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Qifrey had asked him to replenish several supplies before returning to the atelier. Ink. Treated parchment. A particular grade of brass wire used for repairing old tools. The list was neatly folded inside his coat pocket, already half crossed off.

The afternoon sun stretched across the cobblestones as he continued through the artisan district.

It was quieter here.

Rather than shouting merchants, the street was filled with the steady rhythm of craftsmen at work, the scrape of chisels against wood, the ringing of tiny hammers on metal, the scent of fresh sawdust mingling with warm bread drifting from somewhere farther down the road.

Olruggio preferred it. Things made by hand carried a certain honesty. Every imperfection told a story of the person who had shaped it. He paused before a familiar storefront. The hanging sign had been repaired countless times, each fix visible if one knew where to look. Small brass charms chimed softly above the doorway whenever the wind caught them.

He frowned. He didn't remember this shop. Curious. He could have sworn this space had been empty only a few weeks ago. Boxes still sat outside the entrance, some unopened, others filled with polished wood, coils of copper wire, carved handles, and neatly labeled drawers waiting to be organized. Someone was clearly still settling in.

It wasn't unusual for new businesses to come and go. Most lasted a season before disappearing. Olruggio should have continued walking. Instead, his gaze lingered on a curious little contraption displayed in the window. It wasn't magical...not exactly.

A tiny arrangement of gears and weighted arms turned lazily with the breeze, catching the sunlight just enough to send glimmering reflections dancing across the glass. It was simple but ingenious. Whoever had built it understood that beauty didn't always need a spell.

"Hm." The sound escaped him before he realized it.

The shop door opened almost immediately.

"Interested?"

A warm voice carried over the gentle chiming of the bell. Olruggio looked up. For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.

You stood framed by the afternoon light spilling from the workshop behind you, sleeves rolled to the elbows and a faint dusting of sawdust clinging to your apron.

Olruggio still had one hand resting on the strap of his satchel, caught in the embarrassing position of having been staring through someone's window.

"...I was only looking," Olruggio replied.

You smiled, eyes sparkling. "So everyone says."

Against his better judgment, Olruggio stepped inside. Warmth greeted him first. Not from magic, but from the forge tucked away in the back of the shop. The air smelled faintly of cedar shavings, machine oil, and polished brass. Sunlight streamed through the front windows, catching suspended dust until it looked like tiny stars drifting lazily through the room.

Shelves lined every wall. Some held carved wooden boxes with hidden compartments. Others displayed delicate clocks, collapsible lanterns, writing instruments, tiny music boxes, and peculiar little mechanisms whose purpose wasn't immediately obvious.

Nothing was enchanted. Every moving part relied on springs, weights, gears, and craftsmanship alone. Olruggio found himself walking farther inside before he'd realized.

"You make all of these?"

"I do."

There wasn't even a hint of boastfulness in your voice. You simply sounded... proud. His eyes drifted from one shelf to another. Each piece was different. There were imperfections, a groove cut slightly deeper than another, the faint mark left by a carving knife but somehow those flaws made each object feel more alive. His gaze eventually settled on the small wind powered ornament he'd been staring at outside.

"...May I?"

"Go ahead."

He lifted it with practiced care. It was lighter than he'd expected. The gears meshed together almost silently, each tooth fitting so precisely that they barely made a sound as they turned beneath his fingertips.

"...Interesting."

You rested your elbows against the counter. "That's all I get?"

He glanced up. "What?"

"'Interesting.'" You laughed softly. "I spent three nights trying to get those gears to stop catching on each other."

"I didn't say it was bad."

"No?"

"No." He turned the mechanism over once more. "The tolerances are unusually precise."

A grin spread across your face. "That's more like it."

"...what is?"

"A compliment."

Olruggio blinked. "...That wasn't a compliment."

"It absolutely was."

"It was an observation."

"They're the same thing when they come from someone who looks this serious."

For the first time since entering the shop, he looked properly at you. You weren't laughing at him. You were laughing with an ease that made the room itself feel lighter. It was unfamiliar. Most people either spoke to him cautiously, intimidated by the ever present smoke curling from beneath his hat, or avoided conversation altogether after realizing how few words he offered. Well, except for Qifrey. 

You did neither. Instead, you simply smiled as though silence wasn't awkward. As though it was another language entirely.

"...You're new to the district," Olruggio said after a moment.

"I am."

"What made you choose this place?"

You glanced around your little shop, your smile softening. "I wanted somewhere people would wander into by accident."

Olruggio looked toward the front window. "...I suppose your plan worked."

"It did." Your eyes met his. "You're here."

A comfortable silence settled between you. Olruggio carefully returned the ornament to its place on the shelf, making certain it sat exactly as he'd found it.

"You inspect everything like that?" you asked.

"I inspect things that interest me."

Your brows lifted. "So I should feel honored?"

"...If you'd like."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "I'll take that as a yes."

You wandered behind the counter, disappearing beneath it for a moment before resurfacing with a wooden box no larger than your two hands.

"This one's my favorite."

You set it down between the two of you. It appeared ordinary enough, a walnut box with brass corners and a tiny keyhole that, strangely enough, had no matching key.

Olruggio tilted his head. "There isn't a lock."

"There isn't."

"Then why the keyhole?"

"Open it."

He obliged. Nothing. The lid refused to budge.

He frowned. "...Hidden latch?"

"Nope."

"A spring?"

"No."

"A puzzle mechanism?"

You only smiled. "You're welcome to keep guessing."

Olruggio examined the seams, turning the box over once, then twice. There wasn't a single visible hinge. Curious. Very curious. His thumb brushed over the carved pattern running along one side.

Click.

The lid sprang open. Inside sat...nothing. He stared. Then slowly looked up at you.

"...It's empty."

"It is."

"You made me solve an empty box."

"I made you solve a puzzle."

"...Why?"

"Because," you said, leaning against the counter with a grin that bordered on mischievous, "you looked like someone who enjoys figuring things out."

He considered the statement. He couldn't deny it.

"You've done this before."

"To customers? Sometimes." You nodded.

"And?"

"They usually get frustrated."

"I wasn't frustrated."

"No." Your smile softened. "You looked excited."

The observation caught him off guard. Had he? Olruggio thought back to the last several minutes the way he'd traced each groove in the wood, tested each seam, considered every possibility. Without realizing it, he'd become completely absorbed.

"...I suppose I did."

"I can always tell."

"You can?"

"Mhm." You carefully closed the box again. "There's a point where people stop trying to open it because they want what's inside."

Your fingers rested lightly on the polished lid. "And instead start trying to understand how it was made." You looked back at him. "You're one of those people."

Olruggio found he had no immediate reply. It wasn't often someone understood him after less than half an hour of conversation. Before he could think of something to say, the bell above the door chimed again.

An elderly customer stepped inside, waving cheerfully. "Afternoon!"

You straightened immediately. "Welcome! I'll be with you in just a moment."

Then you looked back to Olruggio with an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

He gave a small shake of his head. "No apology is necessary."

He reached into his coat, finally remembering the list Qifrey had entrusted to him. He was behind schedule. Quite behind schedule.

"...I should be going."

"I figured." You walked him to the door. "I'll probably see you around."

Olruggio rested a hand on the doorknob. "...Perhaps."

"You say that like you're trying not to commit."

"I don't make promises I can't keep."

"Hm." You smiled, that same easy unhurried smile from before. "Then I'll just hope you wander in by accident again."

For reasons he couldn't quite explain, Olruggio left with the faintest hint of a smile. When he reached the end of the street, he paused.

"...I forgot to ask their name."

The realization lingered longer than he expected. He almost turned around. Almost. Instead, he adjusted the satchel over his shoulder and continued toward the atelier, telling himself he had everything he needed. He didn't notice that, for the first time in years, he was already looking forward to his next errand through the artisan district.

Five days passed before Olruggio found himself in the artisan district again. Not because he'd intended to. The atelier's kettle had developed an irritating habit of whistling long after the water had finished boiling.

"It's possessed," Coco had declared confidently.

"It isn't," Olruggio answered without looking up from the dismantled lid.

Tetia leaned over his shoulder. "Then why does it keep screaming?"

"Because whoever made this hinge had questionable judgment."

Qifrey smiled into his teacup. "So?"

Olruggio sighed. "So it needs a replacement pin."

"And?"

"...The brassworker won't have one this size."

Qifrey's smile widened ever so slightly. "The artisan district might."

Olruggio looked at him. "...It might."

"Would you mind checking while you're in town?"

"...Of course."

It was a perfectly reasonable request. Once he arrived in the artisan district his feet went on autopilot. He stopped. The familiar sign of your shop swayed gently above the doorway, the little brass charms chiming in the summer breeze. The boxes outside had disappeared. The windows looked fuller now. Someone had rearranged the display. The tiny wind powered ornament he'd admired before had been moved to a higher shelf, replaced by an intricate wooden bird whose wings fluttered whenever someone opened the door.

"...Hmph."

Before he could decide whether he was merely observing or actually intending to go inside, the bell chimed. You stepped out carrying a crate nearly as wide as your shoulders.

"Oh." You blinked. "It's you."

Olruggio instinctively reached forward. "The crate."

"Hm?"

"You can't see where you're walking."

"...You're right." You surrendered it without protest.

He hadn't expected it to be so light.

"I already sold most of what's inside," you explained. "Just moving the empty crate."

The two of you carried it together toward the side of the building. When you set it down, you dusted your hands against your apron.

"I was wondering if you'd wander in again."

"I happened to be nearby."

"Mm." Your expression said you didn't believe him for a second.

"I did."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"I might've been."

Despite himself, the corner of Olruggio's mouth twitched.

"So..." You extended a hand. "We've spoken twice now."

He looked at your hand for a brief moment before taking it.

"I'm [name]."

"Olruggio."

You repeated it once, carefully. "Olruggio."

The way you said his name surprised him. Most people stumbled over it the first time. You didn't.

"...You got it right."

"I've always been good with names." You smiled. "They're important."

Something about the sincerity in your voice made the words linger. Before Olruggio could respond, a familiar whistle drifted from somewhere inside the shop.

"Oh!" You turned your head. "I forgot the kettle."  You slipped the workshop door open, disappearing inside for only a moment before returning with a small wrapped parcel.

"I almost forgot."

You held it out toward him. Olruggio accepted it.

"...What is it?"

"A replacement pin."

He looked up. "You knew I was looking for one?"

You shrugged. "I noticed the old one sticking out of your satchel."

His gaze immediately dropped to the pocket of his satchel. "...It was visible?"

"Barely. I also guessed."

"You guessed."

"You look like the sort of person who fixes things instead of replacing them."

He couldn't argue with that. "...How much?"

You waved a hand dismissively. "Consider it a welcome-to-the-neighborhood discount."

"I don't live in this neighborhood."

"You wandered into it."

"That doesn't count."

"It does to me."

Olruggio reached into his pocket regardless. "I insist."

"So stubborn."

"It's called paying for someone's wares."

"It's called letting someone do something nice for you."

"...Those aren't mutually exclusive." 

You tilted your head. "I like arguing with you."

He blinked, confused. "...You do?"

"Mhm."

"Why?"

"Because you always answer like you're presenting evidence before a council."

"I stated a fact."

"See?" You pointed at him triumphantly.

Olruggio looked genuinely perplexed. "...I fail to see your point."

"I know." You smiled. "That's what makes it fun."

He let out the faintest exhale through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a laugh. Something in between.

You noticed. "You almost smiled."

"It wasn't a smile."

"It almost was."

"It wasn't."

"I'll get one eventually."

"You seem very confident."

"I am." You folded your arms with a grin.

"I make things for a living."

"...Yes?"

"I'm very patient."

For the first time in years...Olruggio found himself at a loss for words. You took advantage of the silence.

"I'll see you around, Olruggio."

He looked at you for another second before giving the smallest nod. "...Until next time."

You watched him disappear into the afternoon crowd. Only when he was out of earshot did you murmur to yourself. "...He definitely smiled."

Farther down the street, Olruggio adjusted the parcel beneath his arm. "...I did not."

It had become familiar. Olruggio disliked admitting it, even to himself. Whenever an errand brought him through the artisan district, his gaze wandered toward the little shop before he had the chance to stop it. Today was no different. He wasn't planning to go inside. He was simply passing by.

That was when he noticed you standing atop a small wooden stool, one arm stretched high above your head as you struggled to tighten the chain suspending your shop's sign. The sign leaned noticeably to one side. You frowned at it. It leaned farther.

"...No." You tightened the bolt. The sign rotated. "...That's worse."

Olruggio stopped. He watched for exactly three seconds.

"The left chain is one link longer."

You nearly jumped. "When did you get there?"

"...Just now."

You looked up at the sign, then back at him. "...Really?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." You stepped down from the stool, rubbing the back of your neck. "I've been fighting with this thing for twenty minutes."

Olruggio walked closer, his eyes already studying the brackets fixed into the wall. "It isn't the sign."

"No?"

"The mounting point shifted."

"You can tell from down here?"

"...Yes."

You folded your arms. "I believe you."

"...That easily?"

"You've earned it."

The words slipped out so naturally that neither of you acknowledged them. Olruggio climbed onto the stool. You instinctively steadied it. His fingers loosened one bolt, adjusted the iron bracket by a fraction, then retightened everything with practiced efficiency. The sign settled perfectly. No tilt. No sway. All Centered. Then he stepped back down.

"There."

You craned your neck to admire it. "...That's annoyingly perfect."

"It is simply level."

"No." You turned toward him with a grin. "It's Olruggio level."

He paused. "...Is that different?"

"Oh, very."

"How?"

"You'll spend half an hour fixing something no one else would've noticed."

"It was visibly uneven."

"By half a finger."

"It was still uneven."

You laughed. "I rest my case."

Olruggio looked back at the sign. "...You would've noticed eventually."

"Maybe."

You smiled. "But now I don't have to."

There it was again. That effortless sincerity. No exaggerated gratitude. No fuss. Just quiet appreciation. It left him unexpectedly unsure of what to say.

"...You're welcome."

You blinked. Then your smile grew. "That one sounded practiced."

"...What did?"

"'You're welcome.'"

"I say it."

"Not often."

"I say it when appropriate."

"So this was appropriate?"

"...Yes."

"Hm." You looked thoughtful. "I think I'm making progress."

"...Progress?"

"Last time I almost got a smile." You counted on your fingers. "This time I got a full sentence."

"It was two words."

"Exactly." You pointed at him. "Next visit, I'm aiming for three."

Olruggio adjusted one of his gloves. "...That seems unlikely."

"I've been told I enjoy impossible projects."

"I believe that."

Your grin widened. "See?"

"What?"

"That was practically encouragement."

"It was an observation."

"It's becoming harder to tell the difference."

He opened his mouth to correct you. Stopped. Then quietly closed it again.

You noticed immediately. "Oh."

"What?"

"You know I'm right."

"...No."

"You hesitated."

"I was deciding whether correcting you would accomplish anything."

"And?"

"...It wouldn't."

A delighted laugh escaped you. "I knew it."

Olruggio found himself looking away, not because he was embarrassed, but because your laughter had become strangely... infectious. It lingered in the air long after he'd resumed walking. Behind him, you called out,

"See you next time, Olruggio!"

He didn't turn around. But after several steps, he lifted one hand in a small wave. It was brief, almost imperceptible but you caught it anyway.

"...That's progress," you whispered to yourself.

Farther down the street, hidden beneath the brim of his hat, the corners of Olruggio's mouth lifted ever so slightly. "...It wasn't."

By autumn, your meetings had long since stopped feeling accidental. Olruggio still insisted they were. You stopped arguing. It was easier to let him believe whatever helped him sleep at night.

The little bell above the shop door chimed. Without looking up from the tiny music box spread across your workbench, you spoke.

"You're late."

Olruggio paused with one foot still inside the doorway. "...Late?"

"You usually stop by before noon."

"I don't have a schedule."

"You absolutely do."

"I don't."

"You've been here every third or fourth day for months."

"...Coincidence."

"Mhm." You tightened one last screw before finally looking up. "I've missed arguing with you."

"...We argued six days ago."

"Exactly." You smiled brightly. "Far too long."

Olruggio quietly removed his hat, hanging it on the familiar hook beside the door. You'd put it there weeks ago after noticing he always awkwardly tucked it beneath his arm while examining your projects. He'd never commented on it. He simply used it.

"You made another one," he observed.

He'd already noticed the new automaton sitting proudly in the display window.

"A little fox. It wags its tail."

"I saw."

"It also snores."

"...Why?"

"Because I thought it would be funny."

"...It is."

You froze. Slowly...you turned to look at him. "...Was that..."

"No."

"You haven't even heard the question."

"I know what you were going to ask."

"You laughed."

"I acknowledged the humor."

"Olruggio."

"I did not laugh."

A grin spread across your face. "I've upgraded."

"...Upgraded?"

"It used to be smiles." You pointed at him triumphantly. "Now I'm collecting laughs."

"They don't exist."

"They're just rarer." You stepped around the workbench, stopping in front of him. Much closer than necessary. "So..."

He looked down at you. "...So?"

"I've been thinking."

"...About?"

"You'd look nice without a beard."

Silence. Olruggio blinked once. Twice.

"...My beard."

"Yeah."

"...Why?"

"I was curious."

"...Curious."

"I think it'd suit you."

He stared at you for several long seconds. "I'll keep that in mind."

Your eyebrows shot up. "...That's it?"

"What did you expect me to say?"

"I don't know." You folded your arms. "I was hoping for at least a little flustered silence."

"I was thinking."

You leaned forward conspiratorially. "That means you were considering it."

"I was determining whether your statement had practical value."

"And?"

"...It doesn't."

You laughed. "I like that you actually considered it."

"I evaluate all statements."

"Even compliments?"

"They're statements."

"I see." You nodded solemnly. "So if I said..." Your smile turned just a little more mischievous. "...you're rather handsome..."

Olruggio remained perfectly still. "...Thank you."

You blinked. That...wasn't the reaction you'd expected. "...That's all?"

"You offered a compliment."

"I did."

"It would've been rude not to acknowledge it."

You narrowed your eyes. "You're adapting."

"...To what?"

"Me."

"I don't believe I am."

"You are." You smiled, softer this time. "I think you're getting comfortable."

Olruggio looked at you for a long moment. Then quietly reached over your shoulder.

"...You're about to lose this."

"Hm?"

He plucked a tiny brass screw from your hair. It had somehow become tangled there. You hadn't even noticed. He held it between two fingers.

"...You should be more careful."

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. You were close enough to notice the faint scent of smoke that always seemed to cling to him. Close enough that he realized he hadn't stepped back. Neither had you. The spell broke when you smiled.

"...Thanks."

He cleared his throat. "...You're welcome."

As he walked deeper into the workshop, you watched him go. "...He didn't deny being handsome this time."

From somewhere near the shelves came his calm reply. "...I heard that."

"I know. I said it loud enough for you to."

The first snowfall arrived earlier than expected. By midmorning, a thin layer of white dusted the rooftops, muffling the usual clamor of the artisan district. Olruggio brushed the snow from his shoulders before pushing open the shop door. The familiar bell chimed. Without looking up, you called from the back of the workshop,

"You're tracking snow onto my floor."

"...Hello to you too."

You peeked around the doorway. "There you are."

He raised an eyebrow. "...Were you expecting someone else?"

"No."

You smiled. "Just you."

Olruggio quietly busied himself removing his gloves. 

"You've become predictable."

"I'll pretend that wasn't an insult."

"It wasn't."

"I know."

You returned to sanding the edge of a carved wooden panel. "I like predictable."

He wandered through the shop while you worked, inspecting the latest creations scattered across the shelves. A mechanical sparrow. A folding reading lamp. An intricate jewelry box whose lid bloomed open like a flower.

"You finished this one."

"I did."

"The hinges are improved."

"I had a good teacher."

Olruggio looked over. "...I've never taught you."

"You didn't mean to." You smiled without lifting your eyes from your work. "But you point out every tiny mistake you see."

"...I critique the craftsmanship."

"And I improve because of it." A faint warmth settled somewhere beneath his ribs.

"...I see."

The bell above the door chimed again. An elderly woman shuffled inside, bundled beneath three knitted shawls.

"Oh!" She brightened immediately upon seeing Olruggio. "There you are!"

Olruggio blinked. "...Good afternoon."

She looked between the two of you before smiling knowingly. "I was wondering when your husband would arrive."

The shop seemed to freeze. Olruggio stood perfectly still. You stared. The elderly woman continued cheerfully, completely unaware.

"I've been waiting to pick up my music box, dear."

You recovered first. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood."

"Oh?"

"We're not married."

The woman tilted her head. "No?"

"No."

"I see..."

Her eyes drifted toward Olruggio. "...Then you're courting?"

Olruggio answered immediately. "No."

You answered at exactly the same time. "Not yet."

The words collided. You both stopped. The elderly woman looked delighted.

"Oh, how exciting."

"It isn't—"

"It was a joke."

You cut him off before he could finish. "I'm teasing him."

"...You are."

"I am."

The woman laughed warmly. "You young people certainly have interesting ways of flirting."

Olruggio opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "...We're not flirting."

You rested your chin in your hand. "I don't know."

His head turned toward you. "...You don't know?"

"I think I'm flirting."

"You think?"

"I'm still experimenting."

"...Experimenting."

"Mhm." You nodded thoughtfully. "I'm trying different approaches."

The elderly woman covered a smile with one hand. "Oh, he's hopeless."

"...Excuse me?"

She looked at you instead. "You'll have to be patient, dear."

You couldn't help laughing. "I've noticed."

Olruggio pinched the bridge of his nose. "...I don't understand what conversation I'm participating in anymore."

"I know." You beamed. "That's why it's fun."

The elderly woman left a few minutes later with her repaired music box and a smile that lingered long after the door closed behind her. Silence settled over the shop. Olruggio was still standing exactly where she'd left him. You looked up from your workbench.

"...You're awfully quiet."

"I've been thinking."

"Oh?"

"...Do you flirt with everyone?"

You looked genuinely surprised. "No...Just you."

The answer came so easily that it took both of you a second to realize what had been said. You blinked. Olruggio blinked. Then, without another word, he looked very intently at the mechanical sparrow on the nearest shelf.

"...The left wing is slightly uneven."

You laughed so suddenly that you had to lean against the workbench to steady yourself.

"...What?"

"You're escaping."

"...I'm not escaping."

"You absolutely are."

"...The wing is uneven."

"It is." You grinned. "But that wasn't why you looked at it."

Olruggio didn't answer.

Three days later, Olruggio found himself in the artisan district once again. He had been sent to collect fresh parchment. The trip should have taken no more than an hour. As he passed the familiar storefront, his eyes drifted toward the window out of habit. The wooden fox was still there. Its tail wagged lazily in the afternoon light.

The sign hung perfectly level. The curtains were open. Everything appeared normal. Yet the workshop was strangely quiet. He pushed the door open. The little bell chimed. No voice greeted him. No teasing remark about arriving late. No accusation that he'd smiled since the last visit. Instead, an unfamiliar young man looked up from behind the counter.

"Oh." He quickly set aside the wooden toy he'd been polishing. "Can I help you?"

Olruggio glanced around the workshop.

"...Where is [name]?"

"My cousin? They've been sick for a few days."

Olruggio was silent for a while. "...Sick."

"Nothing serious." The young man smiled reassuringly. "Just a fever. I told them to stay home before they collapsed at the workbench."

Olruggio's gaze lingered on the empty corner where you usually worked. "...I see."

"They're terrible at resting."

"I can imagine." The words left his mouth before he realized he'd spoken them.

The young man laughed. "So you've met them."

"...A few times."

"A few?" He looked amused.

"They mention you often." 

Olruggio paused. "...They do?"

"Mhm. The quiet witch."

"...Quiet."

"They said you inspect everything in the shop before saying exactly one sentence."

"...That sounds accurate."

"And apparently every conversation somehow turns into an argument."

"...I wouldn't describe it as an argument."

"What would you call it?"

Olruggio considered the question. "...A discussion."

The young man grinned. "Yeah."

"That's exactly what they'd call it, too."

Silence settled between them. Olruggio looked once more toward the back workshop. It felt different. There were tools laid neatly across the bench. A half finished music box waited beside them. Usually, you'd be bent over it, humming quietly to yourself before looking up the moment the bell rang. Today...nothing.

"I'll tell them you stopped by."

Olruggio gave a small nod. "...Thank you."

He turned to leave. The bell chimed softly behind him.

Two days later he passed the shop again.

Closed.

A small wooden plaque hung from the door.

Back soon.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary. Then continued walking. The following day he caught himself slowing as he approached the corner. The curtains were still drawn. Without thinking, he frowned.

"...They must still have a fever." He continued on.

When he returned to the atelier that evening, Qifrey glanced up from the table.

"Did you find the parchment?"

"I did."

"And?"

Olruggio set it down. "...The artisan's shop was closed."

Qifrey looked at him curiously. "I see."

"They're ill."

"...That's unfortunate."

"It is."

Olruggio reached for the kettle. Only to realize it had already been repaired months ago. There was no reason to think about the artisan district anymore. No errand left unfinished. No part left to collect.

Yet the thought lingered. He wondered if the fever had broken. Whether you'd remembered to eat. Whether someone was making sure you rested instead of working. He frowned faintly. He hadn't intended to wonder about any of those things. From across the room, Qifrey watched him quietly.

"You seem distracted."

Olruggio looked up. "...Do I?"

"A little."

He considered that. "...Perhaps."

He left it at that. Later that night, while organizing the contents of his satchel, his fingers brushed against a tiny brass screw. He stared at it for a long moment. It was the one he'd plucked from your hair weeks ago. He hadn't realized he'd absentmindedly slipped it into his pocket instead of throwing it away. Without quite knowing why, he placed it carefully into the drawer of his workbench instead.

Nearly a week later, Olruggio found himself standing before the familiar shop once more. The curtains were open. Warm light spilled onto the snow covered street.

He paused. "...They're back."

He hadn't meant to say it aloud. The little bell chimed as he stepped inside.

"There you are." Your voice was quieter than usual, rough around the edges from lingering illness, but unmistakably yours.

You looked up from behind the workbench and smiled. "I was starting to think you'd gotten lost."

Olruggio stopped. For a brief moment, he simply looked at you.

You looked... tired. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, and your sleeves were rolled up despite the chill. Your hair was tied back haphazardly, as though you'd only bothered because it kept falling into your face. Still, you were smiling.

"...You should be resting."

"Hello to you too."

"I mean it."

"I know." You rested your cheek against your palm. "I missed arguing with you."

"...You've been sick."

"And?"

"...You should've stayed home longer."

"But then who would've annoyed you?"

"You assume I'd be annoyed."

"I know you would."

"...A little."

Your smile widened. "There he is."

"What?"

"I missed that."

"...Missed what?"

"The way you pretend not to worry."

Olruggio frowned ever so slightly. "I wasn't worried."

"No?"

"No."

"You came by three times."

His eyes lifted. "...Who told you that?"

"My cousin." You laughed softly. "He thought it was sweet."

"He also said you looked disappointed when I wasn't here."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I was observing the situation."

"Mhm."

"The shop was unusually quiet."

"So you noticed."

"It was difficult not to."

Your expression softened. "I noticed too."

Olruggio looked at you. "The workshop felt strange."

You glanced around the room. "It turns out..." You smiled, smaller this time. "...it's not as lively when there's no one around to tell me my hinges are uneven."

"They usually are."

"I know."

"And your measuring marks are still too faint."

"I know."

"You continue using the wrong carving knife for walnut."

"I know."

A laugh escaped you, interrupted by a cough. Olruggio's expression changed immediately.

"You shouldn't be laughing."

"I'll make a note of that."

"You should."

"I'll also stop breathing while I'm at it."

"...That's not what I said."

"I know."

You reached for the mug sitting on your workbench, only to find it empty. Before you could stand, Olruggio quietly picked it up.

"I'll refill it."

You blinked. "...You don't have to."

"I know."

He disappeared into the back room where the kettle sat warming over the stove. You watched him go, unable to hide the small smile tugging at your lips. When he returned a minute later, he placed the steaming mug beside your workbench without a word.

"...Careful. It's hot."

You wrapped your hands around it, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. "...Thanks."

"It isn't much."

"It is to me."

Silence settled comfortably between you. Not awkward. Simply... comfortable. You took a slow sip before looking over the rim of the mug.

"You know..."

"Hm?"

"I think you missed me."

Olruggio didn't even look up from the half finished mechanism he'd instinctively begun examining.

"...Incorrect."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"So if I'd stayed sick another week..."

"...You should've seen a physician."

You laughed again, softer this time.

"What? It was a reasonable recommendation."

"No."

You smiled into your tea. "It was concern disguised as practicality."

Olruggio finally looked at you. "...Is that how you interpret it?"

"Mhm."

"And if I told you that interpretation was inaccurate?"

"I'd tell you you're a terrible liar."

"...I don't lie."

"No."

Your eyes met his across the workshop. "You just don't always tell yourself the whole truth."

For the first time in the conversation, Olruggio didn't have an immediate reply. Instead, he reached for the nearest mechanism, turning it over in his hands with unusual concentration. You watched him for another moment before grinning.

"...You're escaping again."

"...The gear ratio is uneven."

"It probably is." You rested your chin in your hand. "But you didn't answer me."

"...No."

"You missed me."

"...No."

"Olruggio. You missed me."

A long silence stretched between the two of you. Finally, without lifting his eyes from the mechanism, he spoke.

"...The workshop was quieter."

Your smile softened into something gentler. "I know."

You didn't tease him this time. You didn't need to because that was the closest Olruggio had ever come to admitting that, for one quiet week, the world had felt just a little emptier without you.

A few days later, the workshop had returned to its usual rhythm. The bell chimed. You didn't look up.

"You're early."

"...It's still morning."

"I usually expect you closer to noon."

"...I happened to finish my errands sooner."

"I believe you." Your tone suggested the opposite.

Olruggio set a small bundle of brass wire on your workbench.

"The supplier had extra."

"You thought of me?"

"...You use this gauge."

"I do." You smiled to yourself. "That was thoughtful."

"It was practical."

You tied the bundle neatly beside your tools. "If calling it practical helps you sleep at night."

"...It does."

You studied him for a moment. Ever since you'd returned from being sick, something had changed. Not dramatically, just enough. He still corrected your measurements. Still wandered around the shop inspecting everything within reach. Still escaped behind observations whenever conversations became too personal.

But now, he also brought materials you hadn't asked for. Refilled your mug without thinking. Reached for heavy crates before you could. Little things, quiet things, things people did when they cared. You smiled.

Interesting. Very interesting.

"...Olruggio?"

"Hm?"

"I've come to a conclusion."

"...Should I be concerned?"

"Probably."

He sighed. "...Go on."

"I don't think you're very good at hiding things."

He looked up. "...What things?"

"When you care."

He returned his attention to the tiny automaton in his hands. "...Your evidence?"

"You brought me brass wire."

"You needed it."

"You noticed my mug was empty."

"It was."

"You fixed my shelves without telling me."

"They were uneven."

"You worried when I was sick."

"...You had a fever."

"You keep proving my point."

"I don't believe I am."

You laughed quietly.

He looked genuinely puzzled. "I don't understand."

You stepped around the workbench until you were standing beside him. Not in front of him this time. Beside him. Your shoulders nearly brushed. He didn't move away. Instead, he continued examining the automaton.

"...What are you looking at?"

"The spring is too tight."

"You've said that about three times. I think you're pretending to inspect it."

"I don't pretend."

You leaned slightly closer, following his gaze. "You have nice eyes."

Olruggio stopped moving. The workshop fell completely silent. "...Thank you."

You smiled. No denial. No escape. Just a quiet thank you. You decided to push your luck.

"And your eyelashes are unfair."

He blinked. "...Unfair."

"Uhuh. They're longer than mine."

"...I hadn't noticed."

"I have. You also smell nice."

His head turned slowly toward you.

"...Smoke and cedar."

"...The workshop."

"No." You smiled. "You."

He looked at you for a long moment. Long enough that you wondered if perhaps,

"...Have you been feeling well?"

You stared. "...Excuse me?"

"You had a fever recently."

"I recovered."

"You seem..." He searched carefully for the right word. "...different."

You laughed so suddenly you had to cover your mouth. "Oh."

"What?"

"I finally broke you."

"...I don't believe that's what happened."

"It absolutely is."

You folded your arms with unmistakable satisfaction. "I complimented you three times in under a minute."

"...You did."

"And your best response was asking if I still had a fever." You looked at him for another moment. Then your smile softened. "...You're adorable."

Olruggio blinked. "...Adorable."

"Mhm."

"I don't think anyone has ever called me that."

"The first time for everything."

He was quiet for a long while. Then, almost absentmindedly, he reached over and adjusted the leather strap slipping from your shoulder before it could fall. The movement was effortless, instinctive. He didn't seem to realize he'd done it until his hand was already there.

"...It was slipping," he said.

"I know." Your voice was unusually gentle. "I wasn't talking about the strap."

For perhaps the first time since you'd met, color crept faintly into the tips of Olruggio's ears. He immediately turned back toward the automaton.

"...The spring is still too tight."

You couldn't stop smiling. "Escaping."

"...The spring."

"It can wait."

"...Mechanisms shouldn't wait."

You leaned against the workbench, watching him with unmistakable fondness.  "I don't mind waiting."

He didn't answer. Not because he had nothing to say. But because, somewhere beneath all of his careful observations and practical explanations, he was beginning to suspect that every compliment you gave him was genuine and that possibility was far more frightening than any puzzle he'd ever tried to solve.

Winter settled comfortably over the artisan district. Business had slowed with the colder weather, leaving the workshop unusually peaceful. Olruggio stood near the front window, carefully adjusting the tiny gears inside one of your latest music boxes. You, meanwhile, were pretending to organize a shelf.

In reality, you were watching him. "...Olruggio."

"Hm."

"I've made another discovery."

"...Should I prepare myself?"

"I think you're prettier when you're concentrating."

His hands paused for the briefest moment before continuing their work. "...Prettier. That's an unusual choice of words."

"I chose it on purpose."

"...I see."

"You have very long eyelashes."

You wandered closer. Olruggio quietly continued adjusting the mechanism.

"You make it very difficult to work."

"Do I? You've looked at the same gear for almost a minute."

"...I'm thinking."

You leaned down until your face was level with his. " I think you're avoiding eye contact."

"...I'm inspecting the gear."

"You've already inspected it."

"It requires another inspection."

He remained stubbornly focused on the music box. You smiled to yourself. He wasn't escaping anymore. He simply refused to look at you. That was progress.

"You know...I think your beard is growing on me."

"...Growing."

"I've decided I like it."

"...Last week you suggested I shave it."

"I did. I changed my mind."

"...Based on what evidence?"

You tilted your head thoughtfully. "I think it'd be nice to hold your face."

The tiny screwdriver slipped from Olruggio's fingers. It landed on the workbench with a sharp little clink. Neither of you moved. Very slowly, he bent down to retrieve it.

"...Gravity," he murmured.

You bit the inside of your cheek. "Was that gravity?"

"...It slipped."

"Olruggio."

"...Yes?"

"You're flustered."

"I am not."

"You dropped your screwdriver."

"It was... inadequately balanced."

You couldn't hold it in anymore. A laugh bubbled out of you. "I found your limit."

"...I don't believe you have."

"You absolutely do."

You rested your elbows on the workbench, smiling up at him. "I just needed stronger ammunition."

"...Ammunition."

"Compliments."

"They're becoming increasingly specific."

"They're becoming increasingly truthful."

That made him pause because you sounded completely sincere.

"...You mean them."

You looked at him as though the answer were obvious. "Of course I do."

Silence settled between you. Outside, snow drifted lazily past the window.

Inside, neither of you spoke. Olruggio looked down at the tiny screwdriver still resting in his hand. Then back at you.

"...You're making this difficult."

Your smile softened. "What is?"

"...Pretending I don't hear you." The words escaped before he could stop them.

His own eyes widened slightly. You blinked.

For once, you were the one left speechless. "...Olruggio..."

He looked away immediately. "...I miss when we argued about hinges."

A grin slowly spread across your face. "You're escaping."

"...Yes."

You laughed, warm and bright. "I know."

You reached over without thinking and brushed a tiny speck of sawdust from the shoulder of his cloak. He looked down at your hand. Then at you. He didn't step away. He didn't tense. He simply let your fingers linger for the briefest moment before you withdrew them.

"...There."

"What?"

"Sawdust. You wear black. It shows."

"...Thank you."

You smiled. "No problem."

As you turned back toward your workbench, you couldn't hide the satisfaction curling in your chest. You'd spent months trying to make Olruggio blush. That had been entertaining. But this...This was different.

Today, he'd admitted something far more important. Not that he liked your compliments. Not that he found you distracting but that he'd been pretending and if he was pretending, then somewhere beneath all those practical observations and careful deflections he'd been hearing every single word all along.

A few days later, the bell chimed. You smiled before the sound had even finished echoing.

"Good afternoon, Olruggio."

"...Good afternoon."

He had barely taken two steps inside before you appeared beside him.

"You trimmed your beard. It suits you."

"...Thank you."

You blinked. No deflection. Interesting. He removed his hat and placed it on its usual hook. He walked toward the shelves. You walked with him. He picked up a carved music box. You leaned beside him.

"I like when you concentrate."

"...You've mentioned that. You've been repeating yourself lately."

"Mhm."

"I've noticed."

"I wanted to make sure you remembered."

"...Remembered what?"

"That you're handsome."

Silence...

"...Thank you."

No escape. No inspecting gears. No pretending not to hear. Just another quiet thank you. You almost felt disappointed.

"...You're getting used to compliments."

"I don't believe I am."

"You are."

"I've simply accepted that arguing accomplishes nothing."

"It accomplished plenty. You started saying thank you."

"...That seemed polite."

"It is." You smiled. "It also makes me want to compliment you more."

"...I suspected as much."

He continued farther into the workshop. You stayed right beside him. Close enough that your sleeves brushed every now and then.

"You know..."

"Hm?"

"I like your voice. It's calming."

"...I see."

"I think I could listen to you explain mechanisms all day."

"...That sounds terribly boring."

"It sounds like a perfect afternoon."

He paused in front of another shelf. You paused too.

"I also like—"

"[name]."

You stopped. It was unusual. He almost never interrupted you.

"...Yes?"

He turned toward you. "...You've been following me."

"I have."

"I've walked through nearly the entire shop. You've followed me the whole time...Why?"

You tilted your head as though the answer were obvious. "Because I like being near you."

The words landed with the same quiet sincerity as every compliment before them. No teasing. No grin. Just the truth. Olruggio looked at you for a long moment. Then he sighed. Not an exasperated sigh. A surrender.

He took one slow step forward. Instinctively, you took one back. Until your back met the sturdy wooden shelves. The music boxes behind you rattled softly. For the first time, Olruggio closed the distance instead of retreating from it.

One hand rested against the shelf beside your head. Not trapping you, just keeping himself there. Keeping himself from running. His forehead nearly touched yours. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

"...Olruggio?"

He let out another quiet breath. "You've spent months." His voice was low. "Following me, complimenting me."

You smiled. "...Mhm."

"Making observations."

"I learned from the best."

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "...Relentless."

"I've been told."

"You never stopped...Even when I pretended not to hear."

"You heard every one."

"...I did."

Snow drifted past the window behind him. The workshop was impossibly still. Olruggio met your eyes completely. No looking away. No escaping.

"...You got me."

Your breath caught in your throat. He gave the smallest shake of his head, almost sounding amused with himself.

"...Are you happy now?"

Your smile was soft enough to melt every ounce of composure he'd managed to keep. "...Very."

For the first time since you'd met, Olruggio smiled without denying it. A real one. Small, warm and entirely unguarded. He lifted one hand carefully. Slowly enough that you could have stopped him at any moment. His fingers rested lightly against your cheek.

"...Good." The word hung between you for a heartbeat. Then Olruggio leaned in.

There was no rush. He moved like he was handling something fragile and irreplaceable, one hand gently tilting your chin, the other resting on the shelf next to your head. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft, warm and unhurried. The kind of kiss that felt like he had been thinking about it for a very long time.

His mouth was gentle but sure, carrying the faint taste of black tea and the smoky trace of forge magic that always lingered on him. He kissed you like he listened, patiently, completely focused, as if nothing else in the workshop mattered. A quiet exhale escaped him as he deepened it just a fraction, thumb brushing slowly along your jaw in a way that made your chest tighten.

When he pulled back, it was only enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breath was warm and slightly uneven. Those sharp eyes of his had gone soft, almost dazed, as they searched your face.

You broke into a helpless grin, the kind that made your cheeks ache. "...You smiled."

Olruggio closed his eyes for a brief moment. Then, to your absolute delight, he answered. "...I know."

That tiny admission felt every bit as wonderful as the kiss. You laughed softly, unable to stop smiling.

"I've been waiting months to hear you say that."

"...I know. You were very persistent."

"I prefer determined."

"...Relentless."

"I'll take that too."

The corners of his mouth lifted again. You gasped dramatically.

"...What?"

"The smile. You smiled twice. You didn't deny it." You beamed. "I think this might be my greatest accomplishment."

"I sincerely hope not."

"Oh?"

"I imagine you've built far more impressive things."

"I have."

You reached up without thinking, gently smoothing the front of his cloak where it had shifted. "But this one's my favorite."

Olruggio looked down at your hand. Then back at you. "...You're impossible."

You laughed. The bell above the shop door chimed. Both of you turned. Standing in the doorway, bundled beneath the same collection of knitted shawls as always, was the elderly woman. She blinked. You blinked. Olruggio blinked.

For one long, perfectly silent moment, no one moved. The elderly woman looked from Olruggio to you to the fact that the two of you were still standing far too close together, Olruggio still leaning over you.

Then her face lit up. "Oh!" She clasped both hands together. "I knew it."

You immediately took half a step back. "We can explain—"

"No need." She waved a dismissive hand. "I've been waiting for this."

Olruggio cleared his throat. "...You have?"

"Months." She smiled triumphantly. "I told my sister you were in love."

"I bet three silver."

You couldn't help it. A laugh escaped before you could stop it. "You... what?"

"She insisted you were merely friends."

The elderly woman nodded toward Olruggio.

"I said no man visits the same little shop every few days just to critique hinges."

She let out a knowing laugh before taking the neatly wrapped music box into her hands.

"I'll come back next time."

With one final smile, she stepped out into the snow. The bell above the door chimed softly behind her. Once again, there was only silence. You turned toward Olruggio only to find that he was already looking at you. It drew a quiet laugh from you.

"...What?"

"Nothing."

Your smile lingered. "I just caught you staring."

"...I was."

There wasn't a hint of denial. Not anymore. You stepped closer until only a small space remained between the two of you. Without saying a word, you reached for his hand. Your fingers slipped between his.

He looked down at your joined hands for a brief moment. Then, ever so gently, his fingers curled around yours. Warm, steady and comfortable. You gave his hand a tiny squeeze.

"...You know."

"Hm?"

"I don't think you're ever going to stop coming here."

Olruggio looked around the little workshop. The shelves he'd quietly repaired. The sign he'd straightened months ago. The countless little mechanisms he'd inspected simply because you'd made them. Then he looked back at you. A smile tugged at your lips.

Wash those dishes that were in the sink this morning, take out the trash, fold your laundry…

The list goes on and on, and you sigh, preparing yourself for a long night.

When you make it to your front door, you fish your keys out of your purse and push inside, closing and locking the door behind you.

You drop your bag on the entryway table and start moving down the hallway, but something stops you in your tracks. The smell of… cooking?

No, that can’t be right.

You’re sure that you didn’t make anything that could account for the smell, and Sevika had told you that she was working late at the bar again tonight. Could it be an intruder?

The thought alone was ridiculous. Any intruder that seemingly left everything in its place while also whipping up some deliciously smelling food would always be welcome in your home.

So, you decide to investigate the smell, mostly to prove that you weren’t going insane.

When you turn the corner into the kitchen, you stop in your tracks again.

Sevika stands in front of the stove, back turned to you and seemingly unaware of your presence. You watch her for a moment, starstruck.

Finally, you take a few steps forward, clearing your throat. In front of you, Sevika jumps a bit and whirls around. When she sees you, though, she relaxes.

“Shit, you scared me,” she says, her voice quiet. “How was work, baby?”

You don’t reply, instead moving closer to Sevika and falling into her arms. Closing your eyes, you melt into her, letting her hold you upright.

“Rough day?”

You nod into Sevika’s chest. “I’m so tired,” you whisper.

“Yeah, I thought you’d be,” Sevika replies, tightening her grip on your waist. Then, she starts guiding you out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards the bathroom.

There’s a moment where you just stare up at Sevika, confused, but you let her lead you anyways. When she pushes the door open, you find your answer.

The bathtub is filled with water, and you can still see the steam rising off of the surface. There’s a few bubbles lining the edge of the tub, and when you inhale, the scent of lavender fills your senses.

It’s enough for you to tear up.

You quickly wipe your face, turning and hugging Sevika close.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you mumble into her neck, hands tangled in her hair.

“Sure, but I knew you’d be tired,” Sevika responds gently, petting the top of your head with her flesh hand. “It’s the least I could do for you, love.”

Whether from emotions or sheer exhaustion, your lower lip starts to quiver, and you can feel tears start to prick at your eyes again. You pull away from Sevika and start to undress, leaving your discarded clothes in a neat pile on the tile floor.

Sevika watches you but doesn’t say anything. Once you step closer to the tub, though, she holds out a hand to help you down into the water. Of course, it’s the perfect temperature.

She always knew what you needed.

“I’ll be back in about twenty minutes, okay? The pasta is almost done,” Sevika says quietly, turning and leaving without another word.

You nod, closing your eyes and sinking lower into the hot water. It seems to soak into your bones, relieving days-old tension in seconds.

In the process, a few stray tears leak out of your eyes, mixing with the bathwater. You don’t move to wipe them, instead just leaving them to flow down your face.

After what feels like a few seconds, you jolt awake at the sound of the door opening. You look towards the noise, finding Sevika standing there with a small smile on her face.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“Uh, I guess so,” you reply, looking around. Sure enough, the water is cool to the touch, and when you check the time, twenty minutes have passed.

“Well, dinner is ready whenever you are,” Sevika eventually says. “Are you hungry?”

You nod, moving to pull yourself out of the water. “Yeah, I… I’ll be in there in a second,” you murmur, stepping out onto the bath mat.

Like before, Sevika doesn’t linger, somehow sensing your need for a bit of alone time. After thoroughly drying yourself with a towel, you wrap it around your body and pad down the hallway into yours and Sevika’s room.

When you emerge, you’re wearing a pair of loose shorts and one of Sevika’s old shirts. You make your way into the kitchen, finding Sevika spooning some sort of pasta into two bowls.

She glances over her shoulder and smiles at you warmly before speaking. “Go sit down. I’ll bring it to you.”

You don’t argue, turning and walking to the dining room table. You take your seat and watch as Sevika finishes her task. Once she does, Sevika carries the two bowls to the table and sets each in front of your respective chairs.

She sits down next to you, watching as you take your first bite of the food.

“This is really good, baby,” you say after swallowing.

“Yeah, is it really? I tried a new recipe.”

You nod, taking another bite. A comfortable silence covers the two of you as you eat, and after a couple of minutes, Sevika stands up and grabs both of your empty bowls. You follow her to the kitchen, leaning against the counter as she rinses them in the sink.

“I thought you were working late tonight,” you say quietly, reaching out and gently touching Sevika’s back.

“I got off early because one of the new guys wanted to switch shifts,” Sevika explains, turning off the water and turning her body to face you. “I didn’t really want to be there anyways.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, I had better things to be doing,” Sevika whispers, stepping forward into your space. “Like coming home and getting things ready for you.”

You crack a small, exhausted smile. “You’re too sweet to me,” you murmur in response.

“No, I’d argue that I’m not sweet enough to you,” Sevika responds, pulling you into her.

You roll your eyes, but you wrap your arms around her neck nonetheless.

“Also, is that my shirt?”

Nodding, you rest your head against Sevika’s chest. “Yeah, all my good sleep shirts are in my laundry.”

“You mean the laundry that I folded earlier?”

You pull back slightly, looking Sevika in the eyes. “You folded my laundry?”

“If you’re talking about the stuff that was in the washer, yeah. I folded it.”

Apparently, clean laundry was the final straw.

Like before, tears start streaming down your face. However, this time they’re accompanied by exhausted sobs and noisy sniffles.

“Oh, baby,” Sevika whispers, picking you up into her arms. “You’re so tired, aren’t you?”

Through your cries, you nod, not even complaining about Sevika babying you like you normally would. She carries you to the bedroom and places you down on the bed, maneuvering your body under the covers.

“Please,” you beg, holding out the word for a few beats. A stupid smile splits open your face, and you push your last shot glass towards the man. “Just one more, then I swear I won’t ask again.”

“I said no,” the man replies, turning away from you and speaking to another customer.

You persist, following the man down the bar. Finally, he gets tired of your begging and turns to face you.

“Sevika, come get your girl,” he calls into the crowd.

Frowning, you stand up a bit straighter.

“Whatever, you’re no fun” you mumble, slurring your words as you stumble away.

You’ve almost made it across the bar when you feel a heavy, calloused hand land on your shoulder.

“Going somewhere, dollface?”

“Just waiting for you,” you reply, turning around to find Sevika standing behind you.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“Are you done with your cards?”

“Yeah, I’m done,” Sevika responds, pulling you closer to her. “Didn’t answer my question, though.”

“Let’s just go home, they won’t give me anything else,” you say after a moment, letting Sevika support your body.

Sevika chuckles in response, her flesh hand falling around your waist. “Alright,” she replies, her voice a bit mocking. “Let’s get you home.”

You roll your eyes, but you let Sevika pull you towards the exit. “Don’t say it like that,” you mumble, meaning to sound as sober as possible.

It doesn’t work, obviously.

“Yes ma’am,” Sevika says, still making fun of you slightly. Nevertheless, she guides you out of the crowded bar, gently pushing you out into the cool night air.

The walk home is quick, and before you know it, you’re watching Sevika unlock the door to your shared apartment. You follow her inside, dropping your purse on the couch.

Your body follows, curling up in the pile of pillows and blankets from last night’s movie. Sevika laughs again, sitting down by your legs.

“Sleepy?”

“No,” you groan, pushing up into a half-sitting position. “I’m so awake.”

“Sure, you are,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. You watch her flesh hand move closer to your face, and she softly tucks a stray hair behind your ear. “Let’s go take a shower, baby.”

You think of refusing for a moment, but you don’t. A nice, warm shower sounds pretty appealing.

Nodding, you stand up. Before you can move, though, you stumble slightly, grabbing onto Sevika for support.

She watches as you drunkenly giggle, and you can almost see the thoughts forming in her brain. Just as you realize what she’s going to do, Sevika scoops you up into her arms with ease.

You giggle at the sudden weightlessness, placing your arms around Sevika’s neck. She carries you to the bathroom and gently places you down on the edge of the tub, turning on the water.

“I can take a shower, Vika,” you mumble.

“You couldn’t even walk to the bathroom, doll” Sevika says, her voice soft. “I don’t mind doing this.”

Going quiet, you listen to the water fill the tub. Sevika helps you stand up, being overly cautious.

“Vika, I can undress myself,” you say, but your words are in vain. Sevika expertly turns you around, unzipping your dress and letting it fall to the ground.

You step out of the dress, watching as Sevika picks it up and folds it. She sets it on the bathroom counter before kneeling down on the ground in front of you.

“Sit down,” she says quietly. You obey, taking a seat on the edge of the tub again.

In front of you, Sevika takes your shoes off of your feet, setting them down to the side. “I don’t know how you walk in these every night,” she chuckles, poking at the heel.

“Practice,” you smile, staring down at her. “You look cute down there,” you add quietly, smirking slightly as you run your fingers through Sevika’s hair.

Sevika catches the shift in your tone, and she raises her eyebrow slightly. “No, you’re drunk.”

You sigh, pulling your hand back. “Whatever.”

She doesn’t respond, instead picking you up and setting you down into the warm water. Then, Sevika grabs the soap and starts lathering it over your body.

“I can wash myself,” you say, but again, Sevika doesn’t pay your words any mind.

You finally just lean back, letting the other woman wash you.

She does this every time you’re drunk or injured in some way. The truth was, Sevika just really enjoys taking care of you, even when you could technically do it yourself.

“Makes me feel stronger,” she’d told you when you’d asked her why a couple of years ago. “Like I can protect you.”

So, you let her do it.

You let her carry you around, wash your body, then tuck you into bed next to her. It was the least you could do for her, anyways.

Tonight, she finishes washing you and pulls you out of the tub. She dries your body with a soft towel, paying soft attention to the most delicate parts of you.

Then, she takes you to bed, setting you down on the edge while she pulls back the covers for you.

You’re quickly tucked in, and Sevika steps back, admiring her work.

“Can I get you anything before I shower? I’ll make it quick, of course.”

You shake your head, waving her off. “You’ve already done plenty, Vika,” you reply.

Nodding, Sevika turns and pads down the hallway back into the bathroom. You hear the water turn on, then the sound of Sevika quietly singing to herself.

It makes you smile, hearing her, but you never tell her. She’d stop doing it out of embarrassment if she thought you could hear her.

True to her promise, Sevika is in and out of the shower in a record three minutes. She returns to the bedroom wrapped in a towel as she rifles through her drawers.

Once she picks something to wear, she changes, letting the towel fall to the ground.

Sevika walks over to the bed, sitting down.

You roll towards her as she pulls the covers over her body, waiting for her to get comfortable. Once she does, she wraps her flesh arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against her body.

Sighing, you relax into her, closing your eyes.

“You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow,” Sevika whispers into your ear.

“No, I’m not,” you shoot back, but your words don’t have any bite to them.

“Oh yeah? And you aren’t even tired, are you?”

Before you can even muster a response, your eyes start to droop. You settle for a quiet groan, and it gets your message across all the same.

Sevika chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations under your head.