nics recs woah!

“But I haven’t even done anything yet,” Bob says, which is technically true but deeply misleading.

“You’re thinking about it.”

There’s a beat. Then, sheepishly, Bob admits, “I am thinking about it.”

You groan into your pillow. “Bob. It’s so hot. I’m going to combust if you touch me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Bob murmurs, lazily rolling over onto his side. You can feel the heat of him even before he’s touching you. Bob Reynolds runs hot as a furnace. Not in the cozy sense, or at least not at this time of year. There’s something in his physiology, some quirk of power or biology or whatever Valentina refuses to answer when she gets asked, but the point is, love it or hate it, Bob’s internal body temperature is not normal.

It’s like cuddling with an oversized golden retriever made of pure, relentless sunlight. It’s great in the winter. In December, you cling to him like a space heater. In January, you curl against his chest, bask in the warmth like a sleepy cat, and thank the Gods for your ridiculously overpowered boyfriend.

But right now? In July? With no AC, a dead fan, and 92% humidity? Not ideal.

“Bob,” you warn again, but it’s too late. A large hand splays across your back. Not even subtly. He commits to it. You yelp.

He flinches. “What?! Are you okay?”

“You’re boiling!”

“You’re exaggerating, you dramatic little-“

“I dare you to finish that sentence, Bob!”

Bob has the audacity to laugh. It rumbles in his chest and borderline vibrates through the mattress.

“You’re being mean,” Bob says, and you can hear the pout in his voice. He’s got that wounded golden-boy tone he uses when you tell him he can’t microwave marshmallows again. “You always let me cuddle you in the morning.”

“Not when I’m melting!”

“But I missed you…”

You groan again, flipping over and squinting at him with half-lidded eyes. He looks unfairly soft, his hair messy and sunlit, eyes still bleary with sleep, the bare slope of his shoulder visible under the sheet that’s barely hanging onto his frame. His skin’s already warm enough to shimmer.

You can’t prove it, but you’re 80% sure Bob’s body temperature goes up when he’s emotionally clingy. Like his subconscious tries to swaddle you in affection and warm, sweet, cozy, but relentless, love.

“You saw me last night.” You try not to smile. You’re failing.

Bob frowns. “But I didn’t get to hold you. You said it was too hot then too.”

“Because it was! We’re in a heatwave! I was sweating just looking at you!”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Bob insists, propping himself up on one arm, all golden skin and soft lines. “You’re acting like I was going to climb on top of you and suffocate you or something. I was just going to,” Bob makes a vague flailing gesture, “Like… super gently drape.”

“Bob.”

“Like a blanket.”

“You’re a human sunbeam, you nightmare.”

He grins, wide and unrepentant. “A sunbeam full of love.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not cuddling you.”

Bob tilts his head. “Just a little?”

“No.”

“Just one arm, then?”

You stare. Bob shifts closer anyway. Slides his arm beneath your shoulders, snaking it under your neck, and you don’t stop him, not really, because it’s Bob, and he’s warm and safe and has that look on his face, like holding you is the only thing anchoring him to the world. It’s not fair, honestly, how good he is at that expression.

“You’re doing the whole puppy eyes thing again.”

“It’s not a thing,” Bob mumbles pathetically, curling his fingers lightly into your hair. “This is my face.”

You grumble. “Your face is manipulative.”

There’s a smile in his voice when he says, “You love my face.”

You do. Painfully so. Against all better logic and the laws of thermodynamics, you let your body sink a little further into his side. Bob immediately hums, content, his arm looping fully around your waist.

“I am sweating,” you inform Bob, accusingly, as if that might change anything.

“I’ll get you water in a minute,” Bob whispers, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “Just this, right now.”

Just this. You sigh, closing your eyes. The air is stifling. The ceiling fan turns lazily overhead, doing nothing. Your skin is hot. Sticky. But, Bob is steady. He always is. A comforting presence. You feel the warmth of his chest rise and fall, slow and steady. And even with all the sweat and heat and your overwhelming need to crawl inside of a freezer, you find that don’t want to be anywhere else.

“I swear,” you say finally, “if I die of heatstroke, I’m haunting you.”

Bob huffs a laugh, almost half-asleep again. “As long as you cuddle me in ghost form.”

“You’re hopeless.”

Bob grins, eyes closed. “I’m in love.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, he’s said it a hundred times before, in the quiet between battles and the grocery aisle and once while brushing his teeth like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Every time it hits different. You twist your fingers gently into the fabric of his shirt, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you too. Even if you’re a disgustingly warm cuddle beast.”

He smiles against your hair, letting out a childish, amused chuckle. “You said cuddle. You love me.”

“Shut up and go back to sleep, Sunbeam.”

You end up napping like that. It’s not practical. You’re sweaty and tangled, and at one point your arm falls asleep and you wake up with pins and needles and Bob, horrified, borderline yells a very concerned “Did I break your arm?” like the drama king he is. But, you survive, just barely.

And when you finally do get up, he keeps his promise. Gets you water. Fills the freezer with popsicles. Fixes the fan, or rather, replaces it entirely with some souped-up old Stark tech monstrosity he ‘borrowed’ from HQ and insists is ‘energy efficient’. You roll your eyes. But, you let him install it. Then, you happily let him bring you a bowl of chilled grapes and kiss your wrist where the pulse beats, soft and quick and alive.

And when night falls and the heat is still clinging to the walls like static, Bob reaches for you again.

He’s warm. You don’t protest.

LUCIFER

Lucifer glances at the clock on his desk and sighs wearily, rubbing the heel of his palms against his eyes.

He already knows it’s going to be another long night of forcing himself to focus on filling out paperwork, on preparing student council memos and the countless other tasks he’s taken upon himself since you disappeared.

A cursed record plays quietly and the fire in the hearth crackles each time a log shifts or splinters. 

A nearly-empty glass of Demonus leaves a rim of condensation on the dark wood desk. He used to keep track of the days that have passed in your absence, but now he counts the empty bottles of that bittersweet amber drink instead.

It’s not only his own vices that weigh heavily on his mind; his brothers aren’t faring any better without you. Their behaviour swings wildly from bored indifference to reckless abandon. He’s not sure what’s worse: forcing them from their rooms when some of them refuse to go to class or work (or eat and bathe or shower), or dealing with their chaos when they decide to replace grief and misery with the wicked temptations and misdeeds of their sins.

You would be disappointed in them, he thinks. You would be disappointed in them all.

But what else can they possibly do while they wait for some glimmer of hope that you’ll come home again?

He remembers the tense conversation he had with Diavolo about your situation after you disappeared with barely a hint of warning. All he had were Solomon’s vague assurances of your eventual return to comfort him.

Lucifer listened to Diavolo’s insufficient apologies and condolences, but he couldn’t help but glance at Barbatos whose sharp gaze was at odds with the neutral expression on his face. He wondered how much the butler knew about your misfortune, and he’s wondered since then if he should’ve fought harder to force him to bring you back from wherever you were.

Now he passes his time with busywork because he has no one to remind him not to work. He drinks too much to dull the pain in his head and his heart. He sleeps on the couch in his office, or sometimes he slumps on his desk when exhaustion consumes him, because it’s better than lying in his large, empty bed alone.

It shouldn’t have surprised Lucifer that Cerberus eventually realized you were gone too. He went to the family tomb one evening, startled awake by three mournful howls that shook the foundations of the house. He used the bit of magic that gave Cerberus a manageable house-friendly size and without warning, the dog ran past him up the stairs. When Lucifer found him again, the three-headed dog was whining pitifully and pawing at your bedroom door. 

Lucifer hadn’t entered your room since you left, but he had to prove that you weren’t there. That didn’t stop his hound from searching the rest of the house before returning to Lucifer’s side, ears drooping and each head whining in confusion as they bumped against his legs.

Cerberus has barely left his side since, trailing after him and sleeping in front of the fire while Lucifer’s pen scratches quietly across the papers on his desk.

Lucifer contemplates giving up on his work for the night and resting on the sofa, but he frowns when Cerberus stands up suddenly and trots across the room. The door must not have been closed tight because he nudges the door open with one of his snouts. All three heads tilt curiously and he sniffs noisily. Lucifer rises from his chair with a curse when the hound bolts out of the room, howling as he runs out of the library and into the dark hallway past.

Lucifer’s steps are slow and clumsy at first as he shakes off his desperate need for sleep, but he needs to catch the noisy creature first. The last thing he wants to deal with right now is his brothers waking up in the middle of the night in foul moods and causing even more of a ruckus.

The dog’s strange howling stops somewhere near the front of the house, and Lucifer freezes when he turns the corner just in time to see Cerberus knock someone to the floor.

You.

He knocked you to the floor so each of his heads could yip excitedly and lick at your face. When you laugh and try to push the animal away, Cerberus plops down on your legs and seems content to keep you trapped there.

Lucifer, staring wide-eyed and speechless, takes a hesitant step, and then another, before breaking into a run.

It’s not long after that when each of his brothers each stumble drowsily into the hallway, grumbling and snarling and glaring because of the loud disturbance that woke them from their sleep.

Their tempers die down and it's utter chaos when they process the sight in front of them: Lucifer chuckling while you hold each other in the middle of the hallway floor near your bedroom, the Avatar of Pride wearing a rare smile and with even rarer tears shining in his eyes, and Cerberus panting happily nearby as if he was the one who brought you home for his grumpy master to find.

MAMMON

Mammon spins in a slow circle where he dangles from the dining room ceiling. The rope binding his hands behind his back doesn't budge no matter how hard he tries to rip it apart and set himself free.

"Yo, someone get me down from here, will ya? All this spinning's makin' me dizzy!"

But he knows it's useless. None of his brothers will test Lucifer's short fuse by setting Mammon free, and there aren't any brave humans around to help him anymore.

"It wasn't even that bad. I swear I was gonna return it..." Mammon grumbles to himself. So what if he's gotten a little reckless lately? He's no worse than his brothers are, but that arrogant prat Lucifer doesn't tie them up like this.

He braces himself for a long, boring day, spinning for hell knows how long, until Lucifer remembers to set him free.

"Oh no. Mammon. What did you do to upset him this time?"

His body jerks when he hears—thinks he hears a familiar voice. He recognizes the silhouette of the shadow that stands in the doorway briefly before stepping towards him, but he shakes his head like it’ll make the illusion fade away.

That's gotta be his imagination, right?

"You son of a—this is a cheap shot, even for you," Mammon snarls, cursing Lucifer for teasing him with an illusion of all things. Why else would you suddenly appear before him like a dream - or a nightmare - except to taunt him?

Isn't suffering without you punishment enough?

“Here, let me help you…” The voice is quieter now, but close. Gentle hands tug uselessly at the cursed rope holding him in place and he clenches his eyes shut tight and reminds himself that you’re not here.

But then he recognizes the sound of a tongue clicking in frustration, the barely-audible murmurs about Lucifer needing to loosen up, and he crumples in a heap on the floor when a spell he doesn’t recognize causes the ropes to vanish without a trace.

He bumps into someone’s legs when he rolls over, but he doesn’t get up. He throws an arm over his eyes instead.

It's not you, it's not you, it's not you—

But he grunts when a heavy weight suddenly plops down on top of him and he can’t help but breathe deep when a familiar scent tickles his nose. It makes him shiver, gives him hope, and he whimpers.

You nudge his arm aside so you can cup his cheeks in your palms and force him to look at you. Your thumbs swipe away the tears that slip from the corner of his eyes; you're not sure if the sound that rips from his throat is a sob or a laugh.

He stares at you for a long time before he speaks again, and for the first time in ages, he feels something other than pain.

"Don't you dare think of leavin' me behind the next time you decide to disappear like that," he threatens. There's no heat in his voice, only slow acceptance and relief that you're finally back where you belong—with him.

He crushes you against his chest in a tight hug while you whisper apologies into the crook of his neck, and you stay that way - curled together in the middle of the dining room floor - until the others find you later.

LEVIATHAN

Thump-thump-thump.

Levi's TV across the room drones on quietly, a random anime DVD playing on repeat for the dozenth time, but he doesn't pay attention to it.

Thump-thump-thump.

Levi's computer pings faintly, barely audible over the hum of Henry's aquarium. He hasn't sat at his desk in ages, he hasn't logged in for any of his gaming events or guild raids and he stopped keeping track of what his favourite idols are up to. Notifications on his social media accounts and emails are ignored and left unread.

Thump-thump-thump.

His D.D.D. vibrates somewhere in the tangled mess of blankets and pillows underneath him but he ignores that too. It's probably Lucifer reminding him that he needs to go to class sometime this week.

Unlike his brothers, Levi's not going to pretend he's fine.

He hasn't been fine for a long time.

Thump-thump-

A knock on his door startles him and his tail stops thrumming against the side of his porcelain tub. He pokes his head out from the nest of blankets he buried himself in and glares at the door across the room. The orange of his irises flare in a menacing glow from underneath the hood pulled over his head, the drawstrings chewed and frayed ages ago.

Everyone knows not to bother him. It was a very simple request.

Are they stupid?

He pulls himself out of the tub with his teeth bared. Maybe a little scuffle with one of his nosy siblings will make him feel better—will make him feel something.

He yanks the door open but freezes when he recognizes you, standing in front of him as if you didn't vanish from his life without a trace. Your knuckles are raised like you were about to knock again, and you rock back and forth on your heels as you lower your hand in embarrassment.

Levi's mouth flaps open and shut, but before you can say anything, he lets out a high-pitched squeak and slams the door shut in your face.

That's not the worst reaction you imagined, so you consider it a win.

You press your ear against the door. There's shuffling inside his room, the faint sounds of something hitting the sides of his tub. You knock again softly to warn him before you push the door open and let yourself inside.

Aside from the glow from the aquarium, his room is dark and suffocating. You step gingerly over the piles of books and movies strewn haphazardly across the floor; he never used to be so careless with his collections. An empty food wrapper crinkles under your foot and you hope he hasn't been surviving only on his private stash of imported candy.

There's a familiar lumpy shape laying across the bottom of the tub when you peer over the edge. His sniffles are muffled by the blankets and pillows he's hiding under. The only part of him you can see is his tail that dangles limply over the side.

You sit down next to his tail, careful not to touch it in case he doesn't want you to. It was always a sensitive part of himself and he didn't like others touching it so freely; you're not sure he'll grant you that privilege again anytime soon.

"Levi?"

His tail twitches at the sound of your voice. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes peer out from a gap in his little hideaway. There's a lot of emotion swirling in the gaze that narrows at you suspiciously: pain, confusion, anger—all tempered with the tiniest bit of hope.

You lean forward and press your hand against him where you think the curve of his shoulder is. You're gentle enough that he can ignore it or shake you off if he wants. His body deflates under your hesitant touch like he finally let go of the breath he's been holding for so long. He blinks at you, eyes widening as he dares himself to believe you're actually there. More of his face peeks out at you when he slowly peels the blanket away.

"I'm back." The words croak out of you, and your voice is watery like the tears that sting your eyes. His only response is a wounded noise he makes at the back of his throat. You recognize it instantly—you made sounds just like it when you were first torn away from here. Away from him.

You know you have so much to explain and apologize for, and you don't even know where to start, but before you can say anything else, his tail coils around your wrist. You tumble forward when he pulls you down into the tub with him. His arms and legs and tail curl themselves around you, and if you didn't miss him as much as you did, you might complain about how uncomfortable it is.

He mumbles apologies into your chest because he was convinced that whatever happened to you was his fault somehow.

You spend a long time trying to reassure him it wasn't his fault at all.

SATAN

As soon as you get your bearings, stumbling in your room where the portal suddenly dropped you, you want to see Satan. You need to see him.

You love him. You missed him. You worried about him, and you worried for him. He might not always show his rage or act on his violent impulses with you anymore, but you can only imagine what he must've felt when you disappeared.

You saw what he was like before—young, lost, bewildered and so unspeakably angry—and you need to see for yourself what's happened since your untimely absence.

It's disorienting trying to make your way out of your bedroom. It's dark and a bit dusty, and the furniture isn't quite where you left it. You bump your knee and trip more than once making your way to the door. The knob sticks as if it hasn't been opened in ages.

Part of you pushes down the sting that maybe the brothers abandoned your room completely and tried to pretend you didn't exist since you’ve been gone.

(If you could see better in the near darkness, you'd know that most of your bookshelves and drawers are almost empty, picked clean by each of the siblings who took your belongings to keep in their rooms instead.)

Nothing can prepare you for what you find when you head up the stairs to the second floor and stop in front of Satan’s door, or what's left of it. There's giant gashes in the wood and you're careful not to scratch your arm on the sharp splinters where claws (or perhaps his tail) broke through it.

You used to tease Satan about the stacks of books he kept on the floor, organized chaos to anyone but him because he could tell you exactly where each and every book was kept. There's no wobbly piles of books on the floor to stumble into now. Broken book spines and torn pages litter the ground beneath your feet, and you can feel the crunch of glass that you assume are the remains of his old lanterns. Even his bed is barely recognizable—the mattress is ripped to shreds and the frame is bent and disjointed.

His bedroom is the embodiment of the fury deep inside him when he realized you were gone. Missing. Taken. And for all his power and his intelligence and wit, even he couldn't find a way to bring you back.

It wasn't your fault either, but faced with the evidence of his misery, you can't help but feel guilty.

You leave his room and in your daze, your feet lead you to the library next. There's a small part of you that fears Satan might've laid waste to another precious room in the house, but there's a flickering light underneath the doorway and you're hopeful it might be intact after all.

Like your room, the library's not quite the same as it was before. The shelves aren't as orderly, as if whoever's been reading the books and ancient tomes couldn't be bothered to put them back properly. There's a small stack of dishes piled on the table near the sofa—a strange sight because everyone knows it bothers Satan if they eat or drink in here. He hated the idea of spills or greasy fingerprints ruining the books by accident. Next to the sofa, a pile of books catches your eye because they're yours, taken from the bookshelves in your room. The spines are creased as if they've been read over and over again, acting as a poor replacement for your company.

There's a soft groan and you suddenly notice the figure laid back on the sofa. A familiar tuft of Satan's blonde hair rests on your pillow and your blanket spills over his legs and waist and onto the floor. The library is his temporary room, the sofa a makeshift bed where he keeps reminders of you close by, and he breathes deeply while he sleeps. His brow is creased as if he's unhappy even in his dreams.

You take a step forward and debate whether you should wake him up or not when the air shifts around you.

He moves faster than you can track with your eyes, launching himself off the couch and pinning you to the floor before you can even stutter out his name. His emerald gaze flickers with fiery rage, his hot breath fanning across your face, and his chest rumbles with a deep, predatory warning. His tail rises menacingly behind him and your throat runs dry at the very real threat hovering over you.

"S-Satan..."

It's almost comical, the way his eyes widen with recognition when you stutter out his name. He drinks in your appearance and by the time he scrambles off you and his demon form is gone. When he was confident in his anger moments ago, now he hesitates when he reaches out to you. He's not sure if you're really there or simply a mirage, the remnants of a dream he wishes he didn't have to wake up from.

As soon as you open your arms to him, he's in your embrace and nearly topples you both over in his haste to be close to you. His hands smooth up your arms and he cradles your jaw, tilting your head slowly as he checks for any sign of injury. He bumps his nose against yours when he's satisfied that you're unharmed, whether by his own hand or from someone else's, and he smiles a bit sheepishly when you do.

"I'm sorry I scared you."

"I'm sorry I left you."

He seems content holding you on the library floor, nuzzling against your temple and inhaling the familiar scent of your skin. It's such a simple thing, but he enjoys it.

He hasn't felt this relaxed in ages.

"I saw your room." You're not sure why you blurt that out of all the things you could talk about instead. "I went there first to find you."

He clears his throat and turns away as pink dusts his cheeks. "Ah, well...I might've gone overboard." He's quiet for a moment before he looks at you, feigning a look of innocence that poorly masks the amusement underneath. "If I told you it was Lucifer's fault, would you believe me?"

Laughter bubbles out of you and he chuckles too. "Not a chance! But I'll help you no matter whose fault it was. There's nothing we can't fix together, right?"

"I'd like that," he murmurs against your cheek. 

ASMODEUS

Asmo was heading to the kitchen when he crashed into someone coming out of your bedroom. His arms flailed wildly at his sides while he tried to keep his balance and stop himself from toppling over. He ran his fingers through the curtain of hair that fell into his eyes, and the venomous anger pouring from his mouth came to a screeching halt when he realized the person he bumped into was you.

Your eyes were wide with shock, but you couldn't decide what surprised you more: colliding with your beloved demon after so many dreary days forced apart, or the anger that poured from him in waves.

"I'm back," you explained dumbly. Obviously. But he blinked his eyes rapidly like he wouldn't believe it.

"How?! I mean, when did you—?"

Whatever he was going to say next caught in his throat as his eyes flitted over your appearance. His gaze was critical, honing in on the smallest little details, the things that are different from the way you looked when he last saw you. Something about your hands gets his attention, and he holds them both gently in his palms.

"Oh, hon, who's been helping you with your nails? The polish is chipped."

His mood shifts so rapidly that it gives you whiplash, and you glance down at your fingers. Maybe it has been a few days, and sure, they might look a little worse for wear, but you're baffled that he noticed that of all things.

"Well, technically, you've been doing them for me." You smile gently at the joke because his past self was just as attentive to your needs and loved taking care of you in the simplest ways.

It might be the wrong thing to admit out loud, though. The guarded look Asmo gives you is so cold, so detached that the amusement fades from your expression.

"The least I can do is help clean these up for you now that you're back, hmm?" His voice is loud and a bit shrill, cracking on some of the words. He spins on his heel and tugs on your hand as he heads towards the staircase.

He doesn't notice - or maybe he just doesn't care - that the commotion reached the dining room. His brothers stumble into the hallway and you can't make out anything they're saying as they all rush towards you and try to talk over each other.

A terrifying growl rips through the hallway and startles them all into silence. it makes your skin crawl because you know the sound came from Asmo. His brothers don't seem impressed by him attempting to keep you to himself when you've just returned, but his aura crackles with something menacing and even Lucifer thinks twice about trying to stop him.

"We'll talk to you after you've had a moment to catch up in private," he suggests loudly. Asmo huffs in annoyance but his pace doesn't falter. He holds your hand tightly in his grip and you have little choice but to follow him up the steps towards his room. You shoot Lucifer and his brothers an apologetic glance before they disappear from view.

You're nearly at the top of the steps when a flurry of movement on the ground startles you. Familiar black shapes weave between your legs and snap teasingly at your ankles. You curl against Asmo's back with a nervous little yelp.

"They won't hurt you, you know that," he reminds you with a coo, and there's a gentle cadence to his voice that reminds you so much of the demon you missed all this time. He winks at you over his shoulder before he looks down at the scorpion familiars skittering on the floor, each of them radiating the faint pink glow of his power. "They'll make sure my brothers don't bother us."

As soon as Asmo ushers you into his room, he steers you gently towards his bed. The smile curling his lips looks strained. "Wait for a moment, darling, I'm going to—"

You reach for the sleeve of his dressing gown and stop him from leaving to do whatever he had planned. "Asmo, wait." You pat the bed. "I don't care about that right now. My nails can wait until later."

He bites his lip and his eyes are glassy as they fill with tears. He sniffles a little under his breath and wipes his face with his sleeve. "But I'm the one who's supposed to take care of you, not—" he looks away as his cheeks turn splotchy. "It's not fair that he was there for you when you belong here with me." He bites his bottom lip when it starts to quiver and he chokes out a sob. "I missed you so much."

You glance around his bedroom and his strange behaviour starts to make sense when you notice all the small things he's changed while you've been gone.

His vanity and closets are cluttered and not organized flawlessly like usual.

Your eyes pause on a strange, heart-shaped stain on his vanity mirror that you’re too nervous to ask about right now.

(In a moment of frustration, he smashed his fist into the glass the first night you disappeared. He repaired it with magic but smears of blood remained even when the cracks in the mirror vanished. He drew the little heart with his fingertip while he whispered your name like he thought it might summon you back to him, and he cried when it didn’t.)

His bed smells like the fragrance you normally wear, something you brought with you from the human world and he claimed he didn't like very much.

He removed his pillow cases and slipped some of your shirts over his pillows instead.

You wonder how you didn't realize sooner that the dressing gown he's wearing is yours, one of many gifts he gave you after you started dating.

His room is filled with your belongings, things he clung desperately to while he hoped and begged for you to come back to him.

"I think tonight we should take care of each other then, don't you?"

You hold your hand out to him, and it only takes a moment for him to stumble over to the bed. He gathers you in his arms and holds you so tightly that it's hard to breathe, like he's scared to let you go. You tangle your fingers in his clothes because you're just as needy as he is.

He whimpers your name against your neck,  interspersed with little kisses that are featherlight but still enough to make your head spin; your tears roll down your cheeks and mix with his, and they're wet and salty on his lips. He murmurs an inaudible mantra as he drags his mouth over your jaw so he can kiss you properly, and it leaves you both breathless.

—I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—

The others aren't surprised at all when you and Asmo lock yourselves away in his room 'til morning. 

BEELZEBUB

The joy of returning home turns bitter in your heart when you realize Beel isn't there. His brothers are in the dining room and hear the noise when the portal unceremoniously drops you in the middle of your bedroom floor. They hear a thump and a soft oof! and by the time they scramble out of their seats and into the hall, you're already stumbling through the door and rubbing the soreness from your back.

The weight of six demons attempting to hug you drags you back down to the floor, but this time you're cushioned in someone's lap and suddenly the floor doesn't seem all that bad. Even though you're being squeezed within an inch of your life and they're all talking (and crying and stuttering) over each other, their voices are similar yet so different from the ones you heard in the past, you can't bring yourself to care.

By the time they quiet down to give you a chance to get a word in, you're hugged and warmed and loved like you haven't been in a long time.

The only thing that's bittersweet about your long-awaited reunion is Beel's absence.

"He's at Fangol practice," Belphie says. His voice is slightly muffled since he can't seem to stop nuzzling your shoulder. "He should be home soon."

Asmo's fingers are already tapping quickly across his D.D.D. "I tried calling already but he didn't answer. He'll want to know you're back."

"He might not see the message in the middle of practice," Lucifer warns him from somewhere at your back. "Perhaps one of us should go get him?"

There's a tinkling ping not long after and Asmo waves his phone in your face, but you can't possibly read it.

"Ha! And you thought it would be a waste of time, hmm? Well, I'll have you know that Beel said...'ok'? Huh." Asmo winces when disappointment flickers across your face at Beel's lack-of response. "I'm sure he's excited to see you! You know he's not very fond of texting."

"I think I'll wait for him in his room." The brothers slowly detangle themselves from you and return to the dining room to give you some privacy. They might not like it, but they know that something happened between you and Beel before you disappeared.

You turn around at the sound of footsteps jogging behind you and see Belphie trying to catch up. "I didn't want to say anything with the others around," he says quietly, "but you don't have anything to worry about. I already know he's rushing home to see you even if he didn't say he was."

"How can you be so sure?" You sniffle quietly and stare at your feet. "We had the worst fight before I—before what happened, and he was so angry."

Belphie glances at you over his shoulder as he pushes open the door to the bedroom he shares with his twin. “Trust me when I say that he’s not angry anymore, alright?”

You step into the room behind Belphie and instantly glance at the side of the room where Beel sleeps. You didn’t realize that your bed was stripped before but your pillows and blankets ended up on his bed. There are framed photos of you and Beel on his bedside table, and the sign you made for his last Fangol game - the one you missed when you disappeared - is hanging on the wall. 

“I can’t believe he kept that,” you whisper. The bright, sparkly paint spells out Beel’s name and jersey number in large, bubbly writing. The edges of the poster board are frayed and bent, but it’s obvious he tried to preserve it.

Maybe he missed you as much as you missed him after all.

Thundering steps outside catch your attention and you turn around in time to see Beel lean against the doorway like he sprinted home.

There are bags from Hell’s Kitchen hanging from Beel’s arm but Belphie hops off his bed and plucks the bags from his brother with a hum. “I’ll put these in the kitchen for later.” He pauses and gives his brother a pointed look, nodding not-too-discreetly in your direction, before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

You’re not sure how long you stare at each other. His eyes take greedily over your face and body and he frowns like he’s scrutinizing your appearance, trying to see how—if—you’ve changed, searching out any potential injuries you might be hiding and how he can punish those responsible.

Likewise, you take in his field-worn appearance, the grass stains and dirt that clings to his uniform and skin. His hair is matted down and he smells strongly of evening dew and sweat. 

He’s filthy and grimy but you’ve never wanted him more in your life.

He grunts when you nearly launch yourself into his arms. Maybe later he’ll feel guilty about ruining your clothes with mud from the Fangol pitch, but when he breathes in deep and soaks in the familiar scent of your skin, all those insignificant problems melt away.

“I brought dinner for us,” he murmurs quietly as his cheek nuzzles against you. “If you don’t mind putting up with seeing me like this a little bit longer, I’d like to eat with you before I shower.” His chapped lips brush over your brow. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” You cup his cheek and offer him a bright and teary-eyed smile. “And you know what? I think I’m starving.”

It’s not long after that containers of your favorite takeout are spread out on the dining room table. The others have vanished, probably at Belphie’s insistence, and you’re grateful to have this quiet time together.

If you end up in his lap while he practically feeds you, sneaking little tastes for himself with lingering kisses he presses gently to your mouth, that’s no one else’s business but yours and his.

BELPHEGOR

Belphie can't remember the last time he's gone this long without a proper night's sleep. When his brothers have trouble sleeping, plagued by haunted memories and their most insidious fears, he can put their minds at ease.

He tells himself it's a selfish gesture, because if his brothers' dreams are too vivid or too disturbing or too terrible for him to ignore, he can't sleep either.

The truth is, he doesn't want them to suffer.

Unfortunately, the Avatar of Sloth has no such saviour to save him from his own bad dreams. He can't call them nightmares because that's not what they are. They're fragments of memory and echoes of his deepest desires that plague him every time he closes his eyes.

More often than not, his brothers’ dreams are haunted by the ghost of you that disappeared without a trace. Every night when someone dreams of you, Belphie dreams of you too.

It reminds him of the cold, slippery sensation the night that your consciousness was dragged away into the unknown. The place in his dreamscape where your little pond of dreams and nightmares used to be is a black void in his subconscious, a gaping wound in his mind that rivals the empty spot in his bed where you used to sleep. Your warmth is gone and it leaves his sheets and heart bitter-cold.

Today, Belphie wakes up from a rowdy disturbance coming from somewhere else in the house.

His brothers can be so loud sometimes.

The voices downstairs that wake him quiet into an excited hush when they notice his arrival.

"Belphie!" Asmo cries happily when he reaches the bottom of the attic stairs and steps out into the hallway. "We were about to come wake you—look who's finally come back to us!"

Whatever his brother yammers on about next is drowned out by the static ringing in his ears; Belphie stares at the awkward group hug on the floor in front of him and has no idea what to say.

You looked a little embarrassed sitting in Lucifer's lap while Mammon clings to one arm and Levi holds the other. Your eyes are bright and watery with tears and a wobbly smile tugging at the corner of your lips when you realize he was there.

A trembling hand reaches out to him, uncertain but inviting. A hopeful gesture.

Countless times, Belphie imagined what he might do or say if–when–you finally came home. He was ready to spill his guts at your feet and beg you not to leave him like that ever again. He would apologize over and over again for all the terrible things he’s said and done before because he couldn't help thinking this was somehow his fault.

For reasons he can’t explain, unexplainable anger rises inside him and smothers the impulse to celebrate your return. The desperate urge to crawl into your lap and cling to you fizzles into nothing the longer he stares at you.

You know how badly he sleeps when you're not cuddled in bed next to him. It’s your fault he feels so awful, isn’t it?

He can only imagine what he looks like now, with his bedhead hair and pouty lips and the flaky crust of dried tears still clinging to the corners of his eyes. He rubs his face to wipe away the remnants with sleep, but he feels the familiar sting of hot tears building up instead.

Your love has made a terrible mess of him, and he’s not ready for this after all.

Someone shouts after him when he turns on his heel and heads back up the attic stairs without a word. He keeps walking and ignores the soft, wounded noise behind him; his brothers were quick to try and comfort you where he cannot.

"Let's give him a bit of space," someone suggests quietly. 

Slamming the attic door doesn’t feel as satisfying as Belphie hoped it would. He collapses back onto the bed and throws the blanket over his head. He tosses and turns and by the time he falls into another restless sleep, he still can't decide whether he's relieved or devastated that you didn't follow him.

It's deep in the twilight hours when Belphie senses a familiar dip of the mattress when someone slips into bed beside him. He tries to stay submerged in the weightless realm of sleep, but the sudden warmth of a hand resting hesitantly on his back ruins that plan.

"Isn't there someone else you can bother?" he grumbles into the pillow. He fell asleep face down and he stubbornly refuses to look at you. “Go away.”

"I’m sorry.” A heavy pause. “I couldn't sleep." Your voice is quiet but it shakes with something vulnerable that catches Belphie's attention.

With an indignant huff, he turns his head and pries an eye open and glances your way. The attic is shrouded in darkness but he can still see the downturned frown of your lips. When he rolls onto his side and leans closer, he looks past the watery film that makes your eyes shimmer and notices the dark shadows underneath them that he didn’t notice before.

Exhaustion radiates off you and he can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since you had a proper night’s sleep too.

He doesn’t ask about the things you did while you were gone or the things you saw. He remembers well enough what his own heart was like back then in that murky stretch of time when he clung to rage and hatred to soothe his own despair.

He doesn’t ask if you still have bad dreams about death or monsters that wear his face and sneer as you struggle against the bruising grip around your throat. He feels guilty that maybe he wasn’t there to save you from the version of himself that lurks in your memory.

The stiffness in his bones deflates as the chill from the attic subsides, replaced by the warmth of your body lying close to his. He places his hand tentatively on your waist and when you don’t flinch or move away, he urges you closer.

"I can help if you want," he offers hesitantly, a feeble apology to start to make amends.

But you understand the meaning behind the gesture for what it is: a peace offering for now until you can talk properly later. Considering his reaction earlier, this is more than you could've hoped for.

“I was scared to ask for help at first," you admit quietly when you rest your ear over his heart and sigh as the soft, familiar rhythm thumps deep in his chest. “You were angry earlier and I didn’t want to upset you even more if you weren’t ready to see me yet.”

Belphie ducks his head low and rubs your back as he buries his nose in the crook of your neck. The vibration of his noncommittal hum tickles your skin. “I’ll help you sleep tonight so you can make it up to me tomorrow.”

Tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that–

Convinced that he isn’t going to push you away and judging the coy grip of his tail that’s suddenly found itself wrapped around one of your legs, you let yourself lean against him fully with a long, weary sigh. It doesn't take long for your eyes to slip closed or for your breathing to sync with his as he lulls you gently into a peaceful state of rest.

Belphie feels his eyes grow heavy once he’s certain that you’re dreaming peacefully. He does sleep better when you’re here, after all. He’s held you in his arms like this before, far too many times for him to count, but it feels different than he remembers.

Has holding you like this always felt this satisfying, or did he take for granted all those times he dragged you to bed and assumed you'd still be there when he woke up?

He won’t make that mistake again.

"I missed this, you know," he whispers against the soft spot on your throat where your heart beat is strongest, pressing lazy kisses against your skin. He closes his eyes with a satisfied smile even though you don’t respond; the way your body melts against his is proof enough that you missed him too.

————

You wake up screaming, sweat pooling on your forehead and sticking your hair to your skin. You’re left breathing heavily, heart racing in the dark of your room. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to force away the nightmare, but it’s no use. 

Your demons have caught up to you—and not the ones you live with. 

To say Belphie is annoyed is an understatement. It’s the fourth night in a row that your incessant screaming has woken him up, and he’s had about enough of it. He’s trudging to your room with a frown on his face, ready to chew you out for being so loud. 

What was your issue, anyway? Were you so needy for attention that you had to wake everyone up? He shakes his head at the thought. Needy little human. Still, the thought of you trying to wake him up for his attention makes his heart speed up more than he’d like. 

He shoves open your door, the wood whining on its hinges, and stomps inside. He freezes in his tracks at your dishevelled form, though. Wet eyes and thick lashes, a frown etched on your cute face. 

You look like a sad little doll, and Belphie fights the urge to coo at you. He has to remind himself that you woke him up and that he’s supposed to be annoyed with you. But it’s so hard when just looking at you makes him feel like he never fell from heaven. 

“Can you keep the noise down?” He narrows his eyes on you, “I’m trying to sleep.”

His words leave you speechless, staring at him slack jawed. His pretty eyes are narrowed on you, soft dark hair tumbling into his face and catching on his lashes. You hate him for being so pretty, you hate him for being so mean. 

“I-I—” your voice catches in your throat, your words falling away. 

Belphie looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to say something. He knows he’s being unfair to you—you’re sad and you look so defeated and weak, it makes him want to protect you. But Belphie is a stubborn bitch, and all he wants right now is one peaceful night of sleep. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, hanging your head. “I’ll stop.”

He hums a quick response, turning on his heel and closing the door behind him. He wants to slap himself as soon as he leaves your room and hears the muffled sobs on the other side of the door. God, he’s such an asshole. 

—

You walk around the next day like a zombie, shadows under your eyes dark enough to make anyone do a double take. Everything is fuzzy and you have to focus twice as hard in all of your classes, and even then the lights in your peripheral seem to morph into nightmares. 

Your eyes close longer with every blink, and you know you won’t be able to last without a proper night of sleep much longer. It’s been almost a week since you slept more than three hours and your body is reaching its breaking point. 

The day blurs together as the exhaustion takes over your body, and you start to feel like you’re in an aquarium. 

No one’s around when you get home. All busy with extracurriculars and work and whatnot. It makes it easier for you to go sit at the dining room table, muscles tense and rigid, trying to keep your eyes open under the harsh light. 

It’s dumb, and you know it’s not healthy for you, but anything is better than nightmares. Anything is better than having Belphie look at you with the same annoyance he did yesterday.

“Hey.” You must have drifted off, because a soft voice snaps you out of it. 

You flinch, forcing your eyes open to look at Belphie. He has his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants, staring at you with something new in his eyes—concern. 

You can’t even open your mouth, you’re so tired.  You give him a weak wave and rest your head on the back of the chair. 

Belphie kneels down at your side, resting his hands on your thighs. He’s never been gentle with you before, never cared enough to get this close to you. His touch has your breath catching in your throat, tingles filling the spots where he touches.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Your tired eyes meet his. “A week ago, maybe, I can’t remember.”

He sighs. He really is an asshole. Here he is, getting mad at you for inconveniencing him, all the while you’re falling apart. He wants to pick up the pieces and put them back together, but all he ever seems to do is push them further apart. 

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” His cold hand cups your jaw, holding up your head. He’s been where you’ve been—so absolutely tired that you feel like you can’t move. 

“It’s,” you think about telling him, but with the way he’s holding you and looking at you, you don’t want to be more of a burden. “It’s nothing.”

He squints his eyes at you. “Don’t lie to me, baby.”

The pet name is like a shot of espresso but just as quickly as it hits you, the high starts to fade. Belphie watches the light spring to your eyes, surpressing his grin at the sight. Then, he watches it fade away. Yeah, you really need sleep. 

“I’ve been having nightmares,” your voice is a mix between a whisper and a mumble, all of your words falling together. 

Nightmares? That’s what’s been making you scream all night? He sighs, squeezing your knees. “You know that’s a quick fix for me, right?”

He wants to laugh at the way your doe eyes look up at him hopefully, a spark of life behind them. He could’ve fixed this for you weeks ago—if only he wasn’t so stubborn and so mean. 

He grabs your hand tightly, half lifting you out of the chair. You’re so tired that your body sags, all of your limbs feeling impossibly heavy. Belphie has no problem with this, though. You’re human, you weigh practically nothing to him. 

He scoops you up in his arms and takes you back to his room. He thinks about taking you to yours, but he knows no one would dare disturb him if they thought he was sleeping, and undisturbed sleep is what you need right now. 

He lays you down in his bed, tucking you in and hiding you away from the cold air. He lays down next to you, an arm around your waist. 

He rests his head on your shoulder, hugging you close to him. “Sweet dreams only, okay?” He mumbles into your cheek, “I won’t let any of those nightmares come back as long as you’re close to me.”

And that’s how he found you both.

It was clear that you had been the first to die. Body set in rigor mortis, blank eyes clouded over as you stared up at the sky. Bruce was behind you, desperately cradling your body to his chest as he lay slouched against a nearby building. He quickly deduced the situation, noticing the bloody blast on your chest. You had somehow, someway, gotten in the middle of battle and suffered for it. Bruce must have found you and in grief, didn’t care if he was found unarmed as he held you in your final moments. The similar wound on his own chest showed as much.

Batman’s own love and grief had been his undoing.

Dick Grayson

He took his last breath with his arms wrapped around your body, as if protecting you from the fatal blow that took your lives.

It was the man who he once called father who found you.

Once the battle came to an end, he desperately followed the tracker he installed in each and every one of his kids' suits. He had to, needed to, account for them all. It didn’t matter if Dick and Jason were grown, if Tim and Steph had the smarts that beat his own, it didn't matter if Cass and Damian could survive even have a nuclear blast if they wanted to. They were his kids.

And so were you. The person who brought forth a new light in Dick that he hadn’t seen in quite some time. He wasn’t the first Robin when he was with you, wasn’t Bludhaven's adored Nightwing…he was just Dick Grayson. Bruce Wayne’s precious son.

Which was why Bruce felt his heart drop when he neared the rubble pile of an oh so familiar building. Your’s and Dick’s, the shabby little apartment you both called home.

He should have known something was wrong when, through all the chaos and bloodshed, he didn’t catch even the barest glimpse of his son. The blue and black suit that he recalled you loved so much nowhere in sight. And now he knows why.

It seemed in the chaos you were unable to leave your apartment building. It was possible you were trapped, or maybe you got caught up attempting to help a neighbor escape before you because that was just the kind of person you were. Either way, you somehow didn’t make it out of the building in time.

And his son, oh his beloved son, always a lover at heart would not leave you in vain.

Bruce didn’t even want to think about whether or not in the end his son accepted fate's cruel hand. If he fought till the bitter end for your lives, or if he decided that death with you was better than life without. He knew his son and his love for you, and knew that in the end a life without you was one he couldn’t imagine his son bearing.

As Bruce neared the rubble and saw your bodies in the midst, strong arms tightly wrapped around you to bring you close to Dick’s unmoving chest, he could only thank that Death decided to take you together.

Jason Todd

He passed with his hand in yours, his fingers intertwined with yours. Arm stretched out as best it could in his final moments to get to you.

His partner in crime, Roy Harper, had been the one to find him. Not his family, but a fellow outcast. And one of the few to notice his slow disappearance in the battle for Earth.

Though the man decided to fight with his family: his brothers, sisters, and regrettably his father, that didn’t mean the rest of the Outlaws decided to just neglect him. No, just as they would family, they all kept tabs on one another throughout the battle. Which was what made them all slowly begin to panic as Red Hood sightings began to progressively turn to none during the war.

Jason wouldn’t be one to abandon a fight, especially as dire as this one, unless…

They didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t even want to consider that you somehow ended up in the crossfire. You, who just as they held Jason near and dear in their hearts they did you. The civilian who never left the man’s side even in the darkest of times.

His love, his life, the very air he breathes.The kind of love poets of old would weep at.

Once the battle was over they all decided to spread out to find their lost comrade. High and low they searched, through rubble and ruins, desperate to catch even a glimpse of the familiar red helmet he wore.

They didn’t have to search far. It was obvious where he would run to if he needed.

Just a few roads down from a nearby safe haven bunker you both lay. Cold, stiff, but together. It was as if in your final moments you both were still so hopeful you could hold each other just one more time. However, fate wasn’t so kind.

A blood trail behind Jason indicated that in his final moments, no matter how painful, he used every last breath to crawl to you and secure your hand in his.

Just a bit further. A little further and then you could rest. If you make it to that tree - make it to that tree and you can sit down. Just a bit left to go.

It started almost a week ago. Unable to cope with all the traveling, your right knee started bothering you. With every step you could feel your kneecap shifting back and forth with a dull click. Then, it started to hurt. Nothing serious. If you walked slow enough, you could avoid it. But now every step sent shocks of pain up your entire leg. Your left knee joined the party this morning, removing any sense of relief you had while walking. Even sitting down didn't remove the pain, but you couldn't afford a day off.

Your companions noticed the changes, despite your best effort not to show any outward discomfort. You moved slower, the occasional grimace slipped through, they weren't traveling quite as far. You consider asking Shadowheart for anything that could ease the pain, but you already knew there was little she could do to help. So you grit your teeth and kept going.

Your foot stepped on uneven ground and you nearly dropped from the agony that shot through your whole body. Karlach worried you might actually just collapse. But you kept going.

Astarion couldn't bear it. None of them could - they hated seeing their intrepid leader fight their own body just to go a few more feet - but your struggle settled like a boulder in his stomach. Every time your face scrunched up, every hiss of your sharp inhales, felt like someone had stabbed a knife in his chest and was twisting it ever deeper. He hated the feeling.

With only a few long strides, he slipped from the back of the group to the front, walking alongside you. He had to change his normal gait just so he didn't surpass you. "Darling," he hummed quietly, just loud enough to keep the conversation between you two, "you should rest."

You shook your head. You didn't even spare him a glance. Your eyes didn't shift from the tree. "We're almost there," you dismiss. It's slightly breathless. Despite needing to walk slow to avoid the pain, you were pushing to go faster.

He tsked. "And how far do we still have left to go?" He tilted his head as he looked at you, already knowing whatever distance you said would be too far.

You nodded to a tree dead ahead. "Once we reach that birch, we can rest."

"That birch?" He pointed. "The birch tree that's nearly half a mile away?"

He could feel you bristle with his incredulous tone, but you didn't say anything.

He scoffed. "My dear, I can be stubborn at the best of times, but this is ridiculous! You're barely staying upright as it is."

"I'm fine-"

"No, you're not," he sharply cuts you off. He grabs your arm and pulls you to a stop, holding you there with enough force that you wouldn't slip out and keep going. You refuse to look at him even now. "You're wincing, your hands have been clenched for the last mile, and you keep stumbling. The tree will still be there if you just sit down for a minute."

The rest of the party watches from a distance. Far enough away they can just make out what Astarion's saying, especially as his voice rises in pitch the more frustrated he gets.

Standing still hurts. It's hard to say if it hurts more or less than walking; it just hurts. Your face is pinched as sharp jolts run up through your joints, like someone is poking you with a sewing needle. Walking, you decide, must be better than this.

"It's not that far," you insist, voice low. "And when we get there, we can-"

"Gods above, you're impossible! Fine. Fine! You want to get to that tree, fine." He lets go of your arm.

Before you can even take a step, he's sweeping you into his arms, supporting you with one arm under your back and the other hooked under your knees. The pressure hurts for a moment, but it quickly fades away. The lingering aches are from pushing yourself too hard. He begins marching once more toward your end goal.

You want to shout, to demand he put you down. But when you look up at his face, his eyes are sharper than usual, lips pulled into a tight frown and crease forming between his eyebrows. He's angry.

He's angry with you.

The words die in your throat. You hate being so dependent. You were the leader - you needed to be strong and fearless and without weakness. To receive help feels like someone plunging their hand between your ribs and stealing away a chunk of your worth. But seeing Astarion upset, upset with you, that stings far worse.

You avoid looking over his shoulder. You could just imagine their faces. How Lae'zel would scowl at you for being weak. How Gale's face would turn somber when he realizes you're not as capable as he thought. You couldn't bear it. So you press your forehead to Astarion's neck and stare at your lap.

There's an unwelcome burn at the back of your eyes. Shame floods your chest and crawls up your throat until it chokes you. Water pools along your lower lids and blurs your vision. You can't walk and now you're going to cry. Just how fucking pathetic can you be?

Astarion's head shifts and you can tell he's trying to look down at you. He's trying to see your face. Because he can feel you shaking in his arms. He can hear your lungs quivering as your breaths become uneven and choppy. You press your closed eyes against his throat and he can feel the hot tears against his skin.

His frown softens, though you can't see it. He slows down to a stop and tells the others to go on ahead, to the birch tree just there, and start working on setting up camp, but all you can hear is your heart pounding in your ears. Their faces become fraught with worry; Karlach is the last to go. She still looks back once or twice. Astarion finds a suitable rock and he sits.

"Shh, sweet thing," he cooes, voice no louder than a whisper. His arm around your back pulls you into his shoulder, hand tangling in your hair as he cradles you. His other hand rubs soothing circles along your thigh. You gasp around a sob, body curling further into itself, into him, as you release your emotions. "It's alright."

You strangle out an apology. It's wet and croaky and painful.

"Whatever for?" he asks.

"You're mad at me," you whimper.

He huffs. The frustration from before rises in him again just thinking about it. "Yes, I am."

He feels your breath catch in your throat, and the heaving breath you take after. "You hate me."

Astarion laughs, short and sharp. "Why would I hate you, dear? Because you're too stubborn for your own good?" You don't have a response for him. He kisses your head, wherever he can reach. "I'm mad because you put yourself out trying to solve all of our issues, but the moment you have one of your own, you refuse any help. You're going to tear yourself apart."

He sighs and rests his cheek atop your head. His fingers rub the nape of your neck, gently tugging at the hair there. You carry so much tension, it's a wonder your muscles haven't locked up from the stress.

Time passes slowly in his arms. It seems to take forever before you start to calm down, and even longer before your eyes have dried. He does nothing to speed the process aside from gently hush you when you try to choke out apologies.

You sniffle quietly. Your eyes are raw, and you're all too aware of the stain of water you've left on the vampire's neck. When you speak, it's a painful creak in your vocal chords. "You don't hate me?"

He presses another kiss to your head. "No, love, I don't hate you. Not unless you've done something truly horrific, like invite a clown to show up at camp in the middle of the night." You chuckle weakly. It's such sweet music. "Gods forbid you start donating to charity." You laugh this time, and Astarion's chuckle vibrates against your ear.

His fingers detangle themselves from your hair with one last gentle tug, and his arm wraps around your back once more. As though you weigh no more than one of his pillows, he stands once more with you in his safe grasp, and begins heading for camp. He can see Karlach up ahead light up when she sees you're finally on your way.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I just feel so... useless, like this."

"Please, stop apologizing," he begs, dramatically. "Just say 'thank you' and we can move on."

You peel your face from his skin, dried tears sticking you together. You wince at how disgusting this must be for him. You lean up and kiss his cheek. He smiles at the affection. "Thank you."

Then, you’ll have to face whatever the system has in store for you once you’ve collected your bearing, and brace yourself for whatever daily quests and/or upcoming major quests are ahead.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “We should discuss new plans for your quests with the Prince~♡ The management isn’t too happy with the deviation.~♡”

“Well, good morning to you, too,” you mutter to the ceiling, shoving the notification panel aside with a flick of your wrist, as if you could physically swat it away. 

You roll out of bed, your feet hitting the cold stone floor, and begin the ritual of donning the layers of white and gold silk that go along with your title, all the while ignoring the irritating ding! of the system talking about some daily quests of praying and talking to the Prince, or something.

Ding!

A panel materializes itself in front of you.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — NEW QUEST UPDATED ! With the Harvest Festival around the corner, regional instability along the Southern Border has increased due to residual Miasma activity. The Saint is required to assist in containment and purification.  OBJECTIVE: Clear the appointed dungeon, and strengthen diplomatic rapport with the Crown Prince through “informal engagement activities”. EXPECTED TIME BEFORE QUEST COMMENCEMENT: 42:00:00

You stare at the last line for a full second. 

“Informal engagement activities?”

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “informal engagement activities translate to social outing / character bonding event / leisure interaction.”

You groan into your hands.

After that whole fiasco, your routine takes you to the barracks with Silver in tow. Most mornings are spent tending to knights returning from their morning patrol—and at times, those who have returned from dungeon dispatches—your mana easing away lingering traces of residual Miasma and the deep exhaustion left behind in its wake. The work becomes almost rhythmic after a while, with the golden light, tired soldiers, and the gradual thinning of whatever wears them down.

Somewhere along the way, the atmosphere has shifted into something more cordial and familiar. The knights no longer stiffen quite as much in your presence, conversations flowing more easily between treatments while briefings and patrol reports blur into casual exchanges. 

You come to learn that Theo has a habit of making conversation mid-treatment until another knight pops in to physically shut him up. The captain, a woman whose stern expression could sharpen a dull blade, likes to maintain a stoic front—usually by burying her face in a set of patrol logs while her shoulders shake with the silent effort of not laughing at her subordinates’ antics.

Such changes also extend to Silver himself—despite insisting he is merely there to supervise, he has become such a constant fixture at your side that his presence has started to mold a place of his own that slots naturally in your routine.

Somewhere between reviewing patrol logs beside you, small talks that end with conversations that stretch longer than necessary, and the grounding familiarity of him appearing beside you before you even realize you were looking for him, the distance between you two begins to erode into something far closer than you anticipated.

Following the barracks is the morning assembly.

The Saint’s duties are, lamentably, much harder to escape.

White and gold silk drapes over your form, hands folded just right, expression softened into a textbook definition of something serene and untouchable—the image of holiness polished to perfection beneath the hall’s stained-glass light. It’s nothing short of prayers, blessings, and ceremonial appearances. The High Priest, as usual, watches through it all the while with the measured patience of a man who grasps divinity less as a faith and more as a chalice of control. 

You’ve long since learned that the easiest way to deal with him is to give him exactly what he wants to see—a compliant, useful saint, and nothing more.

Thus, you smile when expected, speak when required, and never linger by his side too long enough for his probing observations to turn into something surgically sharper. It placates him, for the most part, keeping his attention from narrowing too deeply onto all the way you’ve already begun slipping outside the shape of your character.

Then, the Crown Prince—as pushed by the system—who you usually bump into sometimes, oftentimes after morning assembly. The system has taken advantage of the fact that the Prince will be staying quite some time within the walls of the Sanctuary for a complete rehabilitation. 

Now, the system enthusiastically labels your visits as “relationship-building activities”, which is really just a deeply embarrassing way of saying the Prince keeps inviting you out—tea in the garden, engaging in strategy board games that he procured from somewhere, helping you taste-test sweets during the harvest festival preparation (that made you nearly want to walk directly into a fountain after the system practically screamed itself hoarse in your peripheral vision).

The worst part is that he is actually someone easy to get along with. It would be so much easier for you if he were insufferable and rottenly spoiled, but unfortunately, he is instead painfully decent, which makes the guilt sit differently than you would like. 

You don’t forget to pepper every conversation with a very pointed “my friend” at every possible opportunity. You wield that word like a shield, relishing the way the system’s notification vibrates with indignation every time you friend-zone the literal heir to the throne. 

It’s petty, perhaps, but it’s the only way to get some modicum of payback for the constant meddling. 

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

The Saint’s deviation from the designated narrative track has created situations the character was not written to encounter. In response to unscripted stimuli, love interest [CROWN PRINCE] has begun operating outside his original characterization.

Love interest [CROWN PRINCE] has expressed feelings inconsistent with designated Male Lead parameters.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 68%

Oh, this is so fun.

“He’s a great friend, isn’t he?” you mutter to the system, amusingly watching the box flicker into a frustrated, static-filled red. It’s even more rewarding seeing the narrative integrity continuously drop as you establish the great wall of friend-zone.

It all then inevitably leads back to Silver.

Sometimes you find him overseeing training in the courtyard below and end up lingering far longer than necessary under the excuse of “observing the knights’ progress”, only to spend most of the time watching how the slightly tussled hair of their Commander’s is quite an adorable addition on him as he spars. Other times it’s brief crossings in the Sanctuary halls, shared walk between duties, or you appearing beside him uninvited while he sharpens his blade because you were bored and decided that his patience looks particularly testable that day.

At some point, spending time around him stops feeling deliberate and starts becoming almost instinctive. You start seeking him without entirely meaning to, and Silver—despite the occasional look suggesting you are responsible for every trial the gods have inflicted upon his being—always makes room for your presence beside him. 

Without either of you acknowledging it aloud, Silver steadily becomes the person you spend the most time with throughout the day.

Your days settle into that strange groove before you realize it has happened—at least, it does until the long-awaited Harvest Festival quest finally commences.

ʚ﹕CURRENT OBJECTIVE — MAIN QUEST UPDATED !

[MAIN QUEST: MAY CERCES BE WITH YOU !]

With the Harvest Festival around the corner, regional instability along the Southern Border has increased due to residual Miasma activity. The Saint is required to assist in containment and purification. 

OBJECTIVE: Clear the appointed dungeon, and strengthen diplomatic rapport with the Crown Prince through “informal engagement activities”. ~♡

You blink at the notification panel. “Well, that’s kind of anti-climactic, system. I thought there’s gonna be some additional notes or something, but it’s the same exact notification you sent me.”

What the hell is even the point of setting that countdown for?

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Your critique is much appreciated, Holy Saint. ~♡ This system merely wants to build up excitement. Well, think of it as a preparation period before the official start of the event arc! Anticipation is an important component of user engagement, after all. ~♡”

“How… thoughtful.” You suppose, you guess. There’s nothing much to say to the system at this point—you’ve rapped out all your barreling, creative insults enough as they are at it.

The notification panel flickers in a somewhat smugly note at the edge of your vision, as though it is deeply and thoroughly pleased with itself for inventing the concept of suspense.

You rub at your temple—an action that you discover you’ve been doing increasingly more often these past few weeks. “You know, every time you talk like that, I understand a little more why people are afraid of Artificial Intelligence.”

The system hums blithely in response, entirely immune to shame and its friends. 

“What?! What about my annual candy apple ritual?!” The voice, distinctly Theo’s and loud enough to startle the nearby pigeons off, echoes across the courtyard. You drop your hand from your temple, looking up just in time to see the young knight dramatically flailing his arms with a tragic intensity near the center of the training grounds.

Someone immediately shoves a report into his chest in response, which he accepts only long enough to continue arguing over it.

“We’re leaving during the festival opening?!” Theo screeches, his voice cracking with the sheer injustice of it all.

“If it helps you feel better, the festival is a week long!” One of the nearby knights calls back without looking from their paperwork.

“You don’t get it… the opening is the prime candy apple’s time! That’s the only time the stall near the East Gate uses the extra cinnamon!”

The Captain, who is standing nearby reviewing a tactical map spread across a stone bench, doesn’t even look up, merely adjusting her grip on a charcoal pencil. “If you put half as much effort into your footwork as you do in your sugar intake, Theo, you might actually survive the first floor of an S-rank dungeon without losing your boots.”

“But Captain! This is for luck!”

Silver, who had been standing a few paces away discussing supply logistics with a quartermaster, instantly detaches himself from the conversation. He doesn’t even have to think about it; he simply pivots and stands beside you.

“Theo has certainly been looking forward to the festival.” Silver mutters, his voice low and for your ears only. “Though I suppose he isn’t entirely wrong, the timing of the dispatch is… inconvenient.”

You glance at him, a teasing tilt to your head. “Inconvenient for the candy apples, or inconvenient because we are to clear a dungeon while everyone else is celebrating?”

“Both,” he admits after a brief pause. “Logistically speaking, festival periods complicate movement, supply routes, and crowd control. Not to mention, civilian presence increases risk during containment operations.”

“And…” his eyes flick back to you for a fraction of a second before looking away again just as quickly. “...the knights are less focused as usual.”

He lightly clears his throat, his hand moving to adjust his leather gloves. “Some of the knights are fairly young, too. For many, the Harvest Festival is the only time they can properly unwind.”

You nod at his words, that makes sense—knights need to destress too. Imagine having to look at dead monster carcasses when you can have the time of your life eating seventeen variations of sweet bread.

The Slumbering Depth of Solemnity—a B-rank dungeon nestled deep down a gorge within the Southern Border. According to the reports you read over Silver’s shoulder, it houses a Hollow Heart—though it lies dormant, it is still effectively a ticking bomb.

Theo whistles low, the candy apple grief finally replaced by grim focus. “A Hollow Heart? Even when they’re sleeping, those things are still nasty. Give it two weeks, and it might corrupt that entire gorge and the forest nearby.”

“Exactly,” the Captain nods. “It’s a B-rank for now, but if it wakes up, it’s not going to be a pretty sight—it will likely jump to an A-rank localized disaster.”

How wonderful this world’s mother nature is.

“The gorge is approximately three days’ ride south. If we leave by tomorrow dawn, we’ll reach the dungeon by nightfall of the second day.” Silver adds in, his shoulder brushing against yours as he leans slightly to point at a location on the map.

He casts a sidelong glance at you, a ghost of a challenge in his eyes. “Don’t wake up late, Your Holiness.”

“Ha!” you huff, crossing your arms and meeting his gaze with a defiant spark in your narrowed eyes. “What am I, if not an early bird?”

Not to mention, you have a cheat code in the form of the (helpful, kind of) system! If you squint, it’s adequate enough to be utilized as an alarm clock. 

Theo snorts somewhere near you two. “Your Holiness, with all due respect, you nearly fell asleep during the morning strategy briefing.”

“I was doing my daily meditation.”

“You were snoring.”

You whirl on him. “Don’t you have candy apples to mourn?”

Okay, so your personal alarm clock is giving you the silent treatment.

It is almost humiliating that you arrive five minutes before the designated departure, but barely early is early! You don’t dwell too much on it, however, given how your system has yet to answer at your beck and call—it’s weird enough that it doesn’t spam the living daylights of your sight the first thing you wake up.

System? You’ve tried calling it for what seems to be the nth time—hell, even calling it physically doesn’t elicit any response. 

You feel like a desperate ex recounting the days before—combing through your memories, and scrutinizing every single word and behavioural pattern like there had to be some hidden sign that your floating parasite was planning to ghost you.

“You seem out of it, Your Holiness.”

The voice snaps you right out of your thoughts, nearly making you lose your grip on the reins. You blink, the world coming back into focus—the clop-clop of your horse’s hooves on the dirt road, the smell of pine and damp earth, and the cool morning air rush back into your senses.

You turn your head to see Theo riding alongside you, his expression housing a lingering of confusion and concern. 

“Just thinking, don’t worry about it.” You reply, adjusting your seat.

Theo doesn’t look convinced—but to his credit, he doesn’t press further. For a moment, the only sounds are the steadfast rhythm of hooves against dirt and the distant call of birds somewhere in the treeline. 

“...You know,” he says slowly. “I thought you and the Commander would be sharing one horse, with what the rumors are saying.”

Your eyes narrow. “What rumors?”

Theo chokes on air.

“...Uh,” Theo says weakly. “Nothing? Forget I said anything? Haha, there are no rumors.”

His face is pale, his eyes darting everywhere but your face—toward the road ahead, toward the pine trees lining the trail, toward Silver riding several lengths like he’s contemplating whether out of sight, out of mind is applicable in this type of scenario and save him from this conversation.

Still feeling your eyes on him, he abruptly straightens in his seat and points at a random spot ahead with startling urgency. “Oh shoot! Would you look at that, looks like Captain is calling to me! See ya later, Your Holiness!

“The Captain is on the opposite end—”

“See ya!” 

He flees before you can finish your sentence, spurring his horse into a frantic gallop forward, leaving you with absolutely no answers. You’re left sitting there, reins slack in your hands, watching him disappear into a cloud of dust like a cartoon skit.

Man, what the hell, you can’t even ask these days.

The journey continues with normalcy (thank god) after that. For the next two days, the trail winds deeper into the southern stretch, carving through dense, ancient pine forests that progressively thin out as the elevation drops into the jagged rocky throat of the gorge. Without the system’s constant chime in your ear, the passage of time feels strangely elastic—it is right at this moment you realize that time has never flowed so slowly before.

Aside from the occasional stops, you spend most of the trip in a comfortable silence. Sometimes, you rein in your horse and catch up to Silver, brewing up small talks in hushed whispers; other times, you bask in the distant snippets of conversation between the knights, hearing Theo loudly munching on his snack, followed by another fellow knight telling him to close his mouth because they can hear him from three horses back.

The knights are spent in well-organized camps where the knights speak in low tones, the atmosphere easy in that quiet, road-worn way shared exhaustion tends to create. At night, the stars are brighter here, unfiltered by the city lights, and you find yourself staring up at them longer than necessary—it makes you miss home a little more desperately.

You wonder if you’ll ever feel that again—the feel of home.

The days blur together in fragments of hoofbeats, crackling campfires, and the cold morning air that bites at your cheeks before sunrise. It is only when the air grows dense, and the horse in front of you halts in its tracks, that you realize you’ve arrived at the site.

The gorge stretches before you like a massive scar etched directly into the earth, uneven cliffs plunging deep into layers of drifting mist below. Sparse trees cling desperately to the rocky terrain surrounding it, their bark darkened by residual corruption creeping through the land in vein-like fractures, and there, suspended above the ravine floor, is the dungeon gate.

“We’ll make camp here tonight,” Silver says calmly, his pale eyes remaining fixated on the spatial tear ahead. “Let’s rest first, we’ll go in tomorrow morning.”

The knights move quickly after that, years of routine settling over the camp with practiced ease. They divide the work among one another—tents are erected, perimeter wards established, supplies unmounted and unloaded, and watch rotations are assigned before the last traces of sunlight fully disappear behind the cliffs.

You help where you can—mostly by healing minor strain and residual fatigue from the long ride—though most of the knights insist you conserve strength for tomorrow. Theo still manages to somehow burn his hand trying to cook something over the campfire despite being explicitly told not to touch the pan.

Lord, this boy would fit in with the rest of the NRC students.

“Should I just ban you entirely from being near a campfire?” the Captain, in her unadulterated exasperation, asks him flatly while shoving a healing salve to his face.

“It’s just one accident!” He tries to defend himself.

“It’s been three, you brat.”

Night settles heavily over the gorge after that, the last ribbons of sunset bleeding deep into deep indigo before the sky is plunged into true darkness. The rift pulses brighter now in contrast, a beacon of violet light that casts eerie shadows across the terrain—it’s almost beautiful and enticing, in the same way poisonous things are.

The knights retreat to their tents one by one, drowsiness pulling them under despite the tension humming in the air. 

Soon, it’s just you and Silver left by the fire.

“Not going to sleep, Commander?” You break the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. 

Silver’s gaze remains fixed on the distant rift for a moment longer before shifting toward the fire between you both. The flames paint shifting amber across the sharp planes of his face, softening otherwise the strained lines of his expression.

“And you’re not, Your Holiness?” Damn, he’s really turning the question around.

“Hm, I don’t feel that tired, yet.” You pull your knees a little closer to your chest, staring into the crackling firewood. Beyond the camp, the gorge is eerily still—even the birds and insects seem reluctant to make a noise.

For a few beats of a second, neither of you spoke. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, per se, it’s the kind of silence that veils over people who have spent enough time together that words aren’t always necessary. 

The temperature in the gorge had plummeted the moment the sun vanished over yonder, replaced by a biting chill that seeps into your very sinews. You suppress a small shiver—a small and quick involuntary reaction that is barely a tremor, but Silver notices it, regardless.

“You’re cold.” It isn’t even phrased as a question.

He moves before you realize he has stood up.

Before you can deny it out of sheer principle, he reaches for the dark cloak folded beside him and drapes it over your shoulders with careful ease. The weight of it settles over you like an embrace—it’s warm (his warmth), you realize (the cloak smells like him, the familiar scent of pine and leather, something that you’ve come to associate with his presence).

Silver, bless whoever raised you to be a gentleman—this one feels like they could cry from this action alone (a bit dramatic, but there’s the sentiment).

Your fingers curl into the fabric, pulling it tighter around yourself. “Thank you.” 

Silver seems to realize what he’s done approximately one second afterward, his hand pausing briefly near your shoulder before he withdraws.

“...My apologies,” he says, quiet against the night. “I should have asked first.”

A gentleman, again, you stress.

You blink at him, genuinely baffled, before that trademark mischief ebbs in your countenance. “Mn, what if I don’t forgive you?”

“Say, what if I keep this cloak for compensation? For your transgression. Seems fair, don’t you think?”

Silver merely blinks back at you, the firelight flickering across his face, throwing shifting shadows beneath pale lashes as he looks at you.

“...Then I suppose it would already belong to you.” He murmurs, a faint, dusty rose colour creeping up the back of his neck, visible even in the dim light.

Oh!

That—

Honestly, you had expected flustered denial, maybe a resigned sigh, or perhaps another long-suffering “Your Holiness”.

You certainly did not expect him to actually let you keep it. “Oh… wow. Commander, if you keep saying things like that, I would think you have a cr—”

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — [MAINTENANCE UPDATE !]

The system is currently unavailable due to scheduled maintenance to optimize performance. During this period, certain features—including quest notifications, narrative integrity monitoring, and user assistance—will be temporarily inaccessible. 

We apologize for any inconvenience. ~♡

ESTIMATED MAINTENANCE DURATION: 48 hours.

Well, turns out, it wasn’t sulking, after all!

“...Wait, so it won’t be supervising me for the next 48 hours?” Your eyes slowly widen; a horrifying number of possibilities instantly surge within your brain. 

Holy fuck, holy fuck.

No incessant notifications? No aggressive matchmaking agenda? No corrective corrections? No system breathing down your neck every five seconds like a Victorian ghost cursed to you? 

You smooth out your experience, but the bubbling feeling within you is a molten mix between disbelief and dangerously delighted hysteria.

Silver is still watching you, his expression shifting to genuine concern as your face undergoes a rapid-fire series of twitches. To him, you probably look like you’re contemplating a truly terrible decision.

“Your Holiness?” he asks, leaning in slightly. “Are you alright?—”

“I’m fine,” you blurt out. “I just… I just realized that the stars are particularly aligned tonight, an excellent, very good omen.”

Silver looks up to the sky, his brows furrowed in confusion to what exactly do you see in it. He clearly doesn’t see the “omen”, but he doesn’t push it—he’s used to your eccentricities by now, even if he doesn’t always understand them.

“...I see,” he says at last, though his tone suggests he absolutely does not see.

You cough once, decisively, and shift your expression into something much controlled—carefully neutral, or at least what passes for it in your case.

“Actually,” you say. “I noticed something about, um, your shoulder.”

“You were tensing it earlier while we were riding. I didn’t get to come to you before, and it would be better if we could get it over with before heading to the dungeon tomorrow.”

Silver stiffens. “No need, you’ve already done enough for the knights. It’s better to conserve your strength for tomorrow—”

“Nonsense,” you cut him off, your hand already reaching out. “Now let me help you, please.”

He lets out a slow breath and turns his back to you slightly, allowing you to access. You place your hands on the cold metal of his spaulder, pressing your palm against the base of his neck, and channel a tiny, controlled pulse of mana.

Now, where’s that pesky little crack you found last time?

“Silver,” you murmur, your thumbs tracing the line of his tendons. “Tell me if anything feels strange, I’m going to check things out deeper than usual.”

“Deeper?”

“To make sure nothing’s lodged where it shouldn’t be.” The lies come out smoothly—to be fair, it is partly true. “The journey was long, and you’ve been running yourself ragged for weeks.”

Silver doesn’t respond—or maybe he did, but it doesn’t really matter when you’re too focused on finding that sharp, elusive thing again—the faint “something” below the surface.

You let your mana sink deeper and push into the psychic weight, a frostlike resistance that pricks at the tip of your fingertips. Finding that no notifications pop up after a few seconds, you exhale slowly through your nose and graze at it more firmly.

The crack is fainter now—or maybe you’re just getting better at finding it. A thin, almost imperceptible structure, like invisible glass laid over reality itself. You have enough fundamental understanding of your power that this… something is neither a part of his body nor his mana system. If you have to illustrate it, it’s something more of a patchwork layered on top.

You push gently against the crack, and to your fascination, it subtly shifts the moment you touch it. Though hearing Silver inhale sharply in return makes you halt in your tracks.

“Sorry—”

“No, it’s fine.” He sighs through his nose, the sound controlled, but tighter than usual. “Just… unexpected.”

Strange, perhaps, is the word he wishes to convey.

His shoulders are still, but not relaxed—like he’s holding himself in place rather than naturally resting. You can feel it through your hands too, the faint resistance in the framework beneath your mana, as though your presence there is being acknowledged in real time.

Silver’s voice lowers slightly. “Continue, if it helps determine the issue.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, and press your palms more firmly against his neck and shoulder. The metal of his armour is chilling beneath your fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth of his skin where your thumbs brush against the juncture between his shoulder blade and his neck.

The crack resists at first—that gnawing prickle of prodding against something that does not want to be seen, like pushing against the edge of a thought that isn’t fully formed yet. 

Your mana flows against the fault line like water finding its way through stone, wearing down the edges without breaking them. It is only until you are satisfied, that you send a concentrated spike of mana directly into what you believe to be the center of the crack.

By the moment this “something” gives out, warmth floods through the opening like a dam breaking—an amorphous sensation that is a ubiquitous and almost overwhelming sense of everything—a wholeness that rests beneath your fingertips.

You are pulled right out of that feeling when, for a split second, a high-pitched, silent ring echoes in your mind—like a glass vase breaking in another room. Silver’s entire body jolts beneath your hands, a violent tremor racking his frame from his neck down to his boots.

“What the—” 

Then, he simply stops.

It happens so fast, you don’t have time to catch him. One moment he’s sitting beside you, shoulders tense but upright; the next, his body slackens all at once, like something inside him has been switched off. His weight drags forward, and he starts to collapse out of your hands.

“Silver?” 

Panic, cold and sharp, slams against your ribcage as you scramble around to his side. Your arms hook around his shoulders on instinct, trying to keep him upright, but his head merely lolls helplessly against your chest.

For one terrifying second, your mind goes completely blank.

“Holy—Silver? Hey! Silver, wake up! Shit!” You’re practically shrieking in a whisper, your mind racing through every worst-case scenario. Holy shit, oh my god, Did I—God forbid—just kill the Commander?

What the fuck, what the fuck. Shit, if you had known this was what’s going to happen, you wouldn’t have even bothered to think about it. Your grip tightens around his shoulders like sheer force alone can undo whatever you just did.

It’s honestly a miracle no one has come out of the tent to check.

“Oh my god, what did I do? What did I do?” You fumble for his neck, your fingers frantically searching for the carotid artery through the gaps of his armour.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a drum, sweat beads forming on your brow despite the chill of the gorge. You’re ready for the headlines, ready for the firing squad—

You find it.

His pulse—it’s a steady and infuriatingly normal beat beneath your fingertips, as though he has only fallen into a sudden slumber out of sheer exhaustion. You freeze so hard it feels like your soul briefly leaves your body and ascends to greet the heavenly officials.

“Oh, thank fuck,” you breath, your forehead dropping against his shoulder. The cool surface of the metal presses against your skin, grounding you, reminding you that this is all real, that he’s real and alive.

You look down at his face—he looks so peaceful (looks just like the Silver who would sleep in every conspicuous space, whether it be out in the courtyard, the stairs, or Crowley’s beloved library). His expression has softened in that familiar way, brows no longer held in that careful line of discipline, lips slightly parted—he looks like a very annoying, very handsome painting.

“...You’re going to give me an actual heart attack one day.” You mutter, half-laughing, half still recovering from spiritual damage. 

You shift, adjusting his weight against you, and his head lolls further into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, slow and even, and you can feel his heartbeat against your palm.

As much as you want to stay in this position until tomorrow morning, you know it’s better to move him than let him rest on you like a sack of vegetables.

With a grunt of effort, you manage to sling one of his arms over your shoulders, your other arm wrapped around his waist, and you’re pretty sure you’re doing more dragging than carrying. 

As long as no one is watching, you grimace.

By some miracle (or perhaps sheer stubbornness), you make it to his tent, lowering him gently on his simple bedroll, which is to say you more or less drop him the last few inches.

Hell, he doesn’t even wake up, not even a stir.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.” You inform his unconscious form, to which he does not respond. Rude.

After gingerly removing his armour and setting it aside, you make your way back by the fireplace and watch as the fiery crackles warm your body up, clutching the cloak around your form tighter.

You’re not sure you could sleep even if you wanted to, so you opt to just lie back on a stone and play I spy with my little eyes with no one but yourself and the gorge—well, you much prefer calling such an activity “keeping watch over the camp”.

You wonder what the system will say when it comes back.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you’re not where you fell asleep.

You blink groggily at the canvas before you, not the open sky you’d been staring at when drowsiness finally pulled you under. The second thing you notice is that someone has covered you with a blanket, tucked it around your shoulders with careful hands.

You sit up slowly, your body protesting every movement. The tent is dim, lit only by the pale light of early dawn filtering through the gaps in the tent. Your cloak—his cloak—is folded neatly beside your bedroll, and someone has placed a waterskin just within your reach.

How did I get here?

You push aside the blanket and crawl toward the tent flap, your heart pounding. The camp is quiet, and the sky is streaked with pale pink and gold as the sun begins to rise over the gorge.

Knights stand in loose formation near the edge of the camp, checking equipment in silence rather than chatter. Turning your head to the right, you can see Theo failing to sharpen a dagger correctly, and the smell of stew is beginning to waft through the air, kindling your hunger.

You stop in your tracks, however, when your eyes land on Silver’s back.

You step out of the tent, your boots crunching softly on the rocky ground, and his head snaps toward you. His eyes widen slightly before softening into something warmer.

“You’re awake,” he says, his voice softer and more grounded than you remember. You stare a bit warily at him—hell, even Theo curiously flicked his eyes up to where you both stand (nosy kid, just focus on your weapon.)

Uh, did you accidentally set off some kind of hidden trigger to his character or something?

“Yeah… how’s your shoulder?” you ask carefully, testing the waters as you watch for any signs that might indicate something had somehow gone wrong after what happened last night.

To your bewilderment, Silver unexpectedly lets out the faintest huff of laughter underneath his breath. 

“I feel considerably better now,” he replies, lifting a hand to roll his shoulder once as if testing the movement himself. “I suspect the treatment may have been… more effective than anticipated.”

Oh, thank god there are no repercussions.

“That’s a relief.” Relief is an understatement, honestly. The knot lodged somewhere between your lungs and stomach finally loosens for the first time since last night, tension draining out of your body so abruptly you nearly sway where you stand.

You had half expected Silver to wake up with brain damage, memory loss, or worse, some horrifying personality rewrite that would be entirely your fault.

Instead, he’s standing here perfectly fine, looking mildly amused, which frankly feels like divine mercy.

Your shoulders sag lightly as you admit, “You collapsed on me out of nowhere. I thought I accidentally killed the Commander of the Order and was about to get publicly executed before breakfast.” 

From somewhere near you, Theo makes a strangled noise that sounds suspiciously like someone trying to not choke on air.

You ignore him, barely.

“There is…” He pauses, like he’s weighing the words before speaking them out loud. “Something I would like to tell you when we have privacy, possibly after this dispatch.”

The moment the sentence leaves his mouth, the atmosphere around the camp shifts in the most infinitesimal yet obvious way possible. It’s as if every single knight in earshot suddenly developed superhuman hearing—one knight suddenly becomes deeply invested in fastening a strap that has already been secured three times, another nearly fumbles an entire pot of stew while pretending not to listen, and Theo looks like he’s about to fall off his seat from how far he’s blatantly leaning in your direction, not even bothered to appear inconspicuous. 

Your eyes narrow slightly. “That sounds… ominous.”

“It is not meant to be,” Silver replies immediately. “It’s better if we speak when there are no distractions.”

Uh. Talk about being even more ominous than before.

From the corner of your eye, you can see that Theo has practically folded himself in half, torso craned at an angle that can’t possibly be comfortable, his dagger forgotten in his lap. He looks like a meerkat who has spotted a predator on the horizon—except the predator is gossip, and he has absolutely no survival instincts.

Unfortunately for your rapidly deteriorating sanity, Silver refuses to elaborate further after that. You stare back at Silver and think, Oh wow, I definitely sure like being edged like this!

So, with your curiosity left to slowly rot in real time, the expedition finally descends into the dungeon—and it surely lives up to its name in the worst possible way.

The moment your group crosses through the spatial tear, the air changes into something stale and heavy with a pressure that settles against your skin like a damp cloth. The cavern stretches endlessly downward in layers of jagged stone and black crystalline growths, veins of Miasma pulsing faintly through the walls like a heartbeat beneath flesh. Here, every sound reverberates strangely—footsteps bounce back delayed, distant drips sound almost like crazed whispers, and the deeper you venture, the more the dungeon itself feels aware of your presence.

You shiver, it’s not as though it’s your first time going inside a dungeon, but it never fails to make your skin crawl in unease.

Thankfully, the operation itself proceeds smoothly. 

Silver cuts through corrupted beasts with terrifying efficiency and accuracy, his blade flashing silver-white in the darkness. The knights maintain formation behind him, while your divine power keeps the Miasma from encroaching too closely, and heal when it’s needed—it’s a nice work division that makes the whole thing work.

Still, throughout the entire descent, your attention keeps drifting to Silver.

Something is different about him—it’s subtle enough that no one else seems to notice, but impossible for you to ignore now that you’re looking for it.

You notice how his gaze lingers on you a second longer than before, more thoughtful than it is attentive. You notice how he occasionally looks like he’s about to say something, only to stop himself at the last second whenever another knight approaches. You notice how his composure now feels less like rigid duty and more like someone actively holding too many words behind his teeth, torn in between the seams of his own thoughts.

You notice, and notice, and notice, because for the first time since you’ve met him, this Commander doesn’t feel like a fixed point you can neatly categorize in your head—he feels… layered.

Even as you purify another patch of Miasma, as you watch Silver’s sword curve through the darkness like it personally offended him, you can’t quite stop your thoughts from circling back to him.

By the time your group reaches the lower level of the dungeon, your brain has already constructed twelve increasingly catastrophic theories.

Is it a confession? Some sort of selective memory loss? An existential crisis (you can’t really blame him, since he lives inside a literal painting)? A secret terminal illness that he has kept a secret for the course of his life, and now he wishes to tell you about it? Tax fraud?

At one point, you become so distracted trying to psychoanalyze Silver’s entire existence that you nearly walk directly into a wall full of booby traps.

A hand catches your wrist instantly before you can stupidly do so. “Careful.”

You glance up, only to find Silver’s face inches from yours, his silver eyes sharp with concern. 

“You’ve been distracted since we came here,” He says quietly, his voice low and close—too close, you realize.

Oh, you think, I wonder why.

“I’m not distracted,” you lie, you know, like a liar. It’s not like you can just plain out say, I’m thinking about you, Commander. “I’m just thinking about… this whole dungeon.”

He eyes your slightly grumbled expression, noting the furrow of your eyebrows. Then, unexpectedly, the corner of his eyes crinkles. A soft, airy sound escapes him—a faint, genuine laugh that sounds entirely too light for a man currently standing in the literal heart of a dark abyss.

You blink, momentarily stunned.

“...What?” you ask immediately, because nothing about someone laughing in a dungeon is remotely normal. “What’s so funny, Commander?”

Silver’s gaze softens into something impossibly nostalgic. He doesn’t let go of your wrist—instead, he leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper that barely skims the shell of your ear. 

“No,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with a clarity that makes your breath hitch. “It’s just… I’m relieved I found you here, Prefect.”

…What.

“What.”

What the fuck. You swear your heart dropped right to your ass when you heard it.

The word echoes in your skull, bouncing off the walls of your suddenly very empty brain. The air in the dungeon, previously thick with the stench of rot and ancient stone, suddenly feels like it’s been vacuumed out of the room. You freeze, your jaw going slack as the realization slowly seeps in your brain cells.

What the hell did he just say?

“Wait—Silver, what did you just—”

You open your mouth to demand answers when a guttural snarl rips through the corridor ahead. The sound echoes off the stone walls, and every thought in your head scatters like disturbed birds.

Theo swears from somewhere behind you. “Yeah, okay, that’s new.”

Cracks split open along the stone like veins being torn apart, black light peeking through in uneven pulses. Something scrapes on the other side—too many limbs, too hungry—and then the first wave of Voidborne pushes through, shrieking in overlapping distortions that make your teeth ache.

You drag your hands down your face. Apparently, the universe has decided you don’t get to have a single moment of clarity before everything goes to hell. “Oh, for fucks’ sake.” 

The wave lasts for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s probably much less than an hour—the Captain says something about “standard void surge” and “dormant Heart response”—but time has lost all meaning in the depths of this place.

When the last creature falls, dissolving into a pool of shadow that slowly fades, the cavern falls silent. The only sounds pounding against your eardrums are the heavy breathing of exhausted knights and the distant, pulsing heartbeat of a Hollow Heart.

Theo slumps against the wall, clutching a gash on his arms. “I hate dungeons.”

A fellow knight nearby raises one of her eyebrows as she cleans her blade. “You love dungeons.”

“I love easy dungeons. There’s a difference.”

The Hollow Heart sits deeper than the rest of the dungeon, as if the entire structure has been built around the refusal to let it be reached. The closer you get, the more the air itself feels compressed, pressing against your lungs like an invisible hand.

When you surge Divine Aegis through it, the Heart resists at first, pulsing harder as if trying to anchor itself into the world through sheer refusal to die. The pressure in the chamber spikes so violently that your vision blurs at the edge, and it feels like it’s trying to reject your touch.

You push deeper, tightening the divine light before the organ fractures without sound, cracks of pale brilliance spiderwebbing across its impossible surface before it collapses in on itself entirely. There’s no explosion following it; rather, it leaves a quiet, final absence that has been erased from the world and forgotten mid-thought.

The walk back to the surface is a blur of exhaustion and relief. The dungeon, now cleansed of its corruption, feels different—lighter, somehow, considering how the walls no longer pulse with that sickly violet glow, and the air tastes clean instead of stagnant.

You stand at the entrance, taking in the boundless sky that is dyed in a pale, peaceful blue, before dragging Silver by his hand away to a more secluded corner near the gorge, away from the “ohh” and “ahh” of the knights.

The moment you’re far enough from the knights that their voices dissolve into background noise, you release Silver’s hand—but only just enough to point at him like you’re about to cross-examine a criminal.

“Okay,” you say. “Explain, uh, preferably as quick as you can. I’ve got less than an hour before the Divine Fever kicks me in the ass and I start hallucinating again, so I need the short version.”

Silver nods, “I was accompanying Fa—Lilia in the library at that time. He was researching some cookbooks, I believe, and I… must have fallen asleep somewhere along the way.”

“When I woke up, I was already here.”

So, Crowley, in fact, put that painting for anyone to fall in.

Upon waking in the painting, he was immediately bombarded by the system’s internal logic, which forcibly grafted the Commander’s identity into his own. He describes how the more he performed these “objectives”—leading the knights, reciting the oaths of the Order, upholding his virtues—the more his actual consciousness began to ebb away. He remembers resisting at first, holding onto the awareness that he was not originally meant for this world, but each moment spent fulfilling the Commander’s duties made that resistance harder to access, like trying to recall a dream while still being inside it. 

It was a slow, terrifying erosion of self; he found himself slipping into a deep slumber where his true personality was being buried under the layers of the system’s influence.

The moment he finishes explaining, you feel a sudden, sharp spike in your body temperature—the first warning shot of the Divine Fever. Your vision slightly swims, the edge of the gorge blurring into a watercolour smear.

“Silver,” you croak with urgency. “Listen here, my fever is acting up already, but I have a plan that might get us the hell out of here.”

He steps closer without hesitation, and you’re grateful for the support he has on your arms. You barely manage to keep your thoughts straight as the Divine Fever creeps in—heat blooming under your skin in uneven waves, your vision threatening to smear at the edges again.

You force yourself to continue, anyway. The plan flows out of your mouth in messy but urgent words.

“Thing is, the system assigning us with these roles is also a matter of holding the entire world together with it through narrative consistency.”

You point vaguely at the air between you both, like the concept itself is floating there. “Commander Silver, Holy Saint, dungeon runs, all of it—they all count as story logic, aside from being some kind of structure. If things—if this story logic stays predictable, the system stays stable, in return.”

Silver seems to be following your logic. “And if they do not?”

“Then the story loses its integrity,” you continue. “And when the narrative integrity drops low enough, the painting can’t maintain cohesion. It starts rejecting these inconsistencies, all while it tries to maintain the script.”

Your finger curls slightly. “So we become an inconsistency—we’ll create a narrative correction.”

You gesture between you two. “Whatever this is—this dynamic, these interactions, we can create a new narrative thread that is strong enough to overwrite the existing structure’s expectations.” “I’m suggesting we become such a problem that the story can’t continue without rewriting itself around us.”

“...And yeah,” you add, rubbing your temples as the fever spikes again. “In most systems like this, that usually means escalating intimacy bonds, emotional deviations, shared arcs—whatever you want to call it.”

Silver exhales slowly, like he’s absorbing something far too large to respond to immediately. “...That is not a guaranteed method, is it?”

You snort. “No shit, but it’s the only one I can think of.”

Silver is quiet for a moment longer, eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to map the logic of your plan. “Then, how do we do it?”

A grin tugs at your mouth. “Oh, listen closely.”

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — [MAINTENANCE COMPLETE !]

All core system functions have been fully restored. All previously suspended notifications and guidance protocols are now active—you may resume normal saintly duties, dungeon coordinations, and designated social interaction scheduling. 

We apologize for any inconvenience. ~♡

The harvest is in full swing.

Lanterns hang overhead in warm strands of gold and paper-red, swaying gently as crowds move through the decorated stalls. The air smells of roasted sweets, spiced cider, and something faintly floral that clings to everything like an etched memory, as lively music drifts between stalls.

Knights from the Order are scattered through the crowd, clearly trying very hard to look like this is all normal duty assignment and not a thinly veiled excuse for indulgement.

Somewhere nearby, you can hear Theo loudly insisting he is “absolutely not here for leisure, that is below me as a knight!” while buying three skewers of candied meat.

“...So this is happening,” you murmur. 

Ding!

Another notification pops in your line of sight.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Congratulations for completing the first half of [MAY CERCES BE WITH YOU], Holy Saint! Please continue to be diligent from here on out! ~♡”

The second notification lingers longer than the first, as if it’s waiting for you to respond with enthusiasm you absolutely do not possess.

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “...Holy Saint, did something happen while I was away?”

“Mm? Nothing happened,” you reply smoothly, offering the empty air a smile so saccharine it could cause cavities. You’re currently standing in the heart of the festival square, the smell of woodsmoke and sugar thick in the air, but your eyes are already scanning the crowd for a flash of silver hair.

“What happened?” The voice comes right beside you, and you nearly forgot that the Crown Prince has been accompanying you. Per the system’s original mission requirements, you’re supposed to be “hanging out” with him today to strengthen the Royal-Religion alliance or something.

“You seem distracted, Your Holiness.” He continues, brow arching. 

“Oh—no, I’m not, I just… my lover is joining us.” you reply, though you’re already mid-scan of the crowd, still looking for that familiar form of the Commander.

“Oh?” The Crown Prince’s tone lifts slightly, interest sharpening just enough to be noticeable. “A lover?”

You nod immediately, committing before your brain can intervene. “Yeah, someone from the Order.”

The Crown Prince’s smile lingers just a fraction longer, like he’s already decided this is going to be an entertaining evening.

“I see,” he says. “The more, the merrier, I suppose. I look forward to meeting them.”

You’re about to respond when you finally spot him.

Silver is standing near a stall of painted masks, his snowy hair unmistakable even in the golden glow of the lanterns. He’s not in his full armor—just a simple blouse, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his sword still at his hips. A smile graces his lips at the sight of you, until his gaze shifts to the man beside you.

Something flickers across his expression—too fast to name—before it fades just as quickly, and he begins walking toward you.

“Ah,” the Crown Prince says, following your gaze. “Is that him? The Commander, isn’t he?”

“That’s him.” You confirm.

Silver reaches you in a few long strides, his posture formal as he inclines his head slightly in polite acknowledgement, expression calm and practiced.

“Your Highness,” he greets. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” The Crown Prince’s smile widens. “The Saint was just telling me about you.”

“I was?” you ask—I mean, sure, yeah, but also not really? You just mentioned him. To your confusion, The Crown Prince merely hums, entirely at ease. 

“Oh?” He tilts his head slightly. “I assumed you were being modest.”

…?

What is he playing at? You immediately decide you hate diplomacy.

“...I see,” Silver’s gaze returns to the Prince, but there’s a subtle tightening at the edge of his expression now—something near-adjacent to restrain carefully kept under control. “I hope it is… accurate.”

You laugh nervously.

“Hm,” The Crown Prince turns to you, his smile dancing in barely concealed delight. “He’s very protective of you, Your Holiness. How admirable.”

“Anyway!” You cut in, stepping slightly between them like that will physically stop narrative escalation. “We should get some food first before doing anything—”

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Your Holiness! Would you like to use [SCENE PROMPTER] to accelerate the mission?~♡”

The what?

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “[SCENE PROMPTER] used ~♡”

You stupid system, I never said anything about using it! You hissed under your breath, muttering out curse words to that useless system. Why go through with the maintenance in the first place?!

Before you can start spitting another verse of curses, a sudden burst of music erupts nearby as a festival announcer’s voice booms across the square.

“And now… beginning our traditional couples game!”

You feel like ten years of your life has been shaved off in this very second.

“...I’m sorry,” you say out loud to no one in particular. 

Contrary to your misery-ridden face, the Crown Prince looks delighted.

“Oh?” he says lightly, turning toward the center of the square where festival staff are already dragging bewildered civilians toward a decorated platform. “What fortunate timing.”

The announcer’s voice booms through the square with enthusiasm. “Couples participating in this year’s game may proceed to the stage! Winners will receive the Blessed Garland and premium festival prizes!”

Your ears instantly perk up at that—premium festival prizes? Boy, oh boy, why didn’t you mention that first?

A dangerously amused smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches your expression morph from existential despair into sudden, laser-focused interest.

“I believe,” The Prince starts smoothly, “this year’s rewards also include imported wines, festival vouchers, a buffet in Golden Apple Inn, enchanted artifacts, and—”

You don’t even let him finish, your hands already shooting out to grab Silver by the sleeve, eyes suddenly sparkling with a kind of unholy motivation.

“Silver,” you say with deadly seriousness, already tugging him toward the platform. “We’re winning this. We’ll show the rest what a real couple looks like.”

You mentally cringe at that, but at least Silver doesn’t offer any commentary. The Crown Prince, however, outright laughs.

Oh, the Prince thinks in delight, it seems the rumors are true!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 63%

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Guh…”

That is how you both end up on stage, fingers entwined, and awkwardly feigning ignorance to the indignant squawks of “the Commander and the Holy Saint?!” below (it’s all the more awkward when all the hooting and hollering belongs mostly to the Order’s knights).

“...Well, at least this aligns pretty well with our intentions.” Silver whispers from beside you, trying very hard to avoid eye contact with the knights present amidst the crowd.

“...Can’t say it’s not ideal.” You reply, though your voice comes out slightly strained as the sheer volume of cheering from below crashes against your ears.

Silver lets out a faint laugh—the lanternlight paints warm gold along the edges of his profile, softening the sharpness of his usual composure. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that subtle pink beginning to crawl at the tips of his ears.

You can’t exactly tell if it’s embarrassment or something else, but it certainly prompts a warmth of your own that stirs within your chest.

It’s ridiculous—you’ve faced down Hollow Hearts, Voidborne creatures, and even the system’s nonsensical yaps. You shouldn’t be flustered by something as simple as holding Silver’s hand in public, by the soft curve of his smile, by the way his fingers clench against yours.

“We’re going to win this.” He says.

“Obviously.” You whisper back.

“Welcome lovely couples!” the announcer beams at the line of participants assembled on stage. “The first event shall test the trust and harmony between partners!”

You immediately don’t like where this is going.

The Crown Prince, seated far too comfortably among the judges, catches your eyes from across the square with his smile that is nothing short of complicit.

You really don’t like where this is going.

“Now then!” the announcer declares, gesturing grandly toward a lacquered box filled with folded slips of paper that is wheeled out by a festival staff, before dipping his hand in. “Let’s see which challenge our honourable couples are fortunate enough to get!”

#01. RIBBON BINDING RELAY

Partners must navigate through the course while connected by a single red ribbon tied around their dominant wrist. The ribbon may not be removed or broken. 

Festival attendants waste absolutely no time. A long scarlet ribbon is promptly produced and tied around your wrist before you can even flee the country. The other end is secured around Silver’s wrist with ceremonial enthusiasm that feels deeply malicious.

“Participants must complete three cooperative tasks!” the announcer beams. “Lighting the painted lantern, carrying the ceremonial cups, and traversing the obstacle course without separating from your partner!”

This is going to be a disaster.

The first task is, predictably, the easiest on paper and the most humiliating in practice.

A pair of unlit lanterns hang at opposite ends of a narrow archway, suspended just high enough that neither of you can comfortably reach them without coordination. A single ember charm sits on a pedestal between you, clearly meant to be shared.

Silver glances up at the same time. “So, we need to light both of them at the same time?” “With the same source, too,” you confirm, already regretting everything.

The ribbon between your wrists tightens slightly as you move in opposite directions, forcing an awkward correction as you instinctively resync your steps. 

“...Left hand or right?” he asks.

“Does it matter?”

“It will if you burn yourself.” 

Between the two of you, the ember charm ignites under shared divine energy, flaring briefly before splitting into twin streams of light that leap into both lanterns at once. As the archway flickers alive in warm gold, a cheer rises somewhere in the crowd.

The second task is worse. 

A long table has been set with identical ceremonial cups, each filled with a shimmering liquid that smells faintly floral and suspiciously magical, probably. The rules are simple—both partners must carry their cups across a moving platform course without spilling a single drop—and without letting the ribbon slacken enough to lose synchronicity. 

The moment you and Silver each take a cup, the platform beneath you shifts.

“Of course it moves,” you mutter—Coach Vargas would be so happy to see you exercise this much.

Silver steps slightly closer without hesitation, aligning his pace with yours before the ribbon can pull taut. 

It isn’t dramatic in a romantic sense—at least, you tell yourself that—but there’s something disarmingly steady about the way he adjusts every step to match yours without needing to be told.

By the time you reach the end, neither cup has spilled.

The final course is—well, someshit you’d see straight from the UA festival or something.

A shifting obstacle field stretches ahead—moving platforms, narrowing bridges, and illusory walls that flicker in and out of existence. 

When the first platform drops away, and you instinctively stumble, it’s his arms that steady you through the ribbon’s pull, and when he steps forward, you move with him before thinking, because anything else would send both of you tumbling off the course entirely.

By the time you both reach the end, you are placed in third out of the nine couples.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 58%

“Well, third place is third place,” you sigh as the festival staff directs you and Silver off the platform. The ribbon has been removed—finally—and your wrist feels strangely bare without it. “At least we’re not last.”

“Mm.” Silver agrees from beside you, his voice is measured, but you can hear the faintest hint of disappointment beneath.

The festival continues around you in warm waves of lantern lights and cheery noise. Couples wander between stalls hand-in-hand, children run through the crowd with bobbing wreath crowns atop their heads, and the scent of spiced cider accompanied by roasted chestnuts drift through the air like a sweet promise.

For a little while, you and Silver simply walk, basking in the festive atmosphere as you visit from stall to stall—sampling honey-glazed pastries from elderly vendors who insist on giving the “lovely couple” extra portions (after you blatantly coo at a very flustered Silver about your made-up meet-cute story), getting ambushed by enthusiastic merchants trying to sell matching charms “for relationship prosperity” (you proceed to vent onto the merchant how your “forbidden” love prevails, despite how there are those in the Sanctuary who disapproves of your relationship to get an extra discount), and narrowly escaping a flower girl determined to weave both of you in the same ceremonial wreath (Silver drags you away in a flushed hurry when you offer the kid to be a flowergirl in their wedding instead).

“Wow, you’re so sweet toward children, Commander. How fortunate this Holy Saint is to claim you as mine.” You tease slightly as Silver kneels to return a dropped wreath crown to a little girl who immediately runs away in fits of giggles when she sees him. 

Silver’s ears go pink—just faintly, barely noticeable beneath the lantern glow, but noticeable enough that you immediately feel spiritually vindicated. “Please stop, prefect.”

“Stop?” you repeat, your voice dropping into a playful register. “But I’m just being honest, Silver. Isn’t honesty a Saintly virtue?”

Silver lets out another one of those half-strangled sounds.

At some point, Silver wins you a tiny carved fox from a throwing game with terrifying accuracy on his very first try. In return, you drag him toward a painted mask stall and hold increasingly ridiculous masks up until the poor vendor nearly cries laughing.

The tension so far is strangely easy… which is probably why you don’t notice the next disaster until it’s already too late.

“Oh!” A festival worker lights up the moment they spot you both appreciating a decorated stall lined with ribbons and silk blindfolds. “Another couple! Perfect timing!”

Behind the attendant hangs a painted sign:

#02. TRUST BLINDFOLD GAME

One person must navigate the obstacle path while blindfolded, the other may only guide them verbally.

“Aha, actually, we were just leaving—”

“You’ll get double reward tokens if you clear it flawlessly!” The attendant chirps.

Five minutes later, you’re blindfolded. 

“You’re quite predictable, aren’t you, prefect?” Silver asks, more amused than anything else.

This is the worst day of your life.

The silk tied over your eyes blocks out your sight completely, leaving you suspended in darkness while distant crowd noise blurs somewhere around you. You can vaguely hear the attendant explaining obstacle rules, but most of your focus is currently occupied by the fact that Silver is standing directly behind you.

Very directly behind you.

One of his hands lightly steadies your shoulder as the attendant positions you at the start of the course.

“Just a heads up, there are low obstacles ahead,” Silver says quietly near your ears.

His voice sounds different when you can’t see him—lower somehow, closer, every word brushing warm against the shell of your ear in a way that immediately short-circuits several critical functions in your brain.

“Take two small steps forward,” he continues calmly.

“There’s a narrow beam ahead, slightly to the left.” You nearly walk directly off the course anyway—not because of the obstacle, but because his breath brushes the side of your neck for half a second.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—

“You’re distracted again.” he murmurs. 

??? you wonder why.

You take a careful step forward, guided by his voice as the obstacle course shifts beneath you—wooden platforms adjusting, ropes swaying overhead, distant bells chiming to signal progress. Every instruction he gives is precise and incredibly calm, like he’s done this a hundred times.

Left, stop, half-step forward, wait.

“You’re doing well,” he says, and the words brush against your ear like a secret. His voice is low, almost intimate, as if the crowd around you has faded into nothingness and there’s only the two of you in this small pocket of darkness.

You swallow hard, your fingers clenching at the edge of the blindfold. “How much longer?”

“Almost there, there are three more steps straight ahead.”

You take them—one, two, three.

“Stop.” You stop in command. “There’s a rope at about chest height, duck under it.”

You duck—or you try to—considering how the rope catches on your shoulder instead, and you stumble backward straight into Silver.

His arms come around you instantly, catching you before you can fall. The blindfold slips, just enough for you to see the flash of his concerned face, his hands wrapped around your arms like he’s afraid you’d disappear.

Is this another one of those shitty scene prompter? You think distantly.

“Careful,” Silver says, his hand briefly catching your wrist before you can misstep off the final platform.

“You said chest height,” You argue.

“I said about chest height.”

“You and your abouts.” 

You reach the final stretch without realizing it, the crowd noise swelling faintly as the exit bell chimes somewhere ahead. The blindfold comes off the moment you step past the final marker, the sudden return of color and noise almost disorienting after being guided through darkness and voice alone.

Applause rises from the crowd, but you can’t focus much on it when you can feel how Silver is still so close. 

Fuck, you try to believe that the warmth that rushes to your cheekbones is only from pure adrenaline, and nothing more

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 50%

Ding!

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — “Holy Saint, the Commander is not the designated as a romantic interest, please return to the intended narrative parameters.”

The notification suddenly flickers, as though the system itself is stuttering.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Crown Prince has been flagged as OOC, and romantic protocols for I Became the Crown Prince’s Saviour have failed to engage. No romantic data found in the Prince’s current neural path—he is officially removed from the ‘Romantic Interest’ registry.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 47%

The blindfold game rewards are generous—a small pouch of silver coins, a pair of matching enamel pins shaped like crescent moons, and a voucher for a free desert at any festival stall. 

You and Silver retreat to a quiet stone bench, slightly away from the main crowd, where the lantern lights spill more across the cobblestones. The noise of the festival becomes something distant and gentle here—laughter, music, the occasional burst of applause—it is as if the world has finally decided to stop demanding you anything for a moment.

After trading your voucher for a skewer of honey-roast apples, you settle back onto the bench with a quiet exhale, the warmth of the food grounding you in a way that the day hasn’t managed to. Silver sits beside you, seemingly content to simply watch the way your eyes light up with every bite of the honeyed fruit, a look of quiet, genuine peace settling over his features.

“It’s funny seeing the system losing its mind,” you mutter, gesturing with an apple slice at the empty air. “It literally just kicked the Crown Prince out of the story. I’ve never seen a narrative engine give up that fast.”

Silver lets out a faint, genuine huff of laughter. “I believe the Prince did help us, he looks far too amused every time he looks at us.”

You snort softly at that, tilting your head back against the stone bench as the warmth of the food lingers on your tongue. “Oh, he’s absolutely enjoying this too much; that man is not normal.”

Silver hums in agreement, though there’s a faint softness in his expression as he watches the festival lights. He reaches into the small pouch of rewards, pulling out one of the crescent moon pins and turns it over his palm. Without any warning, he leans in, carefully pinning the small moon to the lapel of your silks, leaving you to be startled by the sudden proximity.

“It suits you,” he says, “it would be a shame if we can’t bring it out of this painting.”

You look down at the little moon, then at the matching one still in the pouch. You take it out, and pin it to the dark fabric of his clothes. “For real, it would be nice if we could bring them out—you know, as a souvenir for this entire shitshow.”

Silver huffs another laugh. “A souvenir from a shitshow is certainly one way to commemorate a festival.”

“You’re welcome.” you say, entirely too pleased with yourself, before leaning back again as the last of the apple skewer disappears between you and your rapidly diminishing sense of emotional restraint.

For a couple of minutes, neither of you speak again.

The festival around you slowly shifts tone as the sun dips lower, painting the sky in deep amber and violet. Lantern sellers begin moving through the crowd, offering folded paper lights and ink brushes for wishes. The noise of the celebration softens into something much quieter and wistful.

“The lantern ceremony is starting soon,” he says after a while.

“I know.”

“Do you want to participate?”

You glance toward the riverbank, where the first lanterns are already beginning to lift into the sky. “Yeah, we might as well. It feels like the kind of thing the system would mark as a mandatory closure event.”

A lantern seller passes by and presses two folded paper lanterns into your hands again without waiting for consent, offering a brush dipped in ink that smells faintly of soot and flowers. Silver takes one without hesitation, turning it slightly in his hands as if inspecting it.

You sit down on the edge of the riverbank together. 

“What are you going to wish for?” you ask, fiddling the folded paper in your hands.

“If I tell you my wish, wouldn't it mean it won’t come true?” He replies, eyes still on the lantern.

“...Not wrong.”

He laughs, a soft and genuine sound that makes your chest ache in something dangerously close to fondness. Around you, lanterns continue rising in slow waves, turning the river into a mirror of drifting luminescence. 

“Fine,” you reply, turning your attention back to your own lantern. “I’ll keep my wish a secret too.”

The silence between you is comfortable and mundane, filled only by the rhythmic lapping of the river and the choral hum of the festival’s closing hymn in the distance. You dip your brush in ink, the tip trembling just slightly against the paper.

Beside you, Silver’s brush moves more elegantly, the ink flowing in smooth strokes as if he’s not writing a wish so much as committing something already decided to permanence. When you finally finish your own, you both stand up to light the wick. 

The warmth of the lantern expands, and you watch in awe as the paper blooms with a lick of golden that illuminates Silver’s face. 

“Ready?” He asks.

“Ready.”

As you hold the bottom of your lantern and prepare to lift it into the darkened sky, Silver’s hand shifts from his lantern and slides his fingers down until they cover yours, his palm warm and calloused against your skin.

“...Silver?” 

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Narrative integrity is currently below the safe operational threshold. Current romantic/branching variables are exceeding assigned route limits, and emotional coherence markers are no longer aligned with predesignated script structure. Please disengage unapproved relational escalation and return to approved interaction parameters immediately.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 39%

“...I changed my mind,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the faint crackles of flame. “I don’t care much if the wish doesn’t come true because I said it. I want you to know it anyway.”

He leans in, his forehead coming to rest against yours. The lantern between your hands stutters once, casting golden light and shadow across both of your faces. His breath is close enough that you can feel it more than you can hear it, close enough that you can count each individual lash, close enough that the world outside this small bubble has ceased to exist.

“I wish,” he breathes out, “that I can stay by your side, just like this, for as long as I can—for as long as you let me.”

“Please forgive my boldness,” with a slow, almost reverent grace laced in his touch, he lifts your joined hands to his lips. His lips brush against your knuckles—a gesture so delicate and tender that the kiss feels like an unspoken oath.

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Narrative integrity is currently below the safe operational threshold. Current romantic/branching variables are exceeding assigned route limits, and emotional coherence markers are no longer aligned with predesignated script structure. Please disengage unapproved relational escalation and return to approved interaction parameters immediately.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 28%

The air between you is thick (in tension? In warmth? In everything you’ve both been too afraid to name? You’re not sure anymore, not when his lips are damningly soft against the skin of your knuckles), charged with a gravity that makes you conscious of every movement within the space that you both called your own. 

Silver doesn’t pull away after that—he keeps his lips brushed against your skin for a heartbeat too long, his eyes searching yours with raw intensity. 

“You…” Your voice hitches, the single word barely more than a breath that gets lost in the narrow space between you. You try to find the rest of the sentence, but your brain is currently a frantic mess of static and heat. 

There’s too much to say—too many threads pulling in different directions at once, too many meanings colliding behind the grit of your teeth before they can become languages without branding themselves onto your lexicon as something that would change the shape of everything after it.

You can’t just say that, you think, it’s not good for my heart!

Perhaps he’ll never know, or maybe he will—maybe one day, he will come to know the devastating impact he leaves in his wake, one that effortlessly leaves you tracing the cords of the stars and likening them to the lines of his palms that have gently cradled the heart of yours.

Though that is a thought for another time, a confession in another lifetime, maybe.

Your free hand comes to cup his jaw—tentative at first, then firmer when he doesn’t withdraw from your touch. If anything, he leans into it, like he’s been waiting for this exact kind of certainty from you, even if neither of you said it out loud. 

You lean in, your breath ghosting over his lips, the mingling scent of leftover honey apples with a note of something earthy making your head spin.

Silver’s eyes flutter shut, his hands shifting from your knuckles to the small of your back, pulling you closer until the gap between you isn’t quite distance anymore; rather a brief space of warmth that leaves just the frantic rhythm of two hearts thrumming in tandem.

Your lips are a hair’s breadth apart, so close and fragile—

✦ : SYSTEM NOTIFICATION — WARNING ! [NARRATIVE DIVERGENCE DETECTED]

Due to unsanctioned convergence exceeding predefined script parameters, narrative stability can no longer be maintained within current scene constraints. Initiating emergency world clean-up protocol.

[!] URGENT ERROR: World-Logic instability is rising… current narrative integrity: 10%

Your grip tightens for a second—did you just get cockblocked by this hack-ass system?

You stare at the shimmering blue warning box hovering right where Silver’s lips were supposed to be—the sheer petty audacity of the timing hitting you like a bucket of cold water.

“Are you fucking kidding m—”

You don’t even get the chance to finish your words when you’re promptly swallowed by waves of white noise.

The smell of lilies and sweet incense is gone, replaced instantly by the nostalgic air of old parchment.

You gasp, your lungs burning as you pull in a breath of stale, library air. Your cheek is pressed against the cold, hard mahogany of a study table—yikes, you hope you don’t grant yourself a concussion. 

“Ugh…”

A soft, pained groan echoes from the seat beside you.

You bolt upright, blinking back the dark spots in your vision. The library is silent and dark, bathed only by the several small, golden lamps. Beside you, Silver is slowly pushing himself up, his silver hair a tangled mess and his eyes wide with lingering alarm.

He freezes when his gaze meets yours, and for a long, breathless beat of silence, neither of you speaks—stil clearly in a daze from… what could have happened.

“...I’m going to burn that fucking painting in front of Crowley.”

Silver lets out a soft laugh, the sound shaky but amused, nonetheless. “I’ll help you light the torch, I suppose.”

His fingers graze yours, and slides his hand over yours, pinning it gently against the mahogany. The fresh memory by the riverbank, the amber light, and the breath fanning against your lips rushes back with such force it makes your head swim.

Violet eyes drop to your lips, and you find yourself unconsciously leaning forward with your heart doing that frenetic dance against the contours of your ribcage. You shut your eyes when the distance closes to a hair’s breadth for the second time tonight, finally ready to see if the real thing tastes as much like honey and promise as the painting did—

The library doors slam against the wall with a deafening crack. “Henchuman! Sniffs, I knew you’d be back!—”

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, I’m going to fucking burn this fucking school down—”

jack howl has always been a man of strong principles. someone who never shied away from making his opinions known even at the risk of offending or setting off those he once respected if he believed it was the right thing to do. the freshman that walked into his first day at savanaclaw and made very quick work of politely but firmly asserting his boundaries, and spent every day after that making sure that others knew not to cross them (a necessary part of surviving life in a dorm where strength is everything: if you aren’t firm enough you stand to be trodden on and disrespected, and that is something jack refuses to let happen)

and when the two of you officially became an item things kept on going much the same way — he established his boundaries, challenged and defeated anyone who made a point of sniffing around his business and his mate, and kept on being the same old stoic and principled freshman that they all knew him as… just now with a small and notably more friendly girlfriend at his side

so imagine the shock that his schoolmates experienced the first time someone overheard you calling jack — jack howl, the giant muscular wolf man — puppy

and imagine the shock when instead of arguing or shutting you down or ignoring you, jack’s ears just flicked back in a show of mild embarrassment as he responded to you normally. clipped and blunt as ever. no other sign beyond his ears that he even noticed what you called him

if literally anyone else had dared to address him like that he’d be flicking his ears back, baring his teeth, and growling out a warning by now — low and firm and more of a promise of what was to come if you continued to demean him with such a disgustingly cute word. because he’s not some kid, not some pup, and he has made it abundantly clear to everyone in his dorm that tried precisely how much he does not appreciate being called that

but you are the exception. expectedly so given that wolf beastmen like jack mate for life and he seems more than happy to settle down with you for the long haul

because you can call him whatever you want and he’ll respond the same: quickly, dutifully, and in a way that pretty much suggests that he was listening for your voice before you even thought about speaking up

how very loyal of him. cute

so call him your puppy, your cutie, your good boy, even, and once he’s had a moment to recover and adjust to the new term of endearment jack will respond to you — maybe even start wagging his tail in spite of his otherwise neutral demeanour if he likes a particular pet name more than the others

Vil did not drink from you out of desperation; Desperation was ugly. Reckless. It hollowed people out until all that remained was instinct and ruin, and Vil refused to let something as crude as hunger define him.

He believed beauty was something cultivated with discipline, and immortality meant nothing if one allowed themselves to decay into something inelegant. While other vampires surrendered to frenzy and excess, Vil treated his condition with the same ruthless precision he applied to every aspect of his appearance.

You simply happened to be part of that routine.

Not in a cruel way — never that. Vil despised carelessness. He was particular about you. Excessively so.

Your meals were monitored with an attention bordering on absurdity. Iron-rich foods. Proper hydration. Enough rest. He insisted stress affected “quality,” though he said it with the same airy tone one might use discussing skincare ingredients.

Which was why, by the time night fell, everything was already exactly as he preferred it.

You were already waiting exactly where he liked you — perched gracefully on the edge of his canopy bed, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight to shut out the rest of the world. The room was bathed in the warm glow of enchanted candles, their light dancing across silk sheets and polished marble floors.

Vil stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the space. His golden hair shimmered under the candlelight, and his amethyst eyes locked onto you with that familiar mix of hunger and appraisal.

“Perfect timing,” he murmured, his voice smooth but edged with fatigue. He removed his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, never breaking eye contact. “I was starting to get… irritable.”

As he stepped closer, that effortless grace of his stride remained — swift, silent, almost gliding — yet something about him was subtly off. His jaw was tighter than usual. His brows barely, almost imperceptibly, drawn. His hand tugging his collar open.

Vil exhaled through his nose, as if forcing his body to obey him rather than the other way around. “I dislike when it reaches this point,” he admitted quietly, more to himself than to you, voice lower now, less theatrical and more raw at the edges.

His fingers brushed your jaw as he tilted your chin upward with the care of an artist inspecting a masterpiece. His touch was ice cold — that perfect, refined temperature that made your skin prickle with anticipation rather than flinch away.

“You’ve been good for me,” he murmured, voice like velvet dragged over steel. “Look at you… skin flushed just right, pulse steady and strong. Exactly as I asked.”

He leaned in, nose grazing the curve of your neck as he inhaled slowly, savoring. A faint, almost imperceptible shudder ran through his frame — the only crack in his composure. Then his lips pressed against your throat, soft at first, almost reverent. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat hardest, tongue tracing a slow, deliberate line over the vein as if tasting before committing. 

“Relax for me,” he whispered against your skin. “Let me have you properly.”

The bite came without warning, yet not without grace.

His fangs sank in with surgical precision — two sharp points piercing clean and deep. There was a brief flash of pain, bright and fleeting, before it melted into something far more dangerous: a thick, honeyed heat that spread through your veins like liquid starlight. Vil groaned softly, the sound low and indulgent, vibrating against your throat as he drank.

He never rushed. Even now, when hunger clawed at him, his swallows were elegant. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair to hold you steady. The other rested at your waist, thumb stroking slow circles over your ribs as if soothing you through the haze.

Every pull of his mouth sent sparks racing down your spine. The room felt warmer, the candlelight thicker, sweeter. Your fingers instinctively curled into the front of his shirt, gripping the expensive fabric as a quiet sound slipped from your lips — half gasp, half sigh.

Vil drank like he did everything else: with exquisite control and devastating focus. He savored you. The taste of your blood — rich, clean, perfectly balanced from all his meticulous care — drew another quiet, pleased hum from his throat. His body relaxed against yours as the irritation from earlier melted away, replaced by that luminous, almost euphoric calm he only ever found in feeding from you.

When he finally pulled back, Vil’s amethyst eyes darkened with a new kind of hunger as he hovered over you, his body caging yours against the silk sheets. The fresh bite on your neck still throbbed warmly, but his attention had shifted entirely to your lips.

Without a word, he cupped your face with his hand — fingers digging into your cheeks with that signature precision — and leaned down.

His mouth claimed yours in a slow, deep kiss.

The metallic taste of your own blood was immediate, rich and warm, still coating his tongue. He didn’t try to hide it. Instead, he pressed it into the kiss deliberately, letting you taste yourself on him as his tongue slid against yours with languid indulgence. The flavor mingled between you — copper-sweet, intimate, and undeniably intense.

A soft, possessive sound rumbled in his chest as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss further. His lips, still slick with crimson, moved against yours with practiced elegance, savoring every second. He fed you the taste of your own blood like it was fine wine he wanted you to appreciate, slow and deliberate, his tongue stroking yours in a way that made your head spin.

When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, a thin string of blood-tinted saliva connected your lips for a brief, obscene moment before it broke.

“Now you understand what I’m trying to preserve,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough, his breath brushing your mouth. “How absolutely intoxicating.”

There were a dozen ways to answer that question, and none of them felt useful. You settled on the simplest. "Well, yes. Why?"

Something flickered across their faces, not surprise, because they'd clearly approached already knowing. "Right, we thought so. We saw you holding hands with him earlier."

"It's crowded," you simply said. "Easier not to lose at each other."

"Mm. Guess that's one way to look at it."

You gave a small nod and watched as the other two exchanged one of those tiny, loaded glances that just further let you know the shape of this whole interaction. You're already dreading it and should probably have walked away right then... but there was a specific kind of social unpleasantness that relied on you leaving too quickly, on your discomfort becoming evidence against you somehow. So you stayed for a second longer, neutral enough to be polite, distant enough to make it clear you weren't inviting whatever this was.

The person standing on the left spoke up. "Soo... what's that like?"

"What's what like?" You asked in return.

"Dating Jamie Porter, of course! I mean, everyone knows him. I didn't believe it then, but I guess he really will date anyone." The line was tossed in lightly, like an afterthought. Like it belonged in the category of things people were meant to pretend they hadn't heard properly.

But you heard it loud and clear.

"Excuse me?"

They smiled too quickly. "Oh, no offense!" Which, naturally, meant offense had already unpacked and made itself comfortable. "It's just... a little weird. I mean, he's already been really selective about people. And suddenly he's dating you." They let their eyes move over you in one of those head-to-toe glances that was less observation than attempted humiliation. "So, we're just curious, really."

You could already feel your patience beginning to go thin around the edges, but you needed to keep your cool. You're not going to give them the satisfaction of whatever it is they're trying to do.

"It's normal." You said. And that answer seemed to disappoint them. Good. "Normal, huh? Wow." She said the word "normal" as if it were somehow insulting. One of the others laughed softly into their cup.

You let the silence do some work. That should've been enough, because normally, people with social sense hear the deadness in a conversation and step back from it before dignity becomes impossible to recover.

Unable to help themself, the one in the middle asked a question that made you take aback. "Not to be rude... what does he even see in you?"

Well, they're certainly not trying to be subtle anymore. The thing itself was dragged ugly and whole into the open, where everyone could pretend to be shocked later if they got called on it. For one second, all you felt was disbelief. Then the sting arrived. Not because you believed them, but because offense like this always carried a little shock with it, no matter how secure you were, no matter how loved, no matter how ridiculous the source. It was one thing to know people whispered, another thing entirely to have a stranger stand in front of you under festival lights and act like your relationship had somehow become one of the booths here for them to review.

You held their gaze—long enough to make one of them look away first. You couldn't help the mild satisfaction from that. You shrugged and calmly answered, "That sounds like a question for Jamie."

And still, they didn't stop. "No, because I genuinely don't get it. He could do way better."

You hummed. "I don't think you know him enough to say that."

"And you do?"

The question was stupid enough to be insulting. "Considering that we were friends before dating? Yes."

That made one scoff, another to click their tongue, and if you weren't mistaken, an eye twitch. You nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. You hated it, though. The way they said he could have anyone, as if Jamie was an award horse and not a person with taste, preferences, and the deeply inconvenient habit of choosing for himself.

"If that's all, I'll be taking my leave." You began to turn to leave when one of them caught your arm—held hard enough to stop you. The touch was wrong on contact. Wrong in intention, in entitlement, in the simple fact of someone deciding they were allowed to put a hand on you because they didn't like what you said.

You looked down at the hand on your arm, then up to their face. "Let go of me." You still try to sound calm, to not cause a scene and be a public disturbance, but they're really trying to push you into the edge.

"I will if you don't walk away. No need to be defensive, we're just trying to talk!" They said, which made you let out a sigh. They couldn't be serious...

"What gives you the right—ugh, just let go already!"

And then Jamie's voice, from just behind them, cut through the noise with such clean precision that the entire little cluster went still before they even turned around. "You heard them. Take your hand off."

Even you were a little shocked to see him, given the fact that these three had taken your whole attention.

Just like that, the hand fell away at once.

Jamie stepped into view, holding the paper tray of food in one hand, and for one surreal second the image was almost funny—him arriving with lunch in one hand and absolute contempt in the other. You had seen him annoyed, seen him snap, and be cold. But this was a little different, you supposed. This was Jamie stripped of the nice layer he wore for the general public. Not uncontrolled, just entirely finished with pretending there was a more innocent version of this interaction than the one he had walked in on.

His gaze flicked once to your face, then your arm, then back to them. He didn't look confused at all. He had already read enough of the room to know exactly what had happened.

One of them recovered first. "J-Jamie! We were just—"

A cold stare from him made them eat their own words. The one who had touched you laughed weakly, already sounding unlike themself now that the fantasy had been forced to meet the real person. "We didn't mean anything by it."

He looked at them next. Then he said, very calmly, "By it, you mean putting your hands on MC because they tried to walk away from you?"

Their face changed, a flash of embarrassment, then defensiveness. "That's not what happened at all."

Do they take him for a fool?

He raised his chin. "You're right. What happened was worse. You felt entitled enough to stop them."

The one who had said less but smirked plenty, folded their arms. "We were just asking about your relationship..."

"I don't know what gave you the impression that you were important enough to involve yourselves in my relationship." He said without a stutter. "If you're confused why I'm in one, I'd suggest you sit with that privately and not harass someone. It has nothing to do with you."

Silence.

Not totally. The festival still existed around you. Music somewhere in the background, people passing, laughter from another tent. But inside the radius of this moment, there was just silence.

One of them opened their mouth, but nothing came out. It really landed on them, with the kind of humiliation that doesn't explode, only sinks inward at once, leaving the face scrambling to catch up. They had expected Jamie—the projection, the campus boyfriend, the elegant idea they could orbit and feel meaningfully connected to. What they got was Jamie as he actually was.

Jamie reached for your hand then. "Come on." He said, already leading you away through the crowd with the kind of contained, sour silence that told you this was far from over inside him. The farther you got from the little group, the colder his mood became. People moved around you in cheerful blurs as you kept your eyes on him. A little concerned about him more than anything.

You let him guide you until the noise thinned—past the booths, past the densest of the crowd. Around the side of the buildings, where the event lights still reached, but bodies didn't. There was a bench there and, more importantly, privacy.

He turned to face you, thumb rubbing the side of your hand absentmindedly, as if to comfort you. "Are you alright?" He asked.

You let out a breath you hadn't fully realized you were holding, before giving him a small smile of reassurance. "I am, yeah. Thanks for that... what about you?"

His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "Me? I don't know why you're asking, but I'm fine." He said. You gave him a knowing look, which made him sigh, averting his gaze from you for a second. "...You don't have to thank me for that. I'm annoyed that I had to do that at all. Aren't you?"

"I am... was. Sometimes it just can't be helped. You're quite well-known around here after all." You answered, shrugging lightheartedly. Then you smirk at him, raising your eyebrow up and down. "Should've seen me beforehand. I think I handled it pretty well."

He looked at you, lips slightly pursed. He knew you were trying to lift his mood, to keep whatever had happened there from ruining your time together. And you're right, so he shook it off. Literally. By shaking his head lightly, as if to rid himself of the sour mood.

"I've no doubt it. You bring yourself well no matter what." He then said, finally returning a smile to you.

That made you smile a little more sweetly at him, leaning to nudge your shoulder against his, which made him chuckle. "Think of me a lot, don't you?" You teased.

He hummed. "Mm... perhaps."

You grin. "Great. Now, enough of that! I'm starving. Let's eat this."

"Let's." He nodded.