’d been holding before you dematerialize, only to plop back into existence right next to your Husband.

Tensei’s smiling, eyes open.

“Hey there,” he greets you, pulling you close, smothering you in a cloud of Grapefruit and Mint. “Missed you.”

“I was just in the other room,” you pretend to be mad, but your hands are betraying your words, rubbing circles into his back. 

“Too far away,” he jokes. 

“One day you’ll get in trouble for misusing my Quirk,” you tell him, twirling a strand of hair around your finger.

he took a breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. the bells jingled softly with the movement. "why did the knight bring a ladder to the bar?"

you waited.

he stared at you, waiting for you to ask why. when you didn't, he shifted his weight, the bells ringing again. "because he heard the drinks were on the house."

silence.

absolute, crushing silence.

you stared at him, blinking once, twice. the punchline hung in the air, limp and lifeless. a few courtiers near the front snorted, but it was clearly out of pity, not genuine humor.

choso’s ears—hidden somewhat by his messy hair—turned a shade of crimson that rivaled his motley. he looked at you, his dark eyes wide with a desperate, pleading hope that you might find it funny. when you didn't crack a smile, he looked down again, his shoulders slumping.

"i see," you said, your tone dry as dust. "well. that was... informative."

"i-i have another," he rushed out, panic edging his voice. "what do you call a fake noodle?"

"an impasta?" you guessed, reciting the most basic joke in the kingdom.

he nodded vigorously, the bells on his hat jingling with the motion. "yes. that is... that is the joke."

"you bore me," you said, cutting him off before he could offer another stale pun. "and your jokes are older than the stones in this castle."

he winced, looking genuinely wounded. "i... i’m trying, your highness."

"try harder," you snapped, though there was no real heat behind it. you were just bored, and he was an easy target. "you’re annoying. the bells are annoying. your face is... serious. you look like you’re attending a funeral, not entertaining a princess."

his jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. he just bowed again, deeper this time, careful not to trip. "i will endeavor to improve, your highness."

"see that you do," you waved a hand dismissively. "you’re dismissed for now. go practice. somewhere far away from here."

he bowed a third time, retreating backward toward the doors, clumsy and stiff. the bells rang with every step, a dull, rhythmic tolling that followed him out of the room. the heavy doors shut, silencing the sound, and the court resumed its murmuring, the new jester already forgotten by most.

but you remembered the flush on his cheeks, the way his large hands had trembled slightly.

—

later that afternoon, you were in the gardens, walking the hedgerows with your ladies-in-waiting. the air was crisp, the scent of roses heavy and sweet. you were discussing the upcoming harvest festival, the tedious details of decorations and feasts, when a flash of ugly red caught your eye near the fountain.

it was him. choso.

he was standing by the stone basin, staring at the water as if it held the secrets of the universe. he wasn't juggling, wasn't tumbling, wasn't doing anything remotely jester-like. he was just... standing there, looking like a misplaced gargoyle.

"oh, look," elara, your closest lady, giggled behind her hand. "it’s the gloomy jester."

"perhaps he’s waiting for the fish to tell him a joke," another maid added, earning a ripple of laughter.

you felt a strange urge to defend him, which was ridiculous. he was annoying. but as you drew closer, you saw him reach out a hand, his fingers hovering over the surface of the water. a dragonfly landed on his knuckle, and for a second, his expression softened. he didn't crush it. he didn't flick it away. he just watched it, his dark eyes curious.

then he saw you.

the softness vanished, replaced by that familiar, panicked stiffness. he jerked his hand back, the dragonfly flying off, and immediately tried to execute a bow. he managed to dip low without falling, but the bells on his shoes rang out sharply against the cobblestones.

"your highness!" he said, his voice tight.

"still here?" you asked, stopping before him. you looked him up and down. the motley was even more daunting in the sunlight, the red fabric clashing violently with the green of the hedges. "i thought i told you to go practice."

"i was... practicing," he said, gesturing vaguely at the fountain. "observation. humor is rooted in observation, they say."

"and what have you observed?"

he paused, thinking hard. his brows furrowed in concentration. "that the water is wet. and the stone is hard."

elara snorted, quickly covering her mouth. you fought the urge to roll your eyes.

"riveting," you said. "truly, the court is lucky to have such a keen wit."

he looked down, his ears turning pink again. "i’m not... i’m not naturally funny, your highness. i was hired for my... other skills."

"other skills?" you raised an eyebrow. "can you juggle? tumble? swallow fire?"

he shook his head. "no. but i can... stand very still. and i have good reflexes."

"that is not what a jester does."

"i know," he said quietly.

you sighed, stepping closer. the scent of him was unexpected—not the cloying smell of cheap perfume or sweat, but something earthy, like old paper and rain. his hands were clasped behind his back, knuckles white.

"look," you said, softening your tone slightly. "my father hired you to make me laugh. or at least, to distract me. you’re failing miserably."

"i’m sorry," he said, and he sounded it. genuinely, deeply sorry. "i will try harder. i can... i can learn a new routine. i can tumble. i can try to be... louder."

"louder isn't better," you told him. "you’re stiff. you move like a soldier, not a performer. relax."

he blinked, looking at you as if you’d spoken a foreign language. "relax?"

"yes. loosen up. stop looking like you’re about to be executed."

he let out a breath, a short, sharp exhale. "i’m not used to... this. the bells. the colors. the expectation of joy."

"what are you used to?"

his eyes met yours, and for a second, the mask slipped. there was a hardness there, a history of violence and loss that didn't belong in a garden. then it was gone, shuttered away. "nothing important, your highness. just... the quiet."

you studied him for a long moment. he was an enigma, this jester who couldn't joke, who stood like a statue, who looked at dragonflies with tenderness.

"fine," you said finally. "you may follow me for the rest of the walk. but no bells."

he looked confused. "no bells?"

"take them off. they’re grating on my nerves."

he hesitated, then reached up to his hat. he unhooked the small, tarnished bells one by one, placing them carefully into a pouch at his belt. the silence that followed was profound. without the constant jingling, he seemed... larger. more imposing. the silence around him was heavy, but it was a comfortable silence, not the awkward one from the throne room.

"better," you murmured. "now, walk. and try not to look like you’re marching to war."

he nodded, falling into step beside you, keeping a respectful distance. he walked quietly, his boots making soft thuds on the path. for the next hour, he followed you through the gardens, silent and observant. he didn't try to tell a joke. he didn't try to tumble. he just walked.

and strangely, you didn't mind his presence.

—

it became a routine, then. not a comfortable one—not yet—but a routine nonetheless. every afternoon, like clockwork, choso would appear in your solar. he'd knock twice, wait for your curt "enter," and then take his place in the furthest chair by the window. sometimes he brought nothing. sometimes he brought a book he clearly wasn't reading, just holding it in his lap like a prop, his dark eyes flicking up every few seconds to check if you'd noticed him failing at the one thing he was supposed to be doing.

you noticed. you always noticed.

"you're staring at that page like it insulted your bloodline," you said one afternoon, not looking up from your embroidery. the fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the room. outside, rain streaked the windows in silver lines.

he startled, the book nearly slipping from his grasp. "i'm reading."

"you've been on the same page for twenty minutes."

he looked down at the book, then back at you, his expression caught between guilt and defiance. "it's a... complex passage."

"it's a cookbook."

the silence that followed was excruciating. you could see the exact moment the realization hit him—the way his shoulders sagged, the way his nose turned pink beneath the messy fall of his hair. he closed the book slowly, setting it on the small table beside him with exaggerated care.

"i was hungry," he said, which was such a blatant lie that you almost laughed. almost.

"you're supposed to be humouring me," you reminded him, threading your needle with a sharp, precise motion. "not reading cookbooks in the corner."

"i know."

"so entertain me."

he opened his mouth. closed it. opened it again. "would you like to hear about the history of bread-making?"

"no."

"the proper way to knead dough?"

"absolutely not."

he slumped back in his chair, looking utterly defeated. the motley he wore today was a deep purple and gold, the colors rich but somehow making him look even more out of place, like a crow dressed in peacock feathers. the bells on his hat—he'd started wearing them again, a small rebellion or perhaps just forgetfulness—jingled softly with the movement.

"i don't know what you want from me," he said quietly, and there was a raw honesty in his voice that made you pause.

you set your embroidery down, turning to face him fully. he looked miserable. genuinely, deeply miserable. his large hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white, and he wouldn't meet your eyes.

"i want you to be what you were hired to be," you said, not unkindly. "a jester. someone who makes people laugh. someone who brings lightness to this... heavy place."

"i'm not light," he said, still staring at his hands. "i've never been light."

"i can see that."

he looked up then, surprised. his dark eyes searched your face, looking for mockery, for cruelty. he found neither.

"you're not light," you agreed. "but you're here. and you're trying. and that's... something, i suppose."

he held your gaze for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. not quite hope, but perhaps the ghost of it. "something," he repeated softly.

"don't let it go to your head."

he almost smiled.

—

the rain continued for three days straight, turning the castle grounds into a muddy, dripping prison. you were confined to the indoors, pacing the halls like a caged animal, your ladies-in-waiting trailing behind you with their endless chatter about needlework and court gossip. you loved them, truly, but sometimes their voices were like nails on a chalkboard.

you found yourself in the library on the third day, seeking solitude among the towering shelves of leather-bound books. the room was vast and quiet, lit by the pale gray light filtering through the high windows. you ran your fingers along the spines, searching for nothing in particular, just needing to move, to think.

"your highness."

you turned to find choso standing at the end of the aisle, looking as out of place among the books as he did everywhere else. he was holding a small, battered book in one hand, his other hand fidgeting with the hem of his motley.

"what are you doing here?" you asked, more curious than annoyed.

"looking for... material," he said, holding up the book. "jokes. humor. something."

you raised an eyebrow. "you're researching jokes?"

"yes."

"in the library."

"…yes."

you couldn't help it. a small laugh escaped you, sharp and surprised. he blinked, looking startled by the sound.

"what?" he asked, defensive.

"you," you said, shaking your head. "you're researching jokes. like they're a subject to be studied!"

"they are," he insisted, his cheeks flushing. "humor is a skill. it can be learned."

"not like that!"

"how, then?"

you thought about it, tilting your head. "i don't know. it just... happens. you see something funny, or you say something without thinking, and people laugh. it's not something you can read about in a book."

he looked down at the book in his hands, then back at you, his expression crestfallen. "so i'm hopeless."

"i didn't say that."

"you didn't have to."

you sighed, stepping closer. up close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. he looked tired. not just physically, but tired in his soul.

"choso," you said, and it was the first time you'd used his name without the title attached. he looked up, startled. "you're trying too hard. that's the problem."

"i'm not trying hard enough. you just said—"

"i know what i said. but you're so focused on being funny that you're forgetting to just... be. be yourself. be present. the humor will come."

he stared at you, his dark eyes wide and uncertain. "what if myself isn't funny?"

"then you'll be the world's most serious jester," you said dryly. "and at least you'll be original."

he huffed, a sound that was almost a laugh. almost. "original. great. that's what every jester dreams of."

"you're not every jester."

"no," he agreed quietly. "i'm not."

you stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between you. it wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it was heavy with something you couldn't quite name. then you turned away, back to the bookshelves, dismissing the feeling.

"fine," you said over your shoulder. "you can stay. but no more research. just sit. and be quiet. let the silence do the work."

"the silence?"

"yes. sometimes silence is funnier than any joke," you lied.

he looked skeptical, but he didn't argue. he moved to a chair in the corner, settling into it with a grace that belied his size. he didn't open the book. he just sat, watching you browse the shelves.

the minutes ticked by. the rain drummed against the windows. the fire in the library's hearth crackled softly. you pulled out a book at random, flipping through the pages without really reading, hyperaware of his presence in the corner of your vision.

"your highness," he said finally, breaking the silence.

"what now?"

"why do you stay in here? in the library. you could be in your solar. it's warmer. more comfortable."

you shrugged, not turning around. "i like the quiet."

"you like the quiet," he repeated, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "the princess who complains about my silence likes the quiet."

"it's different," you said, defensive. "your silence is... heavy. oppressive. the library's silence is peaceful."

"oppressive," he echoed, and now he was definitely smiling. "that's a big word."

you turned to glare at him, but the expression died on your face when you saw him. he was leaning back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, the book forgotten on the armrest. his posture was relaxed, his face softer than you'd ever seen it. and he was smiling—not the small, hesitant almost-smiles he'd given you before, but a real smile, reaching his eyes.

"what?" you demanded, feeling heat creep up your neck.

"nothing," he said, still smiling. "just... you're funny."

"i'm not trying to be funny."

"i know," he said, and his smile widened. "that's what makes it funny."

you stared at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. he thought you were funny. him. the man who couldn't tell a joke to save his life thought you were funny.

"that's—" you sputtered. "i'm not—you can't just—"

and then, despite yourself, you laughed.

it burst out of you, unexpected and bright, echoing off the high ceilings of the library. you laughed until your sides hurt, until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, until you had to lean against the bookshelf for support.

choso watched you, his smile softening into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in a way you didn't want to examine.

"there it is," he said quietly.

"there what is?"

"the sound i've been trying to earn."

—

after that, something shifted. not dramatically, not all at once, but slowly, like the turning of a season. you still complained about him. he still failed spectacularly at being a jester. but the edges of your annoyance softened, worn down by the quiet afternoons and the unexpected moments of levity.

he started appearing in more places. not just your solar, but the gardens, the hallways, the kitchens. he was always there, a silent shadow in motley, watching you with those dark, intense eyes. you'd be walking to a meeting with your father, and you'd turn a corner to find him standing there, waiting.

"following me now?" you'd ask, exasperated.

"the king requested i attend to you," he'd say, which was a transparent lie and you both knew it.

"the king doesn't care where i am."

"perhaps i care," he'd say, so quietly you almost missed it.

you didn't know what to do with that. so you did nothing. you just kept walking, and he kept following, and the silence between you grew more comfortable with each passing day.

one afternoon, you were in the throne room, sitting in on a council meeting. it was tedious beyond measure—trade agreements and tax disputes and border negotiations that made your eyes glaze over. you sat in your chair on the dais, trying to look engaged, while your mind wandered.

you glanced to the side and saw choso standing against the wall, trying to blend in with the tapestries. he was failing miserably. the motley was too bright, his presence too solid. but he was trying, standing so still that he almost looked like a statue.

you caught his eye. he looked panicked, like a child caught stealing sweets. you fought the urge to smile.

the council droned on. lord something-or-other was explaining the intricacies of grain tariffs, his voice a monotonous buzz. you felt your attention slipping, your eyelids growing heavy.

then you felt it. a small, light touch on your ankle.

you looked down. choso had somehow moved closer without you noticing, and he was holding a small, folded piece of paper. he pressed it into your hand, his fingers cold against your skin, and then retreated back to his spot against the wall.

you unfolded the note under the table, hiding it in your lap.

if i have to listen to one more minute of this, i'm going to fall asleep and roll off this wall. please save me. :c

you bit your lip to keep from laughing. you glanced at him. he was staring straight ahead, his face a perfect mask of innocence.

you scribbled a response on the bottom of the note and waited for him to pass by again. when he did, pretending to adjust his hat, you pressed the paper into his hand.

he unfolded it later, and you watched from the corner of your eye as he read it.

you're the jester! make a joke. save us both. :D

he looked at you, horrified. and you raised an eyebrow, challenging him.

he swallowed hard, then stepped forward into the center of the room. the council members stopped talking, turning to look with confusion.

"forgive me, my lords," choso said, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. "but i couldn't help but notice... we've been discussing grain for over an hour."

lord something-or-other frowned. "yes, and your point is?"

"my point," choso said, "is that i now know more about grain than i ever wanted to. and i'm a jester. my job is to know about things like... i don't know, juggling. and funny hats." he gestured to his own hat, the bells jingling. "but apparently, i'm also an expert in agriculture now."

silence.

then, unexpectedly, your father laughed. a deep, booming laugh that filled the throne room. "the boy's right!" the king said, wiping his eyes. "we've been at this too long. let's take a break."

the council members murmured their agreement, standing and stretching. you sat there, stunned, as choso bowed and retreated back to his spot against the wall.

when the room had cleared, you approached him. he looked nervous, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his motley.

"that was—" you started.

"terrible," he finished. "i know. i'm xi. i just—"

"that was perfect," you interrupted.

he looked up, surprised. "what?"

"you made my father laugh. you made the whole council stop. you were..." you searched for the word. "you were yourself. and it worked."

he stared at you, his dark eyes wide and hopeful. "really?"

"really."

he smiled, that small, genuine smile that was becoming familiar. "thank you, your highness."

"stop thanking me," you said, but there was no bite to it. "just keep doing that! being honest. being real. it's better than any joke you could study."

"i'll try," he said. "for you."

the words hung in the air, heavy with implication. you turned away before he could see the flush on your cheeks, before he could see the way your heart had stumbled in your chest.

"come on," you said over your shoulder. "i need air. and you're going to walk with me."

"yes, your highness," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

you walked through the castle halls, side by side, the silence between you no longer heavy or oppressive. it was just plain old silence. comfortable and easy.

and if your hand brushed against his as you walked, neither of you mentioned it.

—

the days turned into weeks. the routine solidified. choso was everywhere— he was your shadow, your silent companion, your failed jester who was slowly, inexplicably, becoming something more.

you still teased him. he still complained. you still told him he was annoying and unfunny and too serious for his own good. but the words had lost their edge, softened by the warmth that had begun to grow between you.

one evening, you were in the gardens, watching the sun set over the castle walls. the sky was painted in shades of orange and pink, the air cool and sweet with the scent of roses. you sat on a stone bench, your embroidery forgotten in your lap, lost in thought.

"a penny for your thoughts?"

you looked up to find choso standing before you, his hands clasped behind his back. the setting sun caught the gold threads in his motley, making him glow.

"they're worth more than a mere penny," you said, but there was no heat in it.

"then i'll owe you," he said, sitting beside you without invitation. he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, despite the chill in the air.

"you'll owe me a lot," you said, turning back to the sunset.

"i don't mind."

you sat in silence for a while, watching the sky darken. the first stars began to appear, faint and distant.

"choso?" you said finally.

"yes?"

"why do you stay? you could have left by now. found another position. somewhere you didn't have to pretend to be something you're not."

he was quiet for a long time. when he spoke, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "because you see me."

you turned to look at him. "what do you mean?"

"everyone else sees the jester. the motley. the bells. the failure. but you..." he met your eyes, his dark gaze intense. "you see me. the real me. and you don't taunt me. well, not as bad as the servants do."

your breath caught in your throat. you didn't know what to say. so you said nothing. you just sat there, side by side, watching the stars come out.

and when his hand found yours in the darkness, his cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones, you didn't pull away.

the stars were multiplying now, scattered across the darkening sky like spilled salt. the air had grown colder, but you barely noticed. all you could focus on was the weight of his hand in yours, the way his thumb traced slow, absent circles against your knuckles.

"choso?" you breathed, and his name felt different in your mouth now. softer. more intimate.

"yes?" he turned to face you fully, and the distance between you shrank to nothing. his dark eyes searched your face, looking for permission, for confirmation, for something he seemed too afraid to name.

your heart hammered against your ribs. this was wrong. he was a jester. you were a princess. your father would—

you didn't care.

you leaned in, just slightly, your eyes flicking down to his lips. they were slightly chapped, parted, waiting. his breath hitched, warm against your cheek. his free hand came up, trembling, to cup your face. his palm was cold against your flushed skin, and you shivered, but not from the cold.

"princess," he whispered, and it sounded like a prayer.

you closed your eyes.

"choso!"

the voice boomed across the gardens like a crack of thunder. you jerked apart so fast you nearly fell off the bench. choso's hand dropped from your face like it had been burned, and he was on his feet in an instant, bowing low.

your father stood at the garden entrance, his massive frame silhouetted against the torchlight from the castle behind him. his face was flushed—from wine or anger, you couldn't tell—and his eyes were fixed on choso with an intensity that made your stomach drop.

"y-your majesty," choso said, his voice steady despite the panic you could see in the rigid set of his shoulders.

"the guests are waiting," your father said, his tone clipped. "the duke of the northern provinces has traveled three days to be here, and you're skulking in the gardens like a common servant. get inside. now."

choso didn't look at you. he couldn't. if he did, if your father saw the way his eyes lingered, the way his hands still trembled—

"at once, your majesty," choso said, and bowed again before turning on his heel and striding toward the castle. the bells on his hat jingled with each step, a mocking, cheerful sound that made you want to scream.

you sat there on the bench, your hand still warm from his touch, your lips still tingling with the ghost of what almost happened. your father watched choso go, his expression unreadable.

"daughter," he said finally, turning to you.

"father."

"inside. now. you have your duties to attend to."

you stood, gathering your embroidery with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "of course, father."

you followed him into the castle, your mind racing. the warmth of the garden was replaced by the oppressive heat of the great hall, where torches blazed and the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine. the long tables were filled with nobles and dignitaries, their laughter and chatter a cacophony that made your head pound.

choso was already there, standing at the center of the hall, surrounded by expectant faces. he looked small somehow, despite his size. the motley seemed garish under the torchlight, the bells absurd. he caught your eye for just a second—a fleeting, desperate glance—before turning to the crowd.

"ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "i hope you're enjoying the feast."

a few polite chuckles. most of the guests barely looked up from their plates.

"i thought i'd start with a little something to... lighten the mood." he reached into his sleeve and produced three wooden balls, beginning to juggle them with surprising dexterity. the balls arced through the air, catching the torchlight, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

he was good. really good. the balls moved in perfect rhythm, his hands a blur, his expression focused and intense. the guests began to pay attention, their conversations dying down as they watched.

then he added a fourth ball. then a fifth. the crowd gasped, impressed. choso's face remained serious, but you could see the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

"impressive," the duke of the northern provinces said, leaning forward in his seat. "but can you do it blindfolded?"

choso caught the balls one by one, tucking them back into his sleeve. "i can try, your grace!"

someone produced a silk scarf, and choso tied it around his eyes with practiced ease. he took a breath, then began to juggle again. the balls moved in perfect arcs, his hands finding them by instinct alone. the crowd erupted in applause.

you watched from your seat at the high table, your heart swelling with something you couldn't name. pride, maybe. or something deeper. something dangerous.

your father leaned over, his voice low. "he's adequate, i suppose. better than the last one."

"he's more than adequate," you said, not looking at your father. "he's talented."

"he's a jester!" your father said, dismissive. "talent is irrelevant. he serves a purpose. nothing more."

you bit your tongue, saying nothing. but inside, something hardened. a resolve you hadn't known you possessed.

choso finished his act to thunderous applause, bowing low. as he straightened, his eyes found yours across the crowded hall. the blindfold was gone, and the look he gave you was raw, unguarded, full of everything he couldn't say.

you held his gaze, letting him see the truth in your own eyes. i know. i feel it too. this isn't over.

he looked away first, bowing to the crowd and retreating to the edge of the hall. but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

the feast dragged on. course after course, speech after speech, toast after toast. you sat at the high table, smiling and nodding and saying all the right things, but your mind was elsewhere. on a garden bench. on cold hands and warm breath. on a moment that had been stolen from you.

when the feast finally ended, when the last guest had stumbled to their chambers and the hall had emptied, you found yourself alone. the servants were clearing the tables, their movements efficient and silent. you stood, your legs stiff from sitting, and made your way toward the door.

"your highness."

you turned. choso was standing in the shadows by the wall, half-hidden behind a pillar. he looked exhausted, the motley rumpled, his hair disheveled.

"choso," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

he stepped closer, checking to make sure no one was watching. "i'm sorry. about before. in the gardens. i shouldn't have—"

"don't," you said, cutting him off. "don't apologize for that."

"but your father—"

"my father doesn't own me," you said, and the words felt like a declaration of war. "he doesn't control what i feel. who i—"

you stopped yourself before you could say too much. but the words hung in the air anyway, heavy with implication.

choso stared at you, his dark eyes wide. "princess—"

"don't call me that," you said, stepping closer. "not now. not when we're alone."

"i have to," he said, his voice strained. "if anyone hears—"

"let them hear."

"you don't know what you're saying," he said, but there was no conviction in his voice. only fear. and longing.

"i know exactly what i'm saying," you said, and you reached out, your hand finding his. his fingers were cold, as always, but they curled around yours without hesitation. "i know what i want."

"and what do you want?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

you looked up at him, at this man who had stumbled into your life like a storm, who had turned your world upside down with his silence and his seriousness and his unexpected, devastating warmth.

"you," you said simply. "i want you."

his breath hitched. his hand tightened around yours. for a moment, you thought he might pull you close, might kiss you right there in the empty hall, consequences be damned.

then footsteps echoed from the corridor, and the moment shattered. choso dropped your hand like it had burned him, stepping back into the shadows.

"tomorrow," he whispered. "meet me inthe gardens. at midnight."

"choso—"

"please," he said, and the desperation in his voice made your chest ache. "i can't... i can't do this here. not where anyone can see. but tomorrow. i promise."

you nodded, your heart pounding. "tomorrow."

he melted back into the shadows, disappearing as silently as he'd appeared. you stood there for a long moment, your hand still tingling from his touch, your lips still burning with the memory of what almost happened.

then you turned and walked to your chambers, your mind racing, your heart full.

tomorrow at midnight in the gardens.

you couldn't wait.

—

you woke with the sun, which was unusual for you. normally you'd sleep until your ladies-in-waiting came to rouse you, groaning and pulling the covers over your head. but today your eyes flew open before dawn had even fully broken, your heart already racing, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn't name.

you threw the covers aside and rang for your maids before you could talk yourself out of it. elara arrived first, her hair still mussed from sleep, blinking at you in confusion.

"your highness? is everything alright?"

"everything is perfect!" you said, and the word came out breathless, giddy. "everything is perfect. i need my sewing basket. and the blue silk. no—the green. the green with the silver thread."

elara stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "you want to sew? now? it's barely dawn."

"yes, now. please."

the maids exchanged glances but didn't argue. they knew better than to question you when you had that look in your eyes—the one that said you'd already made up your mind and the world could either get on board or get out of the way.

they brought your sewing basket, the green silk, the silver thread. you settled by the window where the light was best, your fingers already moving, stitching with a focus and precision that surprised even you. you were making a handkerchief. a simple thing, really. but you embroidered the edges with tiny roses, each petal perfect, each leaf delicate. your best work. the kind of work that took hours, that demanded your full attention.

but you didn't want your full attention. you wanted to think about cold hands and dark eyes and the way choso's voice cracked when he said your name.

"you're humming," elara observed from across the room, where she was mending one of your gowns.

you stopped. you hadn't even realized. "am i?"

"yes. you rarely hum."

you started again, unable to help it. the melody was aimless, wandering, the kind of tune that came from a heart too full to contain itself. you stitched and hummed and watched the sun climb higher in the sky, marking the hours until midnight.

the day crawled. you sewed through breakfast, through lunch, through the afternoon. your fingers moved automatically, the needle flashing in and out of the fabric, while your mind wandered to gardens and starlight and the almost-kiss that had been stolen from you.

"your highness, you've been at this for hours," elara said, concern creeping into her voice. "your fingers must be sore."

you looked down. she was right. your fingertips were red, the skin tender from the needle. but you couldn't stop. if you stopped, you'd have to think. and if you thought, you'd have to confront the enormity of what you were feeling, the danger of what you were planning.

"just a little longer," you said. "i want to finish this tonight."

tonight. the word sent a shiver down your spine.

the afternoon bled into evening. you ate dinner mechanically, tasting nothing, your mind already in the gardens, already by the stone bench, already waiting. your father sat at the head of the table, discussing trade agreements with some lord or other, and you nodded and smiled and said nothing.

"you're quiet tonight, daughter," your father observed, his eyes narrowing.

"just tired, father," you said. "it's been a long day."

"hm." he didn't look convinced, but he let it go. "early night, then. you look pale."

"yes, father."

you excused yourself as soon as politeness allowed, retreating to your chambers with a flurry of excuses about headaches and early mornings. your maids helped you out of your gown, into your nightdress, brushing out your hair with practiced efficiency.

"will you need anything else tonight, your highness?" elara asked, pausing at the door.

"nope! sleep well, elara."

"you too, your highness."

the door closed. the lock clicked. and then you were alone.

you sat by the window, the finished handkerchief in your lap. it was beautiful, if you said so yourself. the roses were perfect, the silver thread catching the candlelight. you'd made it for him. a stupid, sentimental gift that you'd probably never have the courage to give.

you watched the moon climb the sky. nine o'clock. ten o'clock. your heart hammered with each passing minute.

then, soft as a breath, a knock at your door.

you froze. no one knocked on your door at this hour. no one dared.

another knock. three taps, a pause, then two more.

you were at the door in an instant, your hand on the lock, your breath caught in your throat. you shouldn't open it. you knew you shouldn't. but your hand was already turning the mechanism, already pulling the door inward.

choso stood in the corridor, still wearing his motley, his dark hair damp from the night air. his eyes were wide, wild, desperate. he looked like a man who'd been drowning and had finally broken the surface.

"choso?!" you breathed. "what are you—it's only ten. i thought—midnight—"

"i couldn't wait," he said, and his voice was raw, stripped bare. "i tried. i waited in the gardens for an hour, but i couldn't—i needed to see you. i needed to know if last night was real. if you meant what you said."

you stared at him, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst from your chest. "you came to my chambers. choso, if anyone sees you—"

"i don't care," he said, and the words were fierce, almost angry. "i don't care about the rules, or the risk, or what your father will do if he finds out. i just... i needed to see you."

you should have sent him away. you should have closed the door, locked it, pretended this never happened. but you were already reaching for him, your hand curling into the fabric of his motley, pulling him inside.

the door closed behind him. the lock clicked. and then you were alone together, in your chambers, with nothing but candlelight and moonlight and the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you.

"hi," he said softly, and the word was so simple, so human, that it made your chest ache.

"hi," you whispered back.

he looked around your chambers like he was seeing them for the first time. the canopy bed, the sewing basket by the window, the embroidery hoop with the green silk. his eyes lingered on the handkerchief in your lap, the one with the roses.

"you made that," he said, his voice wondering.

"yes."

"for me?"

you nodded, unable to speak.

he crossed the room in two strides, kneeling before you like a knight before his queen. his hands found yours, cold fingers intertwining with warm ones, and he looked up at you with those dark, intense eyes.

"i'm sorry," he said. "for coming here. for being reckless. for putting you in danger. but i couldn't—i couldn't stay away. not after you said—"

"i meant it," you said, cutting him off. "every word."

his breath hitched. his hands tightened around yours. "but i'm nothing. a jester. a failure. a man who can't even make people laugh. you're a princess. you deserve—"

"i deserve someone who loves me," you said, echoing his words from the garden. "someone who doesn't look away."

he stared at you, his eyes shining in the candlelight. "i see you," he whispered. "i see all of you. the sharp tongue and the soft heart. the crown and the girl underneath. i see you, and i—"

he stopped, the words catching in his throat.

"you what?" you prompted, your voice barely a breath.

"i love you," he said, and the words tumbled out like a confession, like a prayer, like a man jumping off a cliff and trusting the wind to catch him. "i love you, and i know i shouldn't, and i know it's wrong, and i know your father would have me executed if he knew, but i can't—i can't not say it. not after last night. not after you looked at me like i was something more than a fool in motley."

your eyes burned. your vision blurred. you were crying, you realized. tears streaming down your face, hot and fast, and you couldn't stop them.

"choso," you said, and his name was a sob, a laugh, a benediction.

he reached up, his cold thumb brushing the tears from your cheeks. "don't cry," he said, his voice breaking. "please don't cry. i didn't mean to make you cry."

"they're happy tears," you said, laughing through the sobs. "you idiot. i'm so happy!"

he smiled, that small, genuine smile that was becoming your favorite thing in the world. "happy tears," he repeated, like he was testing the words. "i've never made anyone cry happy tears before."

"there's a first time for everything," you said, and then you were leaning down, your hands cupping his face, your lips finding his.

the kiss was soft at first. tentative. a question and an answer all at once. his lips were chapped, slightly rough, and he tasted like rain and something sweet, like honey or wine. his hands came up to frame your face, trembling, holding you like you were something precious, something that might shatter if he held too tight.

then the kiss deepened. his tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it without hesitation. he groaned against your mouth, the sound low and desperate, and pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist.

you tumbled off the chair, landing in a heap on the floor, laughing and kissing and tangled together. he was above you, his weight pressing you into the carpet, his hands everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your sides.

"wait," he gasped, pulling back. his eyes were wild, his lips swollen, his hair a mess. "wait. we should—we should talk about this. about what this means. about the consequences."

"later," you said, pulling him back down. "we'll talk later. fuck— i need you, cho."

something in him broke. or maybe something in him finally came together. he kissed you again, harder this time, his hands sliding under your nightdress, cold fingers against the warm skin of your waist. you gasped into his mouth, arching up into him, your fingers tangling in his messy hair.

"god—" he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked. "you're so soft. so perfect."

his mouth trailed down your jaw, your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. you tilted your head back, giving him access, and he took full advantage—nuzzling the sensitive spot below your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"cho!—" you whimpered, your hips rolling up against him instinctively. he groaned, grinding down, and you could feel how hard he was through the layers of fabric between you.

"i know—i'm sorry—" he panted, but he didn't stop. his hands slid higher, brushing the underside of your breasts, and you moaned, the sound louder than you intended.

"shh," he whispered, pressing a finger to his own lips. "we have to be quiet. if anyone hears—"

you nodded, biting your lip to keep from making more sounds. but then his thumb brushed over your nipple, and a small, helpless noise escaped anyway. he swallowed it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, and you felt him smile against your mouth.

"i can't help it," you mumbled against his lips.

"i want to hear you," he said, his voice low and rough. "i want to hear every sound. but not tonight. not here."

his hands continued their exploration, mapping your body like he was memorizing it. every curve, every dip, every place that made you gasp or shiver or squirm. he was attentive, careful, his touch reverent—like you were something holy.

then the door burst open.

"your highness, i forgot to—"

elara stood in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob, her eyes wide as saucers. she took in the scene in a single, horrifying glance—you on the floor, choso above you, his hands under your nightdress, your hair a mess, your lips swollen, the two of you tangled together in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

for one frozen moment, nobody moved.

then elara screamed.

it was a high, piercing sound that shattered the silence like glass. she stumbled backward into the corridor, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes still wide with shock.

"the king!" she shrieked. "someone get the king! the jester—he's—the princess—"

"elara, wait!" you scrambled to your feet, your nightdress falling back into place, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might explode. "elara, please— don't!"

but she was already running, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, her screams growing fainter but no less terrifying.

choso was on his feet too, his face pale, his eyes wide with panic. "i have to go," he said, his voice tight. "i have to—if your father finds me here—"

"choso—"

"i'm sorry," he said, and the words were desperate, anguished. "i'm so sorry. i never should have come. i put you in danger. i—"

"stop," you said, grabbing his hand. "we'll figure this out. we'll—"

"there's nothing to figure out," he said, and his voice was hollow. "your father will have me executed. or exiled. or worse. and you—god, what will he do to you?"

"i don't care," you said, and you meant it. "i don't care what he does to me. i just—"

"i care!" he said, and his voice broke. "i care what happens to you. and i won't let my selfishness destroy your life."

he pulled his hand from yours, stepping back. the distance between you felt like a chasm, widening with every breath.

"choso, please—"

"i love you," he said, and the words were a goodbye, raw and ragged and final. "i love you, and that's why i— i have to go."

he moved to the window, throwing it open. the night air rushed in, cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain and roses. he looked back at you one last time, his dark eyes full of everything he couldn't say, everything he'd never get the chance to.

"i'm sorry," he whispered.

and then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness like a shadow swallowed by the night.

you stood there, frozen, your heart shattering into a thousand pieces. the sound of elara's screams still echoed in your ears, growing fainter as she ran down the corridor, but no less terrifying for the distance.

you had maybe seconds. maybe less.

you looked down at yourself—your nightdress rumpled, your hair a mess, your lips still swollen from his kisses. evidence everywhere. you grabbed a shawl from the back of your chair, wrapping it around your shoulders, trying to look presentable, trying to look innocent. your hands were shaking so badly you could barely tie it.

you smoothed your hair. you straightened your nightdress. you tried to slow your breathing, to calm the frantic beating of your heart.

but it wasn't enough. you knew it wasn't enough.

the footsteps came first. heavy, booted, multiple sets. the guards. you could hear them before you saw them—the clatter of armor, the jingle of weapons, the low murmur of voices.

then the door to your chambers slammed open.

four guards filled the doorway, their faces hard and impassive. behind them, elara hovered, her eyes red from crying, her hands wringing together.

she wouldn't look at you.

"princess," the captain of the guard said, his voice flat. "the king requests your presence. immediately."

"i'm not dressed," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

"now, your highness."

it wasn't a request.

you followed them through the corridors, your bare feet cold against the stone floor. the castle was awake now, torches blazing in their sconces, servants peering from doorways with wide eyes and whispered gossip. you kept your chin up, your expression neutral, even as your insides churned with fear.

they didn't take you to the throne room. no, they took you to your father's private study.

the room was small, intimate, lined with books and maps. a fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. your father stood by the window, his back to you, his hands clasped behind his back. he was still wearing his dinner clothes, but his crown was gone, his hair disheveled.

and there, on his desk, was choso.

no—not on his desk. in front of it. on his knees.

two guards flanked him, their hands on his shoulders, forcing him down. his hands were bound behind his back with rough rope, his motley torn at the shoulder, a bruise already forming on his cheek. his head was bowed, his hair falling forward to hide his face.

but you could see his ears. they were red, just like they were on the first night you spoke.

your heart clenched.

"father," you said, your voice carefully controlled.

your father turned. his face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes like chips of ice. "close the door," he said to the guards.

the door closed and the lock clicked. you were alone with your father and the man you loved, kneeling on the floor like a dirty criminal.

"do you know why you're here?" your father asked, his voice deceptively calm.

"i can explain—" you started.

"can you?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "can you explain why my daughter's lady-in-waiting found a man in her chambers? a man with his hands under her dress? a man who is supposed to be a jester, not a—"

he stopped himself, his jaw clenching. the silence that followed was suffocating.

"he didn't force me," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "i wanted him there."

your father's eyes narrowed. "you wanted him there."

"yes."

"you invited a common jester into your bedchambers. willingly."

"yes."

he stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. then he turned to choso, who hadn't moved, hadn't lifted his head.

"and you," your father said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "you took advantage of my daughter's kindness. you betrayed my trust. you—"

"i love her," choso said, and his voice was steady despite the fear you could see trembling in his shoulders. "i love her, and she loves me. i didn't take advantage of anything. i would never—"

"silence!" your father's voice cracked like a whip. "you don't speak unless spoken to. you're a jester. a servant. you're nothing."

the words hit you like a physical blow. you stepped forward, placing yourself between your father and choso.

"he's not nothing," you said, your voice shaking with emotion. "he's kind, and he's good, and he sees me. not the princess, me!"

"he sees a way to advance himself," your father said coldly. "a way to climb above his station. and you, foolish girl, have given him the perfect opportunity."

"that's not true!" you said, but your voice wavered. doubt crept in, cold and insidious. was it true? had choso been using you?

you looked at him. he was looking at you now, his dark eyes meeting yours. there was no guile in them. no calculation. only pain, and love, and a desperate, aching sincerity.

"i would die before i hurt her," choso said quietly. "i would give up everything. my life. my freedom. my heart. anything for her."

your father laughed. it was a cold, bitter sound. "how poetic. how romantic. and how utterly irrelevant."

he turned to the guards. "take him to the dungeon. he'll be executed at dawn for the crime of defiling the princess."

"no!" you lunged forward, but the captain of the guard caught your arm, holding you back. "father, please! you can't—"

"i can, and i will," your father said, his voice hard as stone. "he's a traitor. a seducer. a man who thought he could touch what belongs to the crown. he'll die, and you will forget him."

"i'll never forget him," you said, tears streaming down your face. "i'll never—"

"you will!" your father yelled. "because tomorrow, you'll begin your betrothal to the duke of the northern provinces. the arrangements have already been made."

the world tilted. your knees buckled. if the guard hadn't been holding you, you would have fallen.

"what?" you whispered.

"the duke has agreed to the match," your father said, his voice matter-of-fact. "the wedding will take place in one month. you will be a good wife, and you will produce heirs, and you will forget this... indiscretion ever happened."

"i won't marry him," you said, your voice breaking. "i won't—"

"you will," your father said. "or i'll have the jester tortured before he dies. is that what you want?"

you looked at choso. he was shaking his head, his eyes pleading. don't. don't sacrifice yourself for me. please.

"your majesty," choso said, his voice raw. "please. punish me. kill me. do whatever you want with me. but don't force her into a marriage she doesn't want. don't make her suffer for my mistakes."

"your mistakes?" your father repeated, his lip curling. "you think this is about your mistakes? this is about order. about hierarchy. about the natural order of things. you are nothing. nothing, i say! and you forgot your place!"

he turned to the guards. "take him away."

the guards hauled choso to his feet. he didn't resist. he just looked at you, his dark eyes full of everything he couldn't say.

"i love you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "i'll always love you."

"choso!—" you sobbed, reaching for him, but the guard held you back.

they dragged him from the room. the door closed. his footsteps faded down the corridor, heavy and final.

you collapsed to your knees, your sobs echoing in the empty room. your father stood over you, his expression unreadable.

"you'll thank me one day," he said quietly. "when you're a duchess, with children of your own. you'll understand that i did what was necessary."

you said nothing. you just knelt there, broken, as the fire crackled and the shadows danced and the world you'd known crumbled to ash around you.

—

the morning of the execution came and went.

you didn't see the sun rise, nor did you hear the bells toll. you just sat in your window seat, wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing, waiting for the moment when the world would end.

it didn't.

the hours passed. the sun climbed. the castle stirred to life around you. and still, you sat, numb and hollow, waiting for a grief that wouldn't come because you couldn't let yourself feel it. if you felt it, you'd shatter. and if you shattered, you'd never put yourself back together.

elara came at midday, her face pale. "your highness," she said softly. "the execution... it didn't happen."

you turned to look at her, your eyes blank. "what?"

"the king... he commuted the sentence. the jester is... he's alive."

the relief that flooded through you was so intense it was painful. your vision blurred. your hands shook. you pressed them against your mouth to stifle a sob.

"but," elara continued, her voice dropping, "the king has ordered him to perform tonight at the ball. for the duke."

the relief curdled into something else. something cold and sharp.

"perform," you repeated.

"yes. as... as punishment. to remind him of his place. to remind everyone." elara's eyes filled with tears. "your highness, i'm so sorry. i never meant—"

"leave," you said, your voice flat.

she obeyed, because what choice did she have?

you sat there for a long time, your mind racing. choso was alive! he was alive, and tonight, you'd see him. but not as yourself. not as the girl who'd kissed him on the floor of her chambers. as the princess. the betrothed. the prize being handed to another man.

the thought made you want to scream.

—

they came for you in the evening, a parade of maids and dressers and stylists, all chattering and fussing and pulling you in different directions. they bathed you in water scented with rose oil, scrubbed your skin until it glowed, brushed your hair until it shone like dark silk.

they dressed you in a gown of pale blue silk, the color of a winter sky. it was fitted through the bodice, cinched at the waist, the skirt flowing in soft layers to the floor. silver thread embroidered the hem, tiny stars and moons that caught the light when you moved. they placed a delicate silver circlet on your head, set with small sapphires that matched your eyes.

you looked beautiful, and yet, you felt like a corpse.

"your highness looks stunning," one of the maids gushed, adjusting the drape of your sleeve.

you said nothing. you just stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the stranger looking back at you. pale. hollow-eyed. dressed for a wedding that wasn't a wedding, a celebration that felt like a funeral.

"the duke will be enchanted!" another maid squealed, beaming.

you wanted to tell them that the duke could go to hell. that you'd rather throw yourself from the highest tower than dance with a man you'd never met, a man who was stealing you from the only person you'd ever loved.

but you said nothing. you just stood there, silent and still, as they finished their work and led you to the grand ballroom.

—

the ballroom was a blaze of light and color. hundreds of candles burned in crystal chandeliers overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the assembled guests. the air was thick with the scent of perfume and wine and roasted meats, the sound of laughter and music and conversation a constant, buzzing hum.

you stood at the top of the stairs, your hand on the banister, your heart pounding. below, the crowd milled and mingled, a sea of silk and jewels and smiling faces. at the far end of the room, on a raised dais, sat your father on his throne, resplendent in his crown and robes.

and beside him, standing with an easy, confident posture that spoke of wealth and power, was a man you'd never seen before.

he was tall. impossibly tall. his hair was white—not gray, nor silver, but pure, startling white—and it stuck up in all directions, defying gravity and good sense. he wore a suit of deep blue velvet, tailored to perfection, with a high collar that framed his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. his eyes—

you couldn't see his eyes from this distance. but you could feel them. a weight. a presence. something magnetic and dangerous and utterly, infuriatingly self-assured.

the duke of the northern provinces. satoru gojo.

your betrothed.

your stomach turned.

"your highness," the herald announced, his voice booming across the room. "may i present the princess, first daughter of his royal majesty, betrothed to his grace, the duke of the northern provinces."

every head in the room turned. every eye fixed on you. the crowd parted, creating a path from the stairs to the dais, and you had no choice but to walk it.

you descended the stairs slowly, your chin lifted, your expression neutral. the gown whispered around your feet, the silver embroidery catching the light. you could feel the weight of hundreds of gazes on you, assessing, judging, admiring.

you reached the dais. your father stood, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"daughter," he said, his voice warm for the benefit of the crowd. "you look radiant."

"father," you replied, your voice equally performative.

then your father turned to the duke, and you finally got a clear look at his face.

he was beautiful. there was no other word for it. sharp features, full lips curved in a lazy smile, skin pale and flawless. and his eyes—

his eyes were blue. not the soft blue of a winter sky, like your gown. but a vivid, electric, almost unnatural blue, like the heart of a flame. they were striking against his pale skin and white hair, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.

"your highness," he said, and his voice was smooth, rich, amused. "you're even more beautiful than they said."

"your grace," you replied, curtsying. "the rumors didn't do you justice either."

his smile widened. "oh, i like her," he said to your father, as if you weren't standing right there. "she's got spirit."

"she does," your father agreed, his tone warning. "which is why she needs a firm hand."

you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you'd regret.

satoru offered you his arm. "shall we?"

you had no choice. you placed your hand on his sleeve, and he led you down from the dais to the center of the ballroom. the crowd parted before them, whispers following in their wake.

the orchestra struck up a waltz. satoru turned to you, one hand finding your waist, the other taking your hand. his grip was firm but not painful, his movements fluid and confident.

"relax," he murmured, his blue eyes searching your face. "i don't bite. unless you ask nicely."

you stiffened. "that's not funny."

"oh, come now! it was a little funny," he said, spinning you effortlessly. "try to smile, princess. we're supposed to be in love. or at least, pretending to be. you look like you're being led to the gallows."

"perhaps because i am," you said through gritted teeth.

he laughed. it was a bright, genuine sound that drew glances from nearby guests. "god, you're dramatic. it's refreshing. most women in this court are so boring."

"i'm not most women."

"no," he agreed, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. "you're not."

the dance continued. he was a skilled partner, guiding you through the steps with an ease that spoke of years of practice. but there was no warmth in it. no connection. just two people playing their parts.

"sooo," he said, his tone conversational. "tell me about yourself, princess. what do you enjoy? embroidery? poetry? plotting the downfall of your enemies?"

"sewing," you said flatly. "reading. avoiding tedious conversations with arrogant men."

"arrogant?" he repeated, feigning offense. "i prefer 'confidently self-aware.'"

"of course you do."

he spun you again, and as you turned, your eyes swept the room. the guests, the decorations, the musicians. and then—

your heart stopped.

there, at the edge of the dance floor, standing in the shadows behind a pillar, was choso.

he was wearing his motley. the same garish red and yellow, the same floppy hat with its tarnished bells. but he looked different. thinner. paler. the bruise on his cheek had darkened to a deep purple, and there were shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.

he was staring at you.

even from this distance, even across the crowded ballroom, you could feel the weight of his gaze. it was heavy, aching, full of everything he couldn't say.

your breath caught. your step faltered. satoru tightened his grip on your waist, steadying you.

"careful," he said, his voice low. "you almost tripped."

"i'm fine," you said, but your voice was barely a whisper.

"who are you looking at?" satoru asked, his eyes following yours to the edge of the room

you forced yourself to look away. "no one."

"hmm, alright." he didn't sound convinced, but he busied himself with wrapping an arm around you waist.

the dance ended. the crowd applauded. satoru bowed, you curtsied, and then the herald's voice rang out again.

"and now, to entertain the happy couple on this joyous occasion, please welcome our court jester, choso!"

the applause was polite, scattered. choso stepped out from behind the pillar, into the light. the bells on his hat jingled softly as he walked, a sound that made your chest ache.

he reached the center of the ballroom, directly in front of the dais where your father sat. he didn't look at you. he couldn't. if he did, if your father saw the way his eyes lingered, the way his hands trembled—

"ladies and gentlemen!" choso began, his voice carrying across the room. it was steady, but just barely. "i have a few jokes for the happy couple!"

the crowd murmured, interested. your father leaned forward, his expression cold and expectant.

"what do you call a princess who's been promised to a duke?" choso asked, his tone light, almost cheerful. "sold!"

a few nervous laughs. your father's eyes narrowed

"why did the princess bring a ladder to the ball?" choso continued. "because she heard the marriage was a step up!!"

more laughs, louder this time. but they died quickly, swallowed by the tension in the room.

"what's the difference between a jester and a duke?" choso asked, and his voice cracked. just slightly. just enough for you to hear. "the duke always gets the girl, and the jester gets the whips!"

the courtroom fell into an awkward, void of silence.

choso stood there, his hands clenched at his sides, his shoulders rigid. he was looking at the floor, his hair hiding his face. but you could see the way his jaw was clenched, the way his breath came too fast.

your father stood. "enough," he said, his voice cold. "you've had your punishment. now sit down and be quiet."

choso didn't move. for a moment, you thought he might argue. might fight. might say something that would get him killed.

then he bowed. low and deep. a jester's bow, mocking and deferential all at once.

"of course, your majesty," he said, his voice hollow. "anything for the happy couple."

he turned and walked away, his bells jingling with each step. the crowd parted for him, their faces a mix of pity and amusement and discomfort.

you watched him go, your heart breaking all over again.

"well," satoru said beside you, his tone light. "that was depressing. your father's got a real flair for torture, doesn't he?"

you turned to look at him. he was watching you, his blue eyes sharp and knowing.

"you love him," he said. it wasn't a question.

you opened your mouth to deny it. to lie. to protect yourself. but the words simply wouldn't come.

satoru sighed, running a hand through his white hair. "this is going to be a long night."

you watched choso disappear into the shadows at the edge of the ballroom, the last jingle of his bells fading into the murmur of the crowd. your chest felt like it was being crushed under a stone. every instinct screamed at you to run after him, to find him, to hold him and never let go.

but you couldn't. not here. not with hundreds of eyes on you, not with your father watching from his throne like a hawk circling its prey.

"princess."

satoru's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. you turned to find him studying you with those unnervingly blue eyes, his head tilted slightly, like a cat observing something curious.

"you're crying," he said, matter-of-fact.

you touched your cheek. he was right. tears had slipped free without you noticing, hot tracks down your flushed skin. you wiped them away quickly, glancing toward the dais. your father was deep in conversation with some lord, his attention momentarily diverted.

"i'm fine," you said, your voice brittle.

"you're not fine," satoru said. "you're standing at your engagement ball, crying over another man. that's the opposite of fine. that's a catastrophe."

you flinched. "please don't—"

"oh, relax," he said, his tone shifting. the lazy amusement was gone, replaced by something sharper. more serious. "i'm not going to tell anyone. despite what you clearly think of me, i'm not a complete bastard."

you stared at him, searching his face for the lie. for the trap. you found none.

"why?" you asked. "why would you help me?"

he shrugged, a fluid motion of his broad shoulders. "because i don't want to marry someone who's in love with someone else. call it self-interest. or call it basic human decency. i'm flexible with labels."

your heart hammered. "i didn't say—"

"you didn't have to," he interrupted. "the way you looked at him. the way you're still looking at the door he walked through. it's written all over your face, princess. you're not exactly subtle."

you opened your mouth to argue, to defend yourself, but the words died on your lips. what was the point? he was right. you were terrible at hiding your feelings. elara had seen it. your father had seen it. and now this stranger, this man you'd met barely an hour ago, had seen it too.

"what do you want from me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"nothing," he said. "i told you. i don't want a loveless marriage any more than you do. my father is pushing this alliance for political reasons. trade routes, border security, the usual boring nonsense. but i have no intention of forcing a woman to be with me against her will.

"then why agree to the betrothal at all?"

"because saying no to my father is... complicated," he said, and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes. something that might have been frustration, or resignation, or pain. "but that's my problem, not yours. right now, your problem is that jester, and the fact that your father looks like he's about to come over here and ask why you're having a private conversation with your betrothed instead of dancing."

you glanced at the dais. your father was indeed looking in your direction, his brow furrowed.

"so here's what's going to happen," satoru said, his voice dropping even lower. "i'm going to go distract your father. i'll challenge him to a game of chess, or bore him with stories about northern grain tariffs, or whatever it takes to keep his attention for the next ten minutes. and you—" he fixed you with a pointed look. "you're going to go find your jester."

your breath caught. "i can't. the guards—"

"are at the doors, not roaming the halls," he said. "the servants' corridor behind the tapestry on the left leads to the east wing. there's a staircase at the end that goes down to the lower levels. he'll be in the servants' quarters. third door on the right."

you stared at him, stunned. "how do you know that?"

"i make it my business to know the layout of every castle i enter," he said simply. "old habit. ten minutes, princess. that's what i can give you. use them wisely."

he turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"and princess?"

"what?"

"when you see him—" his expression softened, just slightly. "tell him the duke said 'good luck'. it'll give you something to laugh about. you could use a laugh."

before you could respond, he was already walking toward the dais, his stride confident and unhurried. you watched as he approached your father, bowing with exaggerated flourish, his white hair catching the candlelight.

"your majesty!" satoru's voice carried across the room, bright and charming. "i was just telling your daughter about the chess set in my carriage. it's carved from ivory, imported from the eastern kingdoms. i'd love the chance to play you, if you're willing. i hear you're quite the strategist."

your father's face lit up. he loved chess. he loved it more than almost anything, except perhaps power. "is that so? well, your grace, i'd be happy to teach you a lesson or two."

"i look forward to it," satoru said, and as he followed your father toward the side room where the chess sets were kept, he glanced back at you. just once. a quick, almost imperceptible nod.

go.

you didn't hesitate.

you turned and walked quickly toward the edge of the ballroom, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. the crowd parted for you—the princess, the betrothed, the center of attention—and you smiled and nodded and said all the right things while your mind raced.

the tapestry was exactly where satoru had said it would be. a massive woven depiction of a hunting scene, hanging on the left wall near the musicians' gallery. you glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then you slipped behind it.

the servants' corridor was narrow and dim, lit by a single torch at the far end. the air was cooler here, smelling of dust and old stone. you lifted the hem of your gown and hurried down the passage, your wretched heels whispering against the floor.

the staircase was steep and winding, spiraling down into the bowels of the castle. you descended quickly, your hand trailing along the cold stone wall for balance. the sounds of the ballroom faded above you, replaced by the distant clatter of pots and the low murmur of servants' voices.

the lower level was a maze of corridors and rooms—storerooms, kitchens, servants' quarters. you followed satoro's directions, turning left, then right, then left again, until you reached a narrow hallway lined with plain wooden doors.

third door on the right.

you stopped in front of it, your hand raised to knock. your heart was hammering. your palms were sweating. what would you say? what could you say? i'm sorry? i love you? please don't hate me?

you knocked.

silence.

you knocked again, harder this time. "choso?"

nothing.

your heart sank. he wasn't here. satoru had been wrong, or choso had been moved, or—

the door creaked open.

choso stood in the doorway, and the sight of him made your breath catch. he'd changed out of the motley. he was wearing a plain white shirt, untucked, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. his hair was damp, like he'd just washed his face. the bruise on his cheek looked worse in the dim light, a dark smear against his pale skin.

he stared at you, his dark eyes wide with shock.

"princess?" he whispered, like he couldn't believe you were real. "what are you—you can't be here. if anyone sees—"

"satoru is distracting my father," you said quickly. "we don't have much time. ten minutes. maybe less."

"satoru?" he repeated, confused.

"the duke. my—" you couldn't say the word. betrothed. it felt like a betrayal just thinking it. "he knows. about us. and he's helping."

choso stared at you, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and something that might have been hope. "why would he help?"

"because he's not the monster my father is," you said. "and because he doesn't want to marry someone who loves someone else."

choso flinched at the word. loves. you'd said it without thinking, and now it hung in the air between you, heavy and undeniable.

"you shouldn't be here," he said, but his voice was weak, unconvincing. "if your father finds out—"

"i don't care," you said, and you stepped forward, into the room. it was small, sparse—a narrow bed, a wooden chair, a single candle burning on a rough-hewn table. a prison cell dressed up as a bedroom. "i don't care what my father does. i don't care about the marriage, or the alliance, or any of it. i just—"

your voice broke. the tears you'd been holding back all night came flooding forward, hot and relentless.

"i just needed to see you," you whispered. "i needed to know you were okay. i needed to tell you that i'm sorry. that this is my fault. that i never should have let you come to my chambers. that i—"

"stop," he said, and his voice was rough, strained. "stop blaming yourself. this isn't your fault. it's mine. i'm the one who came to you. i'm the one who couldn't stay away. i'm the one who—"

he stopped, his jaw clenching. he looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

"i'm the one who ruined everything," he said quietly.

"you didn't ruin anything," you said, stepping closer. "my father ruined everything. this castle, this life, this—" you gestured helplessly at the space between you. "this prison. you're the only good thing in it.

the words broke something open inside you. the tears came harder, faster, your shoulders shaking with sobs you couldn't control. all the fear, all the grief, all the helplessness of the past three days came pouring out at once.

"hey—hey, no—" choso's voice cracked, and then his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest. "please don't. please, baby— i can't—"

but you couldn't stop. you buried your face in his shirt, your fingers clutching the rough fabric, and you wept. for him, for yourself, for the future that was being stolen from you both.

"shh," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your carefully brushed hair. "shh, i've got you. i'm here."

"i c-can't marry him!" you sobbed against his chest. "i can't. i don't love him. i don't even know him. i love you. i love you and it's not fair—"

"i know," he whispered, and his voice was thick, strained. "i know, i know."

he held you tighter, his chin resting on top of your head, his heartbeat steady and strong against your cheek. you could feel the tension in his body, the way his arms trembled around you, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"look at me," he said softly.

you shook your head, pressing closer.

"please." his hand found your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that made your chest ache. "please, look at me."

you opened your eyes. his face was blurry through your tears, but you could see the anguish in his dark eyes, the way his jaw was clenched like he was fighting his own breakdown.

"my heart aches when you weep," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "it physically hurts. right here." he pressed his free hand against his chest, over his heart. "like something is breaking. and i can't—i can't fix it. i can't make it better. and that's worse than anything your father could ever do to me."

"choso—"

"let me finish." he swallowed hard, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek. his touch was so gentle, so careful, like you were made of glass. "i need you to know something. whatever happens tomorrow, or next week, or next month—whatever your father does, whatever that duke does—i need you to know that these past months with you have been the best of my life. the only good part. you made me feel like i was worth something. like i wasn't just a fool in a motley. like i was—"

his voice broke. he looked away, blinking hard.

"like you were what?" you whispered, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. his skin was warm, slightly rough with stubble. "tell me."

"like i was yours," he said, and the words were raw, stripped of all pretense. "like i belonged to someone."

you leaned up and kissed him.

it was soft at first. a press of lips, gentle and trembling. a question. a promise. his breath hitched against your mouth, and for a moment he was frozen, like he couldn't believe this was real.

then he kissed you back.

his hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulled you closer. the kiss deepened, desperate and aching, tasting of salt and sorrow and something sweet underneath. you pressed yourself against him, your hands fisting in his shirt, trying to erase the space between you, trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there.

"i love you," you breathed against his lips. "i love you, i love you, i love you—"

"i know," he murmured, and he was smiling, you could feel it, even through the tears. "i know. i love you too. so much. too much."

"there's no such thing as too much," you said, and kissed him again.

he made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a whimper, and his arms wrapped around you completely, lifting you slightly off the ground. your feet left the floor and you gasped into his mouth, your arms looping around his neck.

"you're so warm," he whispered against your jaw, his lips trailing down to your neck. "so gorgeous. i dreamt about this. about you. every night."

"choso—" you tilted your head back, giving him access, and he took full advantage. his mouth found the sensitive spot below your ear, then the curve of your throat, then the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse hammered.

"tell me to stop," he murmured against your skin. "tell me this is too much. tell me—"

"don't stop," you said, and your voice was stronger now, steadier. "don't you dare stop."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching your face. "are you sure? if anyone finds out—"

"i don't care," you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your being. "let them find out. let my father know. let the whole kingdom know. i don't care. i'd rather have this—have you—for one night than a lifetime with someone else."

something in his expression shifted. the fear didn't disappear, but it was joined by something else. something fierce and tender and achingly vulnerable.

"you mean that," he said. it wasn't a question.

"i mean it."

he kissed you again, slower this time. deeper. his hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the silk of your gown, and you shivered.

"you're so beautiful," he murmured against your lips. "so beautiful it hurts me to look at you."

"you're not so bad yourself," you said, and he huffed a laugh, the sound warm and surprised.

"not so bad," he repeated, shaking his head. "that's the best you can do?"

"i'm a little distracted," you said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "you're wearing too many clothes."

"so are you," he said, and his hands found the laces at the back of your gown. he hesitated, his fingers trembling. "are you sure? once we—i don't want you to regret—"

you silenced him with another kiss, your own hands pulling his shirt free from his trousers. "i have never been more sure of anything in my life."

he groaned, low and desperate, and then the laces were coming undone, the silk loosening around your body. the gown slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric, and you stood before him in nothing but your thin shift, the candlelight painting your skin in gold and shadow.

choso stared at you like you were the sun. like you were the moon. like you were every star in the sky, and he was a man who'd been living in darkness his entire life.

"you're staring," you said, suddenly self-conscious.

"i know," he said, and his voice was reverent. "i can't help it."

he reached out, his cold fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your shift. you shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his touch, the way he looked at you like you were something sacred.

"you're shaking," he said softly.

"i'm nervous," you admitted. "i've never—i don't know what to do—"

"neither do i," he said, and the honesty of it made your heart swell. "we'll figure it out together."

he pulled his shirt over his head, and you saw him fully for the first time. he was lean but strong, his torso marked with faint scars—old ones, faded to thin white lines. a life lived in hardship, written on his skin. you reached out, tracing one that ran along his ribs.

"what's this from?" you asked.

"bar fight," he said. "i was fifteen. thought i was tougher than i was."

"and this?" another scar, on his shoulder.

"knife. different bar fight. i was sixteen and even stupider."

you laughed, the sound watery but real. "you were a troublemaker."

"i was a disaster," he corrected. "you're the first good thing that's ever happened to me."

you kissed the scar on his shoulder, then the one on his ribs, then the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammered against your lips. he shuddered, his hands coming up to frame your face.

"you're going to be the death of me," he whispered.

"good," you said. "then we'll die together."

"that's not funny."

"i mean, it's a little funny."

he laughed, and the sound was bright and broken and beautiful, and then he was kissing you again, walking you backward toward the narrow bed. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sat, looking up at him.

he knelt before you, his hands on your knees, his dark eyes full of so much love it made your chest ache.

"i want to remember this," he said softly. "every detail. the way you look at me. the way you smell like roses. the way your breath catches when i touch you. i want to carry this with me, no matter what happens."

"nothing is going to happen to you," you said fiercely. "i won't let it."

"princess—"

"don't call me that," you said, pulling him closer. "call me by my name. my real name."

he hesitated, then whispered it like a prayer. the name your mother gave you, the name only your closest family used. the name that meant you, not the crown.

"yes," you said, and pulled him down to you.

his mouth found yours again, hungry and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that made your toes curl. you arched up into him, your hands sliding over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the way his heart hammered against his ribs. he was trembling, you realized. this man who'd faced your father's wrath without flinching, who'd stood in a ballroom full of nobles and made them laugh—he was trembling beneath your touch.

"you're shaking," you whispered against his lips.

"i know," he breathed. "i've wanted this for so long. wanted you. and now you're here and i'm terrified i'll do something wrong, that i'll hurt you, that—"

you silenced him by pulling his head down and kissing him hard, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan. the sound vibrated through you, low and wrecked, and you felt it everywhere.

"you won't hurt me," you said. "i trust you."

something in him cracked open at that. his eyes went dark, almost black, and his hips rolled against yours. you gasped at the contact, at the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through the fabric of his trousers.

"fuck," he hissed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "you can't say things like that. i'm barely holding on as it is."

"then don't hold on," you said, and hitched your hip up against him.

he made a sound like a man dying—a choked, desperate moan that went straight through you. his hand slid up your thigh, pushing the thin fabric of your shift higher, his rough palm dragging against your bare skin. you whimpered, your legs falling open instinctively, and he groaned again, his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear.

"is this okay?" he asked, his voice wrecked.

"yes. god, yes. don't stop!"

his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and you both gasped. he touched you carefully at first, almost reverently, his fingertips exploring the slick heat between your legs. you were wet—embarrassingly, overwhelmingly wet—and when his finger slid through your folds, you cried out, your hand flying to cover your mouth.

"quiet, princess." he murmured, but he was smiling. that small, devastating smile. "remember? we have to be quiet."

"then stop touching me like that and i won't have to be quiet," you hissed.

"never," he said, and slid a finger inside you.

the sound you made was barely human. your back arched off the bed, your walls clenching around the intrusion, and choso watched your face like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

"you're so tight," he breathed. "so— fuck, you feel—i can't even—"

he added a second finger, stretching you slowly, and you bit your lip hard enough to taste blood. the stretch burned, but it was a good burn, a burn that made your hips roll against his hand, chasing the sensation.

"more," you gasped. "p-please, choso— ah! more!"

"i don't want to hurt you," he said, but his fingers were already curling inside you, finding that spot that made your vision white out.

"you're not—oh god—you're not hurting me— you fool!"

he worked you open with his fingers, two then three, stretching you carefully, his thumb circling your clit in slow, maddening strokes. you were making sounds you didn't recognize—whimpers and moans and broken little cries that you muffled against his shoulder.

"that's it," he murmured against your ear. "that's my girl, let me hear you. i want to hear what i do to you."

"we have to be quiet—" you panted.

"then bite me," he said, and you did. you sank your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder and he groaned, his fingers pumping faster, harder, hitting that spot inside you that made your legs shake.

"choso—i'm—i think i'm going to—"

"i know," he said, and his thumb pressed harder against your clit. "i can feel it. you're squeezing my fingers so tight. let go, baby. let go for me."

the pet name undid you. you came with a sob muffled against his shoulder, your walls pulsing around his fingers, your whole body shaking with the force of it. he held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out the pleasure until you were gasping and oversensitive.

"too much!" you whimpered, pushing at his hand.

he withdrew his fingers slowly, and you watched, dazed, as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean. his eyes never left yours, and the sight of it—this serious, quiet man tasting you on his fingers with an expression of pure reverence—made your core clench with want.

"you taste like honey," he said, his voice rough. "i knew you would."

"choso," you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss. you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and musky, and it made you dizzy. "i want you. all of you. please."

he nodded, his hands going to the laces of his trousers. his fingers were shaking so badly he could barely work them, and you reached down to help, your own hands trembling. together, you pushed the fabric down his hips, and his cock sprang free.

you stared. he was hard—achingly, painfully hard—the tip flushed dark and leaking. he was bigger than you'd expected, thicker, and a flicker of nervousness ran through you.

"i'll go slow," he said, reading your expression. "i promise. if it's too much, you tell me and i'll stop. alright?"

"okay," you whispered.

he positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. you could feel the heat of him, the way he throbbed against your slick folds. he pushed forward, just the tip, and you gasped at the stretch.

"breathe," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. "breathe for me."

you breathed. he pushed in another inch, and the burn was intense, almost too much. your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

"shit—" he choked. "you're so tight. so fucking tight. you feel—god, you feel like heaven."

"m-more!" you said, even though it hurt. "i want a-all of you."

he sank into you slowly, inch by excruciating inch, giving you time to adjust. the stretch was enormous, bordering on painful, but underneath the pain was something else—a fullness, a completeness, like a piece of you that had been missing had finally clicked into place.

when he was fully seated inside you, you both went still. he was breathing hard, his arms trembling where they braced on either side of your head, his cock pulsing inside you.

"okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

"yeah," you whispered. "just—give me a second."

he kissed you softly, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. then you rolled your hips experimentally, and you both groaned.

"move," you said. "please move."

he pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then pushed back in. the slide was easier this time, your body accommodating him, and the sensation was—

"oh," you breathed. "oh, that's—"

"y-yeah," he agreed, and did it again. and again. and again.

he found a rhythm, slow and deep, his hips rolling against yours in a way that made your toes curl. each thrust hit that spot inside you, the one his fingers had found, and pleasure built in your belly like a wave gathering strength.

"h-harder," you gasped. "choso, please, harder!"

he obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. you bit your lip to keep from crying out, but small, desperate sounds still escaped—whimpers and moans and broken little pleas.

"you feel so good," he groaned against your neck. "so fucking good. i-i never want to leave this. i never want to be anywhere but inside you."

"don't stop," you panted. "cho!"

he shifted his angle, hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, and the next thrust hit so deep you saw stars. you cried out, unable to help it, and he clapped a hand over your mouth.

"quiet, remember?" he said, but he was smiling. that devastating, beautiful smile. "or do you want the whole castle to know what we're doing?"

you bit his palm and he hissed, his hips stuttering.

"brat," he growled, and fucked into you harder.

the pleasure was building again, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel your walls starting to clench around him. choso groaned, his rhythm faltering.

"you're squeezing me," he panted. "fuck, you're going to make me—i'm not going to last—"

"it's okay," you gasped. "let go. i've got you."

"not without you," he said, and his hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. he rubbed tight, fast circles, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and the combination was devastating.

you came with a scream muffled against his hand, your walls clamping down on him so hard he choked. the orgasm ripped through you like a storm, wave after wave of pleasure that left you shaking and gasping and seeing white.

"fuck—fuck—" choso groaned, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm. "i'm—i'm coming—"

"yes," you breathed. "yes, come inside me. i want to feel it."

he buried himself to the hilt and came with a broken cry, his cock pulsing deep inside you. you felt the heat of it, the way he filled you, and the sensation pushed you into another smaller orgasm that made you clench around him.

he collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard. his face was buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

"that was—" he started.

"incredible," you agreed.

you lay there for a long moment, tangled together, his cock still inside you, both of you trembling in the aftermath. the candle had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. somewhere above you, the ball was still going on. music drifted down through the floor, faint and distant.

"we should—" you started.

"i know," he said, but he didn't move.

"choso."

"i know," he said again, and pulled out slowly. you winced at the loss, at the ache between your legs. he rolled onto his back beside you, pulling you against his chest. you went willingly, curling into his side, your head resting over his heart.

"ten minutes is probably up," you said quietly.

"probably."

"we should get dressed."

"probably."

neither of you moved.

"i don't want to go back," you whispered. "i don't want to face them. my father, the duke, all of it."

"i know," he said, his hand stroking your hair. "but we have to. if we don't, they'll come looking for you. and then—"

"and then it'll be worse," you finished.

he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "well, it might be better."

you pulled back to look at him, your heart hammering. "what?"

choso was staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with something fierce and desperate. "what if we run away? right now. tonight. we sneak out through the servants' entrance, past the stables. i know a man in the village who'll sell us horses for cheap. we could be gone before anyone even realizes you're missing."

"no way!—"

"i'm serious." he sat up, turning to face you. his hand found yours, cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones. "we could go north. past the mountains, into the free territories where your father's reach doesn't extend. we could find a small town, somewhere quiet. i could find work—real work, not juggling or jesting. and you could—"

"sew," you finished, your voice barely a whisper. "i could sew."

"yes." his eyes were bright, almost feverish. "we could have a life. a real life. not this—" he gestured around the sparse room, the narrow bed, the flickering candle. "not cages and crowns and men who think they own us."

your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. the idea was insane. reckless. impossible. and yet—

"my father would hunt us," you said. "he'd send guards. he'd—"

"let him send them," choso said, and there was a fire in his voice you'd never heard before. "i'm not afraid of your father. i'm not afraid of his guards or his dukes or his armies. the only thing i'm afraid of is losing you. of standing in that ballroom and watching you marry another man. of living the rest of my life knowing i could have fought for you and didn't."

you stared at him, this man who'd been a jester, a fool, a man who couldn't make anyone laugh. but he wasn't a fool. he never had been. he was brave and fierce and so full of love it made your chest ache.

"you'd really do that?" you whispered. "give up everything? your home, your—"

"you are my home," he said simply. "you're the only home i've ever had."

your eyes burned. your vision blurred. you were crying again, but this time it wasn't from grief. it was from something else. something bright and terrifying and beautiful.

"yes," you said.

"yes?"

"yes. let's run. let's go. right now!"

his face transformed. the fear, the tension, the anguish—it all melted away, replaced by something radiant. something that looked like hope.

"you mean it?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"i mean it." you squeezed his hand. "i've never meant anything more."

he kissed you then, hard and desperate, his hands framing your face like you were the most precious thing in the world. you kissed him back with everything you had, pouring every ounce of love and fear and reckless, stupid hope into it.

then you pulled apart, both of you breathing hard.

"okay," you said, your mind racing. "okay. we need a plan. we can't just run out the door. we need—"

"clothes," he said. "money. supplies. i have a few coins hidden in my room. not much, but enough for horses and food for a few days."

"i have jewelry," you said, already thinking. "my mother's necklace. the sapphire earrings. they're worth a fortune. we could sell them in the village."

"your mother's necklace?" he repeated, his expression softening. "you'd give that up?"

"she'd want me to be happy," you said, and the words were true. your mother had died when you were seven, but you remembered her warmth, her laughter, the way she'd held you and told you that love was the only thing that mattered. "she'd want me to choose love."

choso's eyes glistened. he blinked hard, looking away. "okay. okay. so we get the jewelry, get the coins, get to the stables—"

"the guards," you interrupted. "there are two at my door. and more at every exit."

"the servants' entrance," he said. "it's unguarded after midnight. the servants use it to come and go. if we wait until the ball ends, until everyone is drunk and distracted—"

"we slip out with the servants," you finished. "yes. that could work."

"it has to work," he said. "because i'm not losing you. not now. not after—" his voice broke. "not after tonight."

you kissed him again, softer this time.

"we should get dressed," you said reluctantly. "before someone comes looking."

you both rose from the bed, and the absence of his warmth made you shiver. you found your shift on the floor, pulling it over your head, then stepped back into your gown. the silk felt different now. heavier. like a costume you were ready to shed.

choso helped you with the laces, his fingers steady now, no longer trembling. when he was done, he pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, and you felt it all the way down to your toes.

"there," he said. "perfect."

you turned to face him. he was pulling on his shirt, his trousers, covering up the body you'd just memorized. you wanted to tear the clothes off him again, to drag him back to that narrow bed and lose yourself in him.

but there wasn't time. there would be time later. a lifetime of time, if you were brave enough to take it.

"i need to go back to my chambers," you said. "get the jewelry. change into something less—" you gestured at the elaborate gown. "less conspicuous."

"meet me at the servants' entrance at two in the morning," he said. "that's when the last of the servants will be heading to bed. we'll slip out with them."

"two in the morning," you repeated. "i'll be there."

he cupped your face in his hands, his dark eyes searching yours. "if you change your mind—if this is too much, too dangerous—i'll understand. i'll go alone. i'll disappear. you can tell your father i kidnapped you, that you had no choice. he'll believe you. you can marry your duke and live a comfortable life and forget—"

"stop," you said firmly. "i'm not changing my mind. i'm not forgetting you. and i'm not marrying anyone but you."

his breath hitched. "you mean that?"

"every word."

he kissed you one last time, slowly and deeply, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. then he pulled away, his hands dropping to his sides.

"go," he said. "before i change my mind and keep you here forever."

you smiled, even as your heart ached. "at two in the morning."

"at two in the morning."

you opened the door, checking the corridor. empty. you slipped out, your gown gathered in your hands, your heart pounding. you made it three steps before his voice stopped you.

"princess."

you turned. he was standing in the doorway, backlit by the candle, his dark eyes full of everything.

"i love you," he said. "i love you so much."

you giggled. "you're such a sap!"

his face broke into that devastating smile. "if being a sap gets me that laugh, then so be it."

you turned and walked away, your heart so full it hurt. the corridor stretched before you, dark and winding, but for the first time in your life, you weren't afraid of where it led.

you were going to run. you were going to be free. you were going to choose love.

and nothing—not your father, not his guards, not the duke with his electric blue eyes and his easy smile—was going to stop you.

—

you made it back to your chambers without incident. the guards at your door barely glanced at you as you slipped inside, your cheeks flushed, your hair slightly moussed, your gown rumpled in ways that would have given elara a heart attack.

but elara wasn't there. the room was empty, the fire burning low, the bed turned down.

you moved quickly, pulling open the drawer of your vanity where you kept your mother's jewelry. the necklace was there, nestled in its velvet box—a delicate gold chain with a single sapphire pendant, the same blue as your eyes. you clasped it around your neck, feeling the weight of it against your skin.

the earrings came next. small, elegant, catching the firelight. you tucked them into a small pouch, along with a few other pieces you thought you could sell. a ruby brooch. a pearl bracelet. your grandmother's ring.

then you changed. you stripped off the elaborate gown and pulled on a simple dress—dark blue, practical, with a hooded cloak draped over the back of a chair. you laced it yourself, your fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

you packed a small bag. a change of clothes. a hairbrush. the handkerchief you'd sewn for him, the one with the embroidered roses. you tucked it into the bag, your fingers lingering on the stitches.

then you sat by the window and waited.

the hours crawled by. you watched the moon climb the sky, watched the candles in the ballroom below burn low, watched the guests begin to drift away. the music faded. the lights dimmed. the castle settled into an uneasy sleep.

one o'clock. one-thirty. one forty-five.

you stood, slinging the bag over your shoulder. your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. this was it. the point of no return.

you opened your door. the guards were still there, but they were drowsy, leaning against the wall, their eyes half-closed.

"i'm going to the chapel," you said, your voice steady. "to pray. for my marriage."

the guards exchanged a glance. "your highness, it's nearly two in the morning—"

"i'm aware of the time," you said coolly. "are you going to stop me from praying?"

they stepped aside.

you walked past them, your chin high, your pace measured. you didn't run. you didn't look back. you just walked, calm and composed, until you were out of sight.

then you ran.

through the corridors, down the stairs, past the tapestry and into the servants' passage. your bag bounced against your hip, your breath came in short gasps, and your heart hammered against your ribs.

the servants' entrance was at the end of a long, narrow corridor. you could see it—a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, cool night air seeping through the gap.

and there, leaning against the wall, waiting for you, was choso.

he'd changed too. he was wearing dark clothes—a simple tunic, trousers, sturdy boots. his motley was gone, and without it, he looked different. older. harder. like a man who'd made a decision and was ready to face the consequences.

he saw you and straightened, his dark eyes widening.

"you came," he breathed.

"i told you i would," you said.

he crossed the distance between you in two strides, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close. you went willingly, your arms looping around his neck, your forehead pressing against his.

"are you sure?" he asked one last time. "once we go through that door, there's no going back."

you pulled back to look at him. "i've never been more sure of anything."

he smiled. that small, devastating, beautiful smile. "then let's go."

he took your hand, his cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones, and together, you pushed open the door and stepped out into the night.

the air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain and earth and freedom. the moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light over the castle grounds. the stables were to the left, dark and quiet. the village beyond, a cluster of lights in the distance.

"ready?" choso asked.

you squeezed his hand. "ready."

and together, you escaped.

--

HEY YALL

tags :

babygirl : @sadisticslut666

Wandering fingers moved to trace at the marks and moles that graced his features, counting the freckles and gliding over the warm skin as your lover slept blissfully. Your thoughts wander, lost in a sweet reverie filled with him. 

You were aware you had to get up, the day not stopping to wait however basking in Taki’s embrace and tuning the world out seems like a fine plan so you kept admiring him. Your hands moved to card through his soft hair, a small smile on your lips as he snoozed.

Taki stirred a few times, your hands stopping and resting on his warm cheek when his eyes fluttered open. “Good morning, baby,” you whispered, thumb caressing his cheek softly. “Mm, that feels nice,” he murmured, voice thick and laced with sleep.

“Sorry baby, did I wake you up?” and he shook his head, arms tightening their hold around you and pulling you closer to him. “You should play with my hair more,” he nuzzled into your neck, “feels nice…” 

Your fingers moved to run through his hair, his breath steadying. “Are you sleeping again, baby?” you said softly into his ear, feeling him relax into your touches, “we have to get up, the day is starting ahead.” 

He groaned, making no effort in moving or getting up, still wrapped around you in a tight embrace. “Let’s just stay in, it’s already raining anyways…” Taki grumbled into your skin, placing a soft kiss afterwards.

Biting down a giggle, you kept playing with his hair, “hmm, but what about breakfast?” you questioned, feeling your own eyelids getting heavier, drowsiness seeping into your body. “Later… let’s just stay like this for a while.” and you caved in, Taki’s warmth and steady heartbeat lulling you back into sleep. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The rain has passed and the sun shines again, its rays filtering through the bedroom blinds, gently waking you up once again. You blinked, the lack of Taki’s warmth making you look around and right when you were about to get up, the sweet smell of pancakes filling up your senses. 

Your legs moved on their own, getting out of bed and heading straight to the source of the honeyed smell which was the kitchen. There stood Taki, working the stove and making pancakes, a stack of them placed neatly on the place next to him. 

Bare feet padding quietly against the floor, you moved to stand next to him not to startle him which didn’t seem to work as he flinched and yelped at your presence. “Fuck, you scared me baby…” he whined, making you giggle, muttering a “sorry pretty boy” and wrapping your arms around his waist in a tight hug.

“Did you sleep well, angel?” You peeked up at him, “Hmm, how could I not when you held me so warmly?” teasing, standing on your tippy toes with pursed lips. 

He leaned down and placed a kiss on your awaiting lips, “Made you your favorite pancakes,” shifting his focus back to the stove so as not to burn the cooking food. “Butter is in the fridge and I cut up some strawberries for you on the table” he gestured with the spatula in his hand.

You swear your heart almost burst from its place from his cuteness, leaning up to kiss his cheek before heading for the fridge to get the butter. “You’re the best!” you exclaimed happily.

Once Taki was done cooking, he set the fresh stack of pancakes on the table and sat next to you, picking up a serving and placing it on your plate and you returned the favor afterwards, making sure to put a lot of strawberries into his plate. 

You spent the rest of breakfast talking and giggling, a few occasional kisses slipped in between bites, your shoulder bumping against Taki’s. 

After eating, you and Taki worked together to tackle the dishes duty and worked efficiently to clean them all with him washing them and you whipping them dry. 

You both settled on the couch, you on Taki’s lap with your switch in hand playing and his head resting atop yours, watching you play with fascination. “Woah, Taki look at this!” you said excitedly whenever something happened, showing him and he always made sure to share your enthusiasm “That’s amazing, baby!” or “Woah this Pokemon looks so cool, angel!” 

Later on, once you’ve had enough of playing you’d lay on the couch snuggled up to Taki and your cat, petting his soft fur and eliciting happy purrs from the feline while your lover held you so closely and warmly. youtube playing on the tv showing a game Taki was excited about, telling you all about it and you listened to him attentively.

as quiet as possible, you leave your boyfriend in your shared bedroom.

you stumble to the couch and kick off your shoes, blindly searching until your fingers catch the lampshade switch. you yank it to provide some light, rattling as it flings back into place.

you pull your knees to your chest and press your forehead against your kneecaps. a numb part of your brain thinks oh, so this is where this was, when you think of the misery that quieted itself, replaced with a numbness that overtook you during the fight you had with him earlier.

the numbness that made your limbs feel like ice when he clicked off the phone call without even hearing you out.

you wanted to tell him so much, but in the face of his blank gaze and dismissive demeanor, you shut off. you have more fight in you, you know that. but tonight you just couldn’t. couldn’t listen to him tell you that he needed more from you—more support, more time, more patience.

you’ve given him that, right? your brain runs with thoughts you can't keep up with. you gave him yourself. you have, for months, for years. you did what you could. you’ve withstood lonely anniversaries, forgotten birthdays, broken promises. you’ve done everything you could. you gave what you could. you gave everything you could.

i want you to come home, you wanted to tell him eatlier tonight. come home. you’re never home. i know you’re busy at work and you’re doing what you love but please, ‘samu. please. 

love me, too.

your body wracks with a sob, the hurt fresh, as if the words that you never got to say wounded your insides instead. you wanted to tell him that, you wanted to beg for it, beg for his time, beg for his attention, beg for him to love you back. but time and time again he just turns and says he’s tired, he doesn't want to hear it, and the moment is gone, and now the fear of knowing that leaving things unsaid will destroy you, will destroy him. will destroy both of you.

you huddle closer into yourself and sob, a sharp sound in your ears making your head pound.

“babe?” you hear through the ringing in your ears, and suddenly warm hands are on your arms. “babe, what’s wrong?” his voice is calm against your turmoil. “are you having a panic attack?”

“’samu, i’m—” you shudder and he leaves for a moment, flitting to the kitchen to grab you some water. 

“drink, please,” he tells you, gently unfurling you to sit. you comply with shaky limbs, taking the water he’d given you in your delicate grip. a few sips are enough to calm you down, but the fear is still there.

he gingerly takes the glass and sets it aside. he kneels in front of you, taking your hands and soothingly rubbing his thumbs against your skin. his fingers are hot, almost like a furnace, but when you realize that he's not, he's fine, your hands are freezing, you resist the urge to pull away as he warms your palm.

when he looks up to smile at you, you see the exhaustion on his face, and, instantly, you hate yourself for it. for this.

"i'm sorry," you blurt out, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over.

his hand leaves yours and cups your cheek. "for what, baby?"

“i love you so much, osamu,” you tell him without thinking, voice thick and wet and miserable. you press the palm of the hand he let go of against his cheek, hiccuping when he closes his eyes to lean into your touch. 

“i love you, too,” he says, ready to apologize for the fight, but it's not about that.

not anymore.

you pull away. the confusion and hurt on his face is making everything worse.

“i love you so much,” you tell him, desperately wishing that he could understand. “but i—” you sob, “but, osamu, i can’t anymore.”

osamu presses his lips together, saying nothing. you hear him sniffle, and his fingers come forward to brush at the tears on your cheeks and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“i love you so much,” you confess. “i would do anything for you. and i have, i have for years. i’ve tried my best, but osamu, i’m so tired,” you sob. your voice feels like its giving out but the desperation makes the words claw themselves out of your mouth. “i’m so tired, i'm so tired and i'm so lonely, and—and—and i love you so much, but i have nothing left to give.”

you pull your hands away to hunch over and cry into your palms unable to face him. messily, you wipe at your face and push your hair back. you give him the most apologetic smile you can muster, but you're unable to see his face through your tears. “i’m so sorry i can’t give you more, osamu.”

you hear him sniffle and when you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands, his eyes are glassy. then he closes his eyes.

the pain that washes over his face is absolutely unbearable. the furrow of his brow and the wrinkle of his chin, the lines by his scowl that you know is him trying his best to keep it together.

when he opens his eyes to look at you, his eyes are no longer glassy. your heart breaks for the pain he refuses to show. “what’s next?”

your smile is sad and wet with tears. “i think you know.” you brush his hair back and cradle his face with your hands. “let’s… let’s do this in the morning, okay?”

he nods, looking away. he licks his lips and shakes his head, and he turns to face you with a furrowed brow and a little more composure despite his watery gaze. but it doesn’t take long before his face crumples and he rushes to hide his face against your legs. his quiet sobs are pained and miserable, his chest shaking as he cries. 

you press your face against his hair and cry with him.

—

the morning greets you kindly, the soft sunlight bathing your room in a sweet glow. it’s early, but you can’t keep sleeping. there’s a lot to pack.

your eyes feel hot and swollen, and bones feel heavy beneath your skin, weighing you down from getting up from the bed. still, you fight. you push yourself up to sit and notice that you’re alone. unsurprising, really; osamu has been leaving earlier and coming home later. onigiri miya needs care, needs nurturing, so it’ll blossom and grow. you need to stop begrudging him for it.

you finish your morning ablutions in the bathroom and head out to the kitchen, but when you open your bedroom door, the smell of food hits your nose like a smack to the face. your stomach twists when you see a familiar broad back—osamu didn’t leave—and your fingers turn cold.

the door slides shut behind you and he turns. “good mornin’,” he says quietly, shutting off the stove.

“good morning,” you say, walking to your kitchenette. when you see the spread on the table, you gape despite yourself. “osamu. what is—what.”

he flushes, sliding a delicious looking steak unto a plate and setting it alongside the other plates—nearly every single plate you own, you note—and your dining table is bursting with food. “cooked breakfast.”

“for how many people?” you ask, incredulous. “i tried t'remember everythin’ you liked,” he said with a sniff, and your heart crinkles at the edges, because that means something.

“thank you,” you whisper, and you quietly take a seat while sets aside the dishware he used. 

when he finishes, he turns to look at you, leaning on the counter. it takes him a while. “when you leave,” he says, “i’m going to try again.”

you stare at him, confused. you say nothing and wait for him to continue.

“i don’t want you to leave,” he says, and he rubs his face in frustration. “but i know i’ve—i know i fucked up. i love you, and i never should’ve hurt you.” he inhales through his nose. “but i did, and i can’t change that.

“but i’m not giving up on you. not on us. you—” he clears his throat, and the dark circles beneath his eyes makes your heart feel tight. “i’ll… if i have to start all over again, i’ll do it,” he whispers, walking closer and taking your chin in his hand, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. “i’ll win you back.”

“osamu,” you whisper, and his face crumples again.

“i love you too much to let you go,” he says, voice breaking as he fights back tears. “and i know that makes me a jerk. but i’m… i love you, so much—so fucking much, and i hate myself for not making you feel that. for hurting you.”

he gets on his knees and tears are streaming down your face. “leave me if you have to,” he says brokenly.

“if you need space, i’ll understand. but please,” he begs. “please don’t give up on me.” 

he does the unthinkable. he curls over and bows, back curved and forehead pressed against the backs of his hands, pressed against the floor.

the horror that overtakes you is beyond words. 

you drop to the floor to pull him upright, not letting him do this. he won’t do this to himself, you won’t let him. not for anyone, not for you. you pull his face against yours and kiss him as hard as you can, crying as you do.

you won't let him do this.

later, you sit on the couch, arms around osamu’s middle as you lie on his chest. the idea that this could be the last time you held him like this made you want to burst into tears again.

“i’ll make it up to you,” he promises, pushing your hair out of your face, gently guiding your chin up. “please, just… give me another chance.”

you look up at him, and your eyes meet.

—

“hey!” atsumu greets warmly as soon as you enter the restaurant, spreading his arms wide to engulf you in a hug. “it’s so good t’see you!“

“hi, ‘tsumu,” you greet, returning the hug. 

he motions for you to sit as he picks up the menu. “know what you want?”

you nod, not even bothering to pick up the menu. “how are you? how’s training?”

“’m good! training’s good. teammates are pretty good, too.”

"yeah? like who?"

atsumu makes a show of looking at the menu. "oh, i don't you know them."

you roll your eyes at his obvious ploy to get you to start talking. “fine. ask me.”

atsumu instantly leans in, conspiratorially covering his mouth with the menu and whispering, “how are you two? it’s been over a month now, right?”

“oi.” you twist your head to smile up at the newcomer. “stop bothering them, ‘tsumu.”

atsumu glares at his twin. “i’m the one who invited ‘em to lunch!”

osamu rolls his eyes and lays down a platter of onigiri in front of you. he snatches the menu and smacks his brother’s wandering hands with it before they get to close. “these are not for you.”

“but that’s a lot!" atsumu whines. "can’t i have any?”

“no,” osamu says resolutely, then turns to you and gives you the softest smile he can muster, pinning the menu by his side and arm.

"i haven't even ordered yet!" atsumu complains.

osamu ignores him. “let me know what you think.”

“okay,” you say with a smile. 

“and let me know if you need to take out anything,” he continues, “i’ll wrap it up for you.” he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. “enjoy.”

“thank you, ‘samu,” you tell him before he turns to leave. 

he smiles back at you and heads back behind the bar.

atsumu has evidently forgotten about ordering, because his eyes shuttle back and forth between you two before nodding considerably. “so i take it things are going well?”

“yeah,” you admit, picking up an onigiri. “going really well, actually.”

“you’ve been…” atsumu searches for the word, “is it still called ‘dating’? you broke up. but… entertaining each other…?”

“don’t hurt yourself,” you joke. “but yeah. let’s call it dating. and it’s going well, thanks for asking.” you take a bite of the onigiri.

“does he still have a chance?” atsumu asks, genuine curiosity on his face.

you chew thoughtfully as you look back at osamu, who’s smiling at a customer. you remember that bright morning, when he helped you pack, helped you move into your friend’s apartment. when he cooked all that food, and you found it neatly packed away in a thermal bag that had a handwritten note, reminding you to eat well.

you remember the next day, when he showed up at your friend’s door, holding flowers and inviting you out to get some ice cream. you remember his messages, his calls, his check ins on you, littered across the days, asking you how you are or if you’re eating or if you need any food.

you could call him if you needed any help, if you needed anything at all.

but reality sets in when you think of how one phone call could be a mistake, it stops you from searching his name each time you pick up the phone.

in your mind, you see his bent form, his begging, his tears. you remember his smiles and his hugs and his ‘see you later’s, his gradually growing list of unbroken promises. you remember the effort, the time he’s putting into you, putting aside for you. you remember how hard he tries for you.

it's like everything is new again.

his eyes catch yours and he gives you a small wave, and you wave back, your stomach fluttering.

it's not new, you think. it's better.

you swallow your food. it's delicious.

“yeah,” you say softly, “he does.”

—