Scared reader but no smut

The cottage sat at the edge of Starfell Valley where the trees thickened enough to swallow the noise of Mondstadt whole. Ivy crawled over the stone walls in dark green spirals, silver bells hung from the eaves chiming softly whenever the wind brushed through them, and faint golden light glowed behind the round windows despite the late hour.

Inside, dried herbs hung from wooden beams in neat bundles. Lavender, mint, valberry leaves and more. Jars of powders and glowing fungi lined shelves beside simmering cauldrons, and the entire house smelled faintly of cedar smoke and flowers after rain.

She preferred it that way. Silent, warm, and calm, away from the city, far from the daily hustle and bustle, far from the endless bustle of knights and commissions and people who only ever sought witches when they needed something. Which, admittedly, was often. She enjoyed being alone in her own space, in her cottage accompanied by her ingredients, her books, her record player and her cat. And although she enjoyed solitude, there were some people in Mondstadt whom she liked, or at least tolerated much more than the rest.

Like Lisa, who always arrived with some dessert and gossip to share, as well as new books that might interest him.

Mona, who would go to see her for advice and support as if she were an older sister, while enjoying the food she prepared for her, knowing about the issue Mona had with money.

Jean, whom she adored for her tranquility, for the peace she transmitted to her every time she went to visit her at her home, especially since Varka’s return as she had a little more free time.

And Varka himself.

Although Varka had somewhat forced his way into her life, and unfortunately for her it was difficult to say no to him, he had become, much to her dismay, a good friend. Which was exactly why she had spent the last three days preparing medicinal tinctures and accelerated healing potions for the expedition team currently stationed far from Mondstadt.

The final vial clicked softly onto the wooden crate. “There,” she murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Everything ready, I think I have everything Varka asked for,” she said to the air, even though it was just her and her cat there.

A soft meow answered from nearby, her black cat blinked lazily at her from atop the counter. “Yeah, I know, you don’t have to tell me,” she sighed. “He’s late, again, to no one's surprise.” He had promised he would retrieve the shipment before sundown, and the sky outside was already sinking into indigo.

After carefully finishing sealing the jar, she placed it to one side with the others, and then headed towards the stove to heat the kettle.

And it was then that she could perceive the sound of a series of footsteps, soft footsteps, almost mapped out on her garden patio, as if whoever was there was treading deliberately with too much care.

That wasn't Varka, the mere sound of the footsteps was more than enough to know it wasn't him, because Varka stomped around like the Anemo Archon himself had personally declared stealth illegal.

There was an intruder. No one went to that area, and those who did, her friends, usually warned her beforehand, no one appeared unannounced, and knights and travelers were advised to avoid that specific area.

Moving carefully, without making a sound and avoiding being seen through the window, she approached the kitchen counter where a dagger was resting next to the chopping board, gripping it tightly between her fingers. She could hear the sound of the wind ringing the bell outside, and along with that she heard the sound of the gate being opened, which was then preceded by the sound of footsteps again.

Her eyes narrowed and the air in the cottage changed immediately, dendro energy threading beneath her skin in quiet anticipation as she extinguished the lantern with a flick of her fingers. Through the window she could see the shadow of a figure, she couldn't glean too much information from it, but it was clear that it was a man, perhaps a little taller than her.

The sound of knocking on the door echoed through the place, the music that had previously filled the air was now completely silent, and his cat watched curiously from its spot, as if it were not a critical situation. For a few seconds there was silence, only the tinkling of the bells outside, and then the handle of the front door moved slightly, as if someone were trying to open it.

And the moment it opened, vines exploded from the wooden floorboards.

The man barely had time to react before thick green ivy snapped around his wrist and yanked him violently forward, his spear clattered across the floor. Another vine coiled around his ankle while a third wrapped around his waist hard enough to slam him against one of the support posts near the staircase. She hadn't even given him time to defend himself, quickly gaining control of the situation in her favor.

“What the hell— “

A stream of dendro that shout out of her made the vines' grip stronger, causing his body to slam against the post again, stealing a groan from his lips, before he opened his eyes disoriented, surprised.

The dagger she held in her hand rested near his neck, its edge gleaming in the rays of the setting sun. “Who the hell are you?” she said, bringing the dagger's edge closer to his neck, allowing him to feel the cold metal.

The stranger blinked once. Twice.

And then, to her utter disbelief, he smiled.

It wasn't a nervous or scared smile, but a real smile, as if he were enjoying the situation.

Her eyes narrowed further.

Slightly taller than her, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with a mole under his right eye and with sharp eyes that should have looked intimidating if not for the fact he currently seemed entirely distracted by staring at her face, and that smile on his lips, as if he were living his best moment.

“…You’re not Varka,” she muttered, analyzing his face, looking for something that might tell her who the hell he was.

“No,” he agreed softly, with a voice that sound warm, the kind of voice that sounded entirely too amused for a man currently tied to a wooden post by aggressive magical ivy.

The vines tightened slightly around his arms when he shifted. But instead of complaining, of uttering a curse, of letting an expression of pain appear on his face, his smile deepened.

Something flickered across his face, something that seemed similar to enjoyment, entertainment, even pleasure.

Her brows slowly furrowed, confused by his reaction. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”

His gaze deliberately slid, slowly as if he were performing a detailed scan, from her face to the delicate, shimmering dendro vision hanging at her waist. And finally, he raised his gaze again, settling on her lips, unable to resist licking his own at the sight of those lips that seemed to beckon him.

“I am trying to decide,” he said, smooth as silk. “If getting attacked by beautiful witches is a common occurrence around this part of Mondstadt or if I’m uniquely fortunate.”

She watched him silently, the confusion more than evident in her gaze, which made everything more entertaining for him. For a few seconds they both remained silent, simply observing each other face to face, he being able to feel the cold of the dagger's edge still grazing his neck.

Then another vine snapped around his chest and tightened hard enough to pin him flatter against the post. His breath caught slightly, but not in pain. Not if she took into account the way his face had contorted in an expression of excitement, of anticipation, as if he were waiting to see what else she wanted to do to him. As if he even longed for it.

Archons preserve her.

Was he really enjoying being in that position with her? Wasn't it just a facade?

“You broke into my house,” she accused.

"I didn't even open the door," he said, as if that were nothing.

"That's still trespassing."

He tilted his head slightly, nodding. “Well... you have a point.” His eyes glittering, still smiling, still entirely too calm. Her grip on the dagger tightened.

“Who sent you?”

The question finally seemed to drag him slightly back to reality, though not much.

“Varka,” he answered immediately. “I am the Vice-Captain Lohen, Fifth Company of the Knights of Favonius.”

At the title, she hesitated slightly. Only slightly.

“And why,” she asked carefully, “would Varka send you here instead of coming himself as we had agreed?”

“To retrieve a shipment of healing tinctures, Varka was busy training the new recruits and sent me in his place.” His gaze flicked briefly toward the crate behind her before returning immediately to her face. “Though admittedly, he neglected to mention the part where I’d be assaulted upon arrival.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“You could always search my coat, feel around to see if I have anything unusual.” The way he said it made her narrow her eyes instantly.

“That sounded intentional, as if you really wanted me to do it.”

“It was, sweetheart.”

The bastard actually looked pleased with himself.

Her cat jumped onto a nearby shelf, tail swishing judgmentally while she continued glaring at him.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“Varka would have warned me.”

“That,” Lohen said, “does sound like something he should have done. But it seems that wasn't the case.” The ivy around his wrists shifted again as he adjusted experimentally, he looked down at the vines and then back at her. “…These are impressive, by the way, and very tight.” She raised an eyebrow, he was trapped under her control and now he was praising her? There was something wrong with that man, what he had in good looks he probably also had in his madness.

And something must have been very wrong with her too, because she felt a tingling in her stomach at that.

His smile widened. Archons, he was absolutely doing this on purpose.

“You enjoy being restrained?” she asked before she could stop herself, the question slipped out sharp and incredulous.

Lohen looked genuinely delighted by it. “Only under very specific circumstances.”

Heat flashed instantly across her face and his eyes immediately caught it, which only motivated him more.

“Oh, you’re blushing now,” he murmured, his tone full of mischief.

“You’re tied to a post.”

“And having a wonderful evening so far, sweetheart,” he smiled sincerely, to confirm his words. "Aren't you?"

She opened her mouth to respond when suddenly a shrill chime echoed through the cottage. Both of them glanced toward the table, a small device no larger than a lantern sat glowing softly and vibrating atop the wood. A modified dodocommunicator, with a small screen that allowed you to see who was on the other side.

The screen flickered and then Varka’s face appeared. “Well! There you are—”

She stared at him in disbelief, releasing her grip on the dagger to reach for the device, Lohen still tied up behind her.

“You.”

Varka blinked, then squinted. “…Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You forgot to tell me you were sending someone,” she murmured,

“Oh.”

She raised an eyebrow, slightly moving the device to show Lohen that it was still attached to the post with glowing ivy, still smiling.

Seeing that, Varka burst out laughing, so loudly it crackled through the device. “Oh, this is incredible,” he said, laughing, moving closer to the device to try to see them better.

Lohen sighed deeply, without losing his smile, a playful sparkle in his eyes. “She’s very welcoming, another thing you forgot to mention Varka.”

“You deserved it,” she muttered.

“I absolutely did not,” Lohen shook his head, trying to look innocent, but his smile and mischievous gaze gave him away completely.

Varka was still laughing, actually wiping tears from his eyes. “This— this is the best thing that’s happened all week.”

“You could have warned me,” she snapped.

“I thought I did it, I swear.”

"It would have been useful to know that someone I didn't even know by sight was coming, so I wouldn't think they were trying to rob me."

"But— But he was wearing the knights' uniform, didn't you see?" Varka said, trying to get out of the situation, he knew how fierce she could be when she got angry.

"Oh, please Varka, as if anyone couldn't steal a uniform and pass themselves off as one, it wouldn't be the first time."

Varka sighed, knowing that she was right. “Okay, you’re right. Sorry, I forgot, but I was busy.”

She snorted. “Your favorite pastime is delegating your responsibilities to Jean, tell that story to someone else.”

Lohen made a very poorly concealed sound that suspiciously resembled a cough hiding laughter. His eyes watched her in wonder, he really liked that she didn't keep quiet about anything and stood up to even the Grand Master.

Varka pointed accusingly through the screen. “You're lucky I adore you, not everyone talks to me like that.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing that Varka cared for her too much to seriously reproach her, and all three of them were aware of the truth in her words when speaking of Jean. “How can you say that to me when you practically begged me to be friends? “

"Shhh, that had to stay between us! I have a reputation to uphold."

“Mhm, whatever you say Grand Master,” she blurted out with amusement, while Lohen continued to gaze at her in ecstasy, as if she were the most incredible person he had ever seen.

“So,” Varka said far too casually, “has Lohen caused any trouble?”

Lohen smiled lazily from where he remained restrained. “None whatsoever,” he said smoothly, eyes fixed entirely on her, almost as if Varka did not exist even though he was responding to him. “In fact, I’d say I’m more than fine, the company is… amazing.”

The implication hit instantly, heat rushed back into her cheeks. And Varka, being so perceptive, of course noticed it.

“Oh, this is even better than I thought.”

“Varka,” she warned.

“What? I’m just saying—“ he began in a playful tone. “The least you can do after attacking the poor man is invite him in for tea.”

"I want to make it clear that I wasn't bothered at all by being attacked by her," Lohen interjected, causing her to turn and look at him, her eyes widening in disbelief. "It was a pleasant surprise."

"For Archon's sake, what kind of people are they accepting into the Knights now? Is there some kind of test to see how mentally unstable they are?” she murmured, still feeling the blush rising up her neck and face, and that tingling again in her belly. "This one here isn't right”

Lohen's laughter, deep and seductive, reached her ears, and judging by the reaction it caused in her, seeing his face out of the corner of her eye and thinking how attractive he looked like that, she wasn't right either.

Varka nearly choked laughing again. “I don't know what you're talking about,” Varka wheezed. “He’s fine! I'd even say he's doing more than well, look at his face, it looks like it's his birthday.”

“This is your fault.”

“Yeah,” Varka agreed cheerfully. “But now you have to deal with the consequences.”

Lohen shifted slightly against the vines again. “No rush,” he said. “I’m quite comfortable.”

She shot him a look, noticing that he looked unbearably pleased with himself.

Varka grinned knowingly from the communicator. “Well,” he said, voice suddenly suspiciously innocent. “Good luck to both of you.”

The screen went black before either of them could respond and silence filled the cottage again. The two of them were alone, because even her cat had left, leaving her with the knight.

Slowly, she turned back toward Lohen. Still tied up, still extremely handsome, still staring at her like she had personally descended from Celestia to ruin him, as if she were a dessert he eagerly wanted to taste.

"You seem too comfortable in your position, even having the nerve to flirt with me so shamelessly,” she said, taking a step towards him, noticing how his gaze seemed to darken, the black of his pupil overshadowing the color.

"I can stop if you want," he replied quietly, seriously.

“…You sound disappointed by the idea.”

“I am.”

Another pulse of warmth spread across her face at his words and the ease with which he uttered them.

With a sigh, she lifted her hand. The ivy loosened immediately, unwinding from his wrists and torso before retreating slowly across the floorboards. Lohen rolled one shoulder once he was free, stretching his arms slightly, and then he bent to retrieve his spear. But instead of immediately stepping away, he walked directly toward her, slowly, deliberately, as if he were a hunter stalking his prey, until only inches remained between them.

Her breath caught despite herself, he was even taller when he wasn't tied up and stood in front of her like that. One gloved hand gently took hers before she could react. Then, with effortless elegance, Lohen bowed slightly and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles, his eyes never left hers.

“I should tell you,” he murmured. “There’s usually a dinner involved before I let someone tie me up.”

Her lips twitched despite every effort to remain serious. “Oh, really?”

What was she doing? Why was she playing along?

“Mhm,” his thumb brushed lightly against the back of her hand. “Though for you, I’d be willing to reverse the order.”

He was a dangerous man, clearly out of his mind, but that didn't make him any less attractive, any less captivating. It's not like she was entirely sane, after all, she was a witch. And she could play hard to get all she wanted, but she was more than aware that she liked all of it, it made him far more interesting than any other man who had ever tried to approach her before.

She laughed softly then, unable not to. At that moment, with that image before his eyes, Lohen discovered that there were simpler ways to ruin a man completely than with magic, like her laughter for example.

“You use lines like that often?”

Lohen tilted his head thoughtfully. “No,” he said honestly. “You’re actually the first woman who’s ever pinned me to a post with magical vines.”

“…What an honor.”

“It truly is.”

The way he looked at her made warmth curl low in her stomach. Not playful now, not entirely, there was still teasing there but beneath it sat genuine fascination, wonder, like he genuinely could not believe she existed.

“And,” he continued softly, stepping just slightly closer, “if I’m particularly lucky… perhaps the last and only one.” Her pulse skipped, while his gaze dropped briefly to her mouth and the returned to her eyes. “…Though,” he added, voice lowering. “I certainly wouldn’t object if it happened again under different circumstances.”

The implication in his tone sent heat rushing through her all over again. She tilted her head slightly.

“Careful, Vice-Captain.”

“Mhm?”

“You sound very eager to end up restrained again.”

Lohen smiled slowly. “If it’s by you?” he murmured. “Absolutely. No victory on the battlefield has ever felt as incredible as that, and I love to fight.”

Archons.

She should throw him back outside. Instead, she found herself stepping closer too, close enough now to catch the faint scent of leather, steel and cedar clinging to him. Close enough to notice the way his breathing subtly changed when her fingers lightly brushed the front of his uniform.

“Maybe,” she said softly, “next time you should announce yourself before entering a witch’s home.”

“Maybe,” Lohen replied, eyes darkening with amusement, “next time I’ll intentionally forget, if that leads me to this.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. And judging by the utterly smitten look on his face, Lohen seemed to decide right then and there that he had just won the lottery.

She should have stepped away, that was the sensible thing to do. Instead, she stayed exactly where she was, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough to notice the smug little curve of his mouth every time her gaze flickered briefly toward it.

Lohen looked entirely too pleased for a man who had been ambushed twenty minutes ago.

Though, admittedly, he also looked entirely too handsome leaning there in the middle of her cottage with his spear resting casually against one shoulder and ivy leaves still caught in the silver strands of his hair. One of the vines had even left faint green marks along his wrists.

His eyes caught her staring, the bastard smiled immediately. “You’re admiring your work.”

“I'm considering whether I should tie you up again and, while I'm at it, shut you up for a bit.” 

“Making me promises already, sweetheart?”

He was danger, a temptation made flesh.

A breath of laughter escaped her despite herself. Lohen’s expression softened slightly at the sound, like hearing her laugh had done something irreversible to him. Which, honestly, judging by the way he kept looking at her maybe it had.

The kettle in the kitchen began whistling softly, but neither of them moved. Then finally, she tilted her head toward the doorway.

“Well,” she said lightly, “since Varka apparently volunteered me to entertain his Vice-Captain…” Lohen’s brows lifted with immediate interest. “…I suppose I can allow you inside for tea.”

“Just tea?” he asked smoothly.

The look she gave him was slow and deliberate. “Oh,” she murmured, turning toward the kitchen, “I imagine that depends entirely on your behavior.”

The man nearly looked like he stopped breathing.

She could feel his stare burning into her back as she walked away, entirely aware of the sway of her hips beneath the loose fabric of her dress. And when she glanced back over her shoulder, Lohen was still standing there staring at her like she had personally rewritten the laws of Teyvat.

“…Vice-Captain?”

He blinked once, dragged violently back to reality. “Right,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah. Tea. Of course.”

She smiled faintly to herself and disappeared into the kitchen. A second later, she heard him murmur under his breath: “I’m going to marry this woman.”

Her lips twitched instantly. “You know I can hear you, right?”

“Good,” Lohen replied without a shred of shame.

She laughed softly again as she began preparing the tea set.

Behind her came the quiet sound of boots against wooden floors before his presence settled near enough to send warmth curling along the back of her neck. He leaned one shoulder against the doorway, arms crossed loosely now, watching her with utterly shameless admiration.

“So,” she asked while reaching for the teacups, “do all Knights of Favonius flirt this aggressively after being threatened with a dagger?”

“No,” Lohen said immediately.

“Just you?”

“Just me when I’m standing in a candlelit cottage with a beautiful witch who tied me to a post and then invited me inside afterward.”

“…You make that sound strangely romantic.”

“It was strangely romantic.”

She glanced sideways at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he said smoothly, stepping closer, “you still invited me in.”

That low warmth returned to her stomach instantly.

Arrogant man.

Though the way he looked at her, like she was something precious, something devastating. Something he already wanted more of… It made it very difficult to stay unaffected.

She handed him a teacup, their fingers brushed. Lohen looked down at their hands briefly before meeting her eyes again. "Did you put something strange in this?" he asked, looking down at the teacup.

"No... what would I gain from that? A body I'd have to get rid of? I'm not in the mood to bury someone today."

No enchantment or potion had ever ruined a man this quickly before, and she managed it even without casting a single spell.

“Well... anyway, if I die tonight,” he said solemnly, “I want it officially recorded that I died the happiest man in Mondstadt.”

Her brows lifted. “That dramatic already?”

“You attacked me, pinned me against a wall, looked at me like you might kill me, then invited me into your house afterward.” He took a slow sip of tea without breaking eye contact. “I found the woman of my dreams.”

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “You don’t even know me, Lohen.”

“I know enough, sweetheart.”

“And what exactly do you know?”

Lohen stepped closer again, close enough now that she had to tilt her head slightly upward to hold his gaze. “I know,” he murmured, “that you’re beautiful when you’re angry.” Heat flickered across her cheeks. “I know you live alone in the middle of nowhere because peace matters more to you than attention.” His fingers brushed lightly against her wrist. “I know you’re powerful enough to disarm a knight twice your size without hesitation.”

His voice dropped lower.

“And I know,” he continued softly, eyes darkening with unmistakable intent, “that every time you threaten me, I like you more.”

Her breath caught slightly, that man was impossible. Impossibly irresistible.

“Careful,” she whispered.

“With?”

“You’re looking at me like you plan on staying.”

Lohen smiled slowly. “If you keep looking back at me like that,” he said, “I may never leave.” It was no longer the vines on his wrists that kept him there in the cottage, but her, with her words, her gaze, her smile...

Silence settled between them then. Warm, heavy and charged.

The candles flickered softly around the room, golden light dancing across his face while the wind outside rattled gently through the ivy climbing the cottage walls.

Neither of them moved away.

Lohen simply kept looking at her with that same devastating expression, amused, fascinated, hungry. Like he still couldn’t quite believe she was real.

And the feeling was becoming dangerously mutual.

“You’re staring again,” she murmured softly.

“I know.”

“At least you’re self-aware.”

“I don’t think self-awareness is helping me much right now.”

A quiet laugh escaped her.

Lohen visibly melted at the sound of it, actually melted. His shoulders loosened, his smile softened, and for one brief moment the shameless flirting slipped enough for her to catch something unexpectedly genuine underneath all that confidence.

He was completely gone for her already.

That realization sent a dangerous little thrill through her chest.

She took a slow sip from her teacup without looking away from him.

“What exactly is going through your mind right now, Vice-Captain?”

Lohen exhaled a soft breath through his nose. “You truly want an honest answer?”

“That depends. Is it scandalous?”

“Extremely.”

Her lips twitched upward. “Then there's no doubt that I want to know.”

He set his teacup down carefully onto the counter beside him before stepping closer again. Not rushed, not hesitant either, just certain, until there was barely any space left between them at all.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice low and warm enough to send heat down her spine, “that if you asked me to stay here forever, I would.”

Her breath caught slightly despite herself and judging by the look in his eyes… He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You’re very bold for a man who got overpowered in under a minute.”

Lohen grinned lazily. “In my defense, I was distracted.”

“By what?”

“You,” the answer came instantly, too instantly. Like there had never been any other possibility. His gaze dipped briefly to her mouth again before returning to her eyes.

“And now,” he continued softly, “I’m standing in a witch’s cottage drinking tea while she looks at me like she’s deciding whether to kiss me or ruin my life.”

“Maybe both.”

His smile widened immediately. “Archons,” he murmured. “Please, I would gladly submit to that, to you.”

Heat curled low in her stomach at the sound, the confidence, the teasing in his tone. The fact he somehow made wanting her sound almost reverent.

Her fingers toyed absently with the edge of her teacup before she tilted her head slightly. "Don't you think people will start talking if they see you've been gone for so long?"

“I intend to stay much longer than I already have… If you’ll have me.”

“And the shipment for Varka?”

“He can wait,” he quickly dismissed the matter.

“You’re abandoning your duties?”

“More like I’m prioritizing my future.”

That made her laugh again, softer this time. Lohen looked entirely too pleased with himself for causing it. Then his expression shifted subtly as his eyes traced over her face once more. Slower now, more intent, while his hand brushed gently against hers where it rested near the counter.

“I’m fairly certain I’ve found the woman I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life bothering.”

She watched him, raising an eyebrow.  “That quickly?”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in love already, actually, but insane probably too.”

That one caught her off guard enough that she actually looked away for a second, smiling helplessly despite herself. Lohen noticed that too, his voice softened immediately. “There it is again.”

“What?”

“That look,” his thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles. “The one that makes me want to stay.”

The warmth in her chest deepened dangerously.

Archons, this man.

She should have been alarmed by how quickly he affected her.

Instead, she found herself stepping even closer until the fabric of his uniform brushed lightly against her sleeves.

Close enough now that his breathing slowed.

Close enough that his eyes darkened instantly.

Her voice dropped softer.

“Careful, Vice-Captain,” for archon’s sake, how he loved it when she referred to him that way.

“With you?”

“Mhm.”

Lohen smiled slowly.

“I don’t think careful is a word in my vocabulary, sweetheart.”

Then his gaze flickered toward the hallway leading deeper into the cottage before returning to her face with unmistakably sinful amusement.

“…So,” he murmured, “is this the part where we continue pretending you invited me in only for tea?”

Heat flooded straight through her and he looked devastatingly satisfied by the reaction.

The smug bastard.

She reached up slowly, fingers curling around the front of his uniform near the collar. And then, leaning just enough to brush her lips near his ear, she whispered, “That depends.”

Lohen went completely still. “On?”

Her nails dragged lightly against his chest as she pulled back just enough to meet his gaze again. “Whether you behave,” she murmured. The sound that left him was somewhere between a laugh and complete surrender.

“Archons, I will be the most obedient man if you ask me to,” Lohen breathed, staring at her like she was something catastrophic for his self-control. “You do realize I’m completely at your mercy now, right?”

Her brows lifted faintly, amused. “Oh?”

“Mhm,” his hands settled loosely at her waist, careful despite the heat simmering in his gaze. “I’m serious. I don’t think there’s anything you could ask of me tonight that I wouldn’t do.”

A slow smile curved against her lips. “That sounds dangerous.”

“For me? Absolutely.”

She hummed softly, her fingers still curled around the front of his uniform. “And if I asked you to get on your knees?”

The answer came immediately. “I would.”

No hesitation, no embarrassment, just complete and devastating sincerity. Lohen had met plenty of witches before and none of them had ever made him willing to kneel without using magic.

The heat that rushed through her nearly made her lose composure entirely.

Lohen noticed instantly, looking unbearably pleased with himself.

“And if I told you to stay?” she asked softly.

“I’d stay.”

“To leave Mondstadt behind?”

“I’d pack my things tonight.”

“To jump?”

“I’d ask how high while already doing it.”

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

Lohen looked completely ruined by the sound, smiling like he’d just been handed the greatest treasure in Teyvat. “There,” he murmured quietly, almost dazed. “That laugh again. Archons, I’m finished.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m devoted… to you,” the words landed warmer than they should have. Especially with the way he was looking at her now, teasing still, yes, but underneath it sat something frighteningly genuine. Like he truly meant every word.

His forehead dipped lightly against hers. “And the worst part,” he murmured softly, “is that I don’t even mind.”

Her fingers slid slowly up the front of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath the fabric of his uniform. “No?”

“Not even a little,” his smile turned dangerously soft. “I think you could ruin my entire life and I’d thank you for it afterward.”

She shook her head, laughing quietly under her breath.

“Looks like you fell hard, uh?”

“I fell the moment you pinned me against that post.”

“And here I thought knights were supposed to resist danger.”

“Oh, I fully intend to surrender to this one.” The warmth in her chest deepened helplessly at that. Then Lohen’s gaze flickered once more toward the hallway deeper inside the cottage before returning to her with shameless intent.

It should’ve concerned him how quickly he became obsessed with her. Instead, Lohen found himself hoping it would only get worse.

“This thing is so ugly,” you whine, picking at your cast as he walks you back home. “Do you think I’m gross now, Caleb?”

“It’s not ugly. You need it to get better.”

“I thought you’d fall in love with me if I went high enough,” you sniffle fake tears, which he reads in an instant. “I did go pretty high up, though. So maybe you like me at least.”

He laughs, and you scowl, insisting that you aren’t joking. So instead, he smiles and holds your free hand in his again. Your heart skips a beat. A childish, but innocent love fluttering in your chest. “Come on, splints. Let’s go watch TV, and I can sign your cast.”

The broken wrist is so worth it.

With MC being two grades lower than the two of you and thus having a different schedule, it doesn’t take long before you’re doing practically everything with Caleb. He’s your seatmate in class, the two of you walk to and from school, and there doesn’t seem to be a moment where you aren’t glued at the hip. Throughout all of this, you make sure you shoot your shot whenever the chance arises—even when it doesn’t arise at all.

“You get any chocolates for Valentine’s?” you ask as you plop down in your seat with your lunch, not-so-conspicuously eyeing his desk as his friends begin to crowd around the two of you. It didn’t take long for Caleb to adjust to ordinary school life. After his initial bumpy introduction where he seemed hesitant to get close to anyone his grandma would introduce him to, he was quick to adjust to a level of charisma even you haven’t gotten to. 

By now, he’s charisma personified. You, yourself, have no idea how quickly he adapts to things. Though, you do recall that after an exam measuring his intelligence, he was told he couldn’t lower his grade by two years to be with MC. So you suppose he’s rather bright—almost as much as his face.

“Too many,” one of his friends groan, dragging his hand down the side of his face. “Life’s so not fair, dude.”

“Just a few,” Caleb laughs, turning to feel me stare at him expectantly. “Most of them are obligatory. I just helped a couple people out during gym.”

You glance at his friends. “How many is a few?”

“At least five,” another one grins. He wiggles his eyebrows at you, and his friend snickers at his shoulder. “You jealous?”

It’s not like your crush on Caleb is new news. In fact, it’s practically common knowledge at your school, given how open you are with your affection with him. Asking him out with a giant poster on orientation day, sending him notes with hearts littered everywhere during class, and refusing to be subtle when you’re discussing it with your friends…it tends to add up. Most people believe your relationship to be strange, but those who matter thought of it as the norm, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jealous? I don’t think so, why?”

“Most girls would be if their boyfriend got a bunch of chocolates,” he responds, to which Caleb immediately reminds him that you’re not dating. Then his friend sighs. “It’s cute when girls get jealous, isn’t it?”

At this, your ears perk.

“Should I be jealous?” you ask Caleb, making his friends erupt into snickers. “Do you think it’s cute too?”

He rolls his eyes and flicks your forehead softly. “Do you ever ask normal questions, splints?”

Throughout your childhood together, everything involves him. Family dinners, graduation, holidays, all of it. Of course, this means that MC is there for all of it too. You’re helplessly in love, but you’re not stupid. You know what love looks like from the movies their grandma would play on their TV. He cares for her with a different look in his eyes. He protects her with a lovingness in his voice that he doesn’t spare for you. 

The same fingers that flick your forehead touch her arm gingerly, like she could crack in half if he holds too hard. He doesn’t touch her very easily either, whereas he often falls asleep with his head fully leaning against your shoulder on the bus ride home. He wakes up at the crack of dawn to make her lunch, while the two of you munch on sandwiches from the school cafeteria during lunch breaks. He scolds you when your clothes are tossed on the ground while he folds hers without her having to ask. He never enters her room to protect her privacy while he lounges in yours like he owns the place.

Your Caleb, you have found, is different from MC’s Caleb. 

MC’s Caleb is easy to depend on. Trustworthy, perfect, and never makes a mistake for the life of him. He never loses his cool in front of her, never has a hair out of place, lets her win at all the board games, and always has this clear but dazed look in his pretty purple eyes. Your Caleb has none of that. Your Caleb teases you mercilessly when you lose the card game for the fifth time in a row. Your Caleb passes out on his desk while studying for an exam, essentially drooling on his notebook to lie to MC that he’s naturally talented at math. Your Caleb sends you stupid videos about plane models and forces you to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about it.

You know he likes her. He knows you know he likes her. She doesn’t know anything at all. All jumbled up, like a wordless pact ready to crumble at any moment. 

Of course, this means that he prioritizes her over you at times. All the time. It’s to be expected. She’s family, you’re not. You’ve grown used to it, and so has he.

MC doesn’t notice though, because she doesn’t have to. Because to her, Caleb is just a slightly nagging but cool adoptive brother. Nothing more, nothing less. And you’re one of her childhood friends, and Caleb’s best friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

The first year after you graduate high school is a dramatic shift from your cozy hometown. You somehow manage to get into the same college as Caleb–and you attribute his tutoring to be the main culprit—though in different majors. It’s a lot to convince him to go so far from home given that MC is still at home, but after a lot of reluctant discussion, he agrees.

“Take off your shoes at the door,” he reminds you as you barge into his dorm room after a particularly difficult exam for one of your classes. You do as he asks, grumbling about how he has no mercy for the fallen, tossing them haphazardly beside the door and prancing past him. He takes the time to tidy them up, as if he’s expecting it. “How was your exam?”

“Awful. I went through war.”

Caleb grins as he sits down at the coffee table beside you, watching as you bury your face into your arms. “And whose fault is it that they didn’t want to study?”

“Yours.”

“Funny,” he snorts, and you feel his large hand ruffling the top of your head. “It’s alright, splints. I can tutor you a bit earlier on the next one.”

“Even you can’t save me for this class.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He ends up cooking up something quick in his makeshift kitchen (essentially just a rice cooker), while you laze around on his bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone. Once he’s finished, you scarf down his food like a man starved, lips stretching widely. At times like these, you’re oddly grateful for his hopeless love toward MC. How else would he have learned to cook such good food?  “You should honestly be a chef, Caleb. Actually, no, that would mean other people would eat your food. I guess you can just be my personal chef when we’re married.”

Caleb remains completely unaffected, wordlessly cleaning the plate in front of you. “I didn’t realize I was engaged.”

“Well, now you know. Not sure if you remember, but I had fireworks for you and everything when I proposed. Plus an orchestra.”

He hums, looking up as if he’s in thought, and then nods. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar, splints. How could I forget?”

You shrug. “You tell me.”

His face falls as you pace to the door and begin to put your shoes back on. “Where are you going? Aren’t you done with class?”

“Going out. I deserve it after that exam.”

“With your friends?”

“No, with four guys,” you joke, but he doesn’t seem to find it very funny. “I’m just going to a club. I won’t be back too late.”

He’s already grabbing his jacket. “I can come.”

You push him back with your finger by the nose, and he blinks in surprise, making you laugh. “No need. You have exams too, y’know.”

“I’m done studying.”

“Liar.”

Though it takes some convincing, you eventually have him sit at his desk once more. He manages to nag a whole lot as you leave, reminding you to call him once you’re done so he can pick you up, but you just wave him off as you leave out the door. You take your time getting ready–dolling yourself up to hide the dark circles beneath your eyes. As you get ready, you video call MC, where she asks how you and Caleb have been doing in her absence. She rants about her days with her grandma, complaining about how quiet the house is when Caleb isn’t home, though she indulged in the beginning. She asks you to show her your outfit once you’re done, and she beams brightly in your screen, squealing about how you’d likely get a boyfriend soon that you can tell her all about.

You just smile, because you don’t know how to tell her that the only boy you want is wrapped around her unknowing hand.

The club is loud. Where the music rumbles through your feet to the tips of your fingertips, and the lights are flashing in a dimly lit room. Your friends flock to a table and order drinks while you let yourself feel the music and crack a joke or two once in a while.

A group of guys approaches you with easy smiles and louder voices than necessary—confidence sharpened by cheap cologne. One of them leans against your table like he’s done it a hundred times before, asking your name, where you’re from, if you come here often. The usual.

You answer, choking out a laugh to humor his unfunny jokes alongside your friends, while the swigs you take from your drink become deeper and deeper. 

He’s not bad at flirting, you think. Subtle, and not too glaring about it. But you don’t particularly enjoy humoring it, and it becomes gradually more apparent as your eyes keep drifting elsewhere and you keep having to ask him to repeat himself. You’re growing bored. Irritated.

Because he’s not Caleb.

It hits you in strange, inconvenient flashes. The way this guy stands just a little too far away. The way his voice doesn’t quite reach you over the music, even when he’s close. The way you don’t feel that familiar, grounding presence like an anchor holding you to the ground.

You find yourself glancing past his shoulder. Half-wishing to see Caleb there. Watching. Hovering.

But there’s only strangers. Blurred faces and flashing lights.

“You okay?” the guy asks, tilting his head.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly. “Long week.”

He grins, like that’s an invitation. Says something else—something about getting you another drink, maybe dancing, maybe getting out of here.

You nod again. Smile again.

Across the room, your friends are already disappearing into the crowd, dragged toward the dance floor by laughter and hands you don’t recognize. One of them glances back at you, gives you a look that asks ‘you’re good, right?’ before she’s gone.

You sit back down at the table when the guy steps away. Maybe to grab drinks, maybe because he senses your attention drifting. You don’t really care which.

The music swells in your chest. The lights flicker. You wish you could enjoy yourself, but it’s particularly hard today.

You take another sip. Then another. Your phone rests face-down on the table, but you flip it over anyway.

No messages.

Of course not. He cares, but not like that. Not in the way that he would spam MC’s phone whenever he didn’t know where she was or how she was doing. No, not like that at all.

Another sip. The glass is nearly empty now.

And suddenly, you’re pressing send before you can even register what’s happening.

[you]: hi

The answer comes immediately, the grey bubbles popping up on his end of the screen.

[futre hubs <333]: do you need me to come pick you up?

[futre hubs <333]: i can

You’re not sure why you feel like shit, but you hate it. In moments like these—moments where the alcohol lets you lower your walls and truly think—it hits you like a truck, like a deeply sinking feeling in your chest. The years of rejection after rejection that the two of you frame like a bit—as if your feelings have become so miniscule that it no longer even phases him. 

It hurts, a bit. More than you let yourself feel.

You’re not sure how much time passes. Maybe minutes or maybe an hour. There’s buzzing throughout your body. The grip on your waist belonging to the man you’ve been half-heartedly entertaining suddenly becomes harsher, snapping you out of your trance. It feels unlike Caleb, but you let it sit anyway. However, the hand moves to your wrist, and you’re being pulled out of the crowd towards the wall.

Too touchy. He’s saying something into your ear, and you feel his breath against your skin. You don’t like it. Too close. The buzzing feeling feels more like an alarm now.

The words either go unheard due to the music or don’t deter him. You want to go back. Back to Caleb. In the moment, you begin to think—almost as if the world is in slow motion. Perhaps the drinks, you think. You wonder if Caleb will leave you. You wonder if he’ll leave to go be with MC. You wonder if the years you’ve spent expressing your love to him meant as much to him as it did to you, or if he just found it plain annoying. You wonder if now that you’re in college, he’d want to explore other people, and he’ll finally find an outlet to get rid of you for good. 

But you know he wouldn’t. Because he cares for you. Just not as much as he cares for her.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you with the same softness he does with MC.

Someone pulls you away from the man and into their chest, and the worries dissipate in an instant. His scent. His warmth. You knew he’d come. He always does. It only takes a warning glare from Caleb before the man disappears into the crowd again, and you feel the grip on your wrist loosen. Caleb stares down at you, your back still to his chest as you blink wearily, almost in slow motion, and he sighs. He doesn’t give you the same smile he gives to MC when she’s in trouble. 

A part of you wishes he wasn’t always there for you—not when it’s so different from how he’s there for her. 

You sit idly in front of a convenience store parking lot while Caleb fetches you some water and ice cream. You have your knees to your chest, arms pulling them close as you shiver against the cold autumn breeze. You should’ve brought a jacket. The buzzing, hot feeling of the alcohol is subsiding too quickly.

“Drink.” You feel a water bottle press against your cheek from behind, and Caleb plops down beside you with a plastic bag. He notices how you’re holding yourself together and frowns. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“I told you to grab a jacket.”

“You nag too much.”

He snickers and twists open the cap of the water bottle for you to drink, which you sip carefully. He strips his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, and you immediately bury yourself in it. It smells like him.

“What kind of woman do you like, Caleb?”

“You and your questions.”

“I want to know.”

He shifts to face you, motioning for you to lift your arms. He grabs either side of his jacket and pulls it shut, fumbling with the zipper until he manages to zip it to your chin. You can barely claw your hands out of his sleeves—the fabric almost engulfs you—but he just laughs. “My type? A woman who brings jackets when it’s cold.”

You scowl, making his laugh echo louder. “Other than that.”

“A woman who goes to class in the morning.”

“...Other than that.”

“A woman who doesn’t leave her clothes all over my floor when she feels like sleeping over.”

“Something else.”

“A woman who eats healthy, balanced meals. A woman who doesn’t steal all my pens and then still ends up asking me for more. Maybe someone who doesn’t pass out drooling on my pillow. Or someone who doesn’t let half the world know that they like someone—hell, maybe even the entire world.”

Caleb glances at you, chuckling to himself, but stops the moment he sees that you’re not laughing with him. Your head hangs low, your feet shuffling anxiously. His face twists, and suddenly the air thickens.  “Splints?”

You pick at your sleeves. “So just not me?”

“I was just kidding around.”

“Jokes have some truth to them.”

“Not all of them. I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay, Caleb,” you finally meet his eyes again, and shrug. “I know you like someone else. I’m not an idiot.”

Silence commences, like a bell dropping on your head.

Caleb shifts his weight, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen a hundred times—usually followed by some half-joke, something to smooth things over.

But nothing comes.

The space between you suddenly feels too small and too big all at once. You try to act normal. You really do.

You fiddle with your sleeve again, smoothing it down, then pulling at it, then smoothing it again. Anything to give your hands something to do, so they don’t reach for him out of instinct. 

Caleb glances at you. Then away.

Then back again, like he’s trying to solve something written across your face but can’t quite make out the words.

“Hey,” he starts, softer this time.

You hum in response, not trusting your voice yet.

Another pause. God, it’s awkward.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters again, quieter now. Not defensive. Unsure. “You know I think you’re amazing.”

Just not enough.

“I am pretty great,” but it comes out too soft.

Neither of you knows what to do with another stretch of silence. So you opt to drink some more water instead.

“Why do you like me so much?” He eventually mutters out as he bites his bottom lip, eyes falling to the ground like he can’t bear to watch your expression. “You could do a lot better.”

You smile, but it’s half-hearted. “How could I not?”

He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully before his voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You mean so much to me. You’re smart, beautiful, and everything good in between—whoever gets to call you theirs is the luckiest person I know. And you know I’d do anything for you.”

Despite their sweetness, his words feel like judgement wrapping around your heart in vines, squeezing just before it’s about to pop. You wish you could block your ears out for what comes next.

“But it can’t be me.” Caleb’s lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks away. “I can’t give you what you want.”

The rejection hurts more than you realized it would. You want to tell him that it’s not fair to treat you the way he does and expect you not to fall for him. That holding your hair when you vomit, falling asleep at your bedside when you’re sick, and his eyes closing in on you in any room that you’re in is not fair. 

Instead, you nod. And you swear to yourself that you’ll swallow this sickening lump in your throat that makes you want to hurl and sob at the same time. That you’ll bury it deep in a graveyard within you that even the closest person to you would never know of. Especially him.  

“I don’t want it, either,” you snort back, immediately perking up to slap his back in what results in a jolt. His shoulders tense as he blinks wide at you, unsure of the sudden shift in atmosphere. “I don’t want feelings that belong to someone else, dumbass.”

Once it sinks in that you mean it, a smile finds its way onto his face, though something flickers beneath it, like a flash of something you don’t want to look too far into.

Not because you still had hope, but because whatever existed between you had never been something as simple as a crush. It had roots—tangled deep into your souls and impossible to pull free without tearing something open. You wanted to keep what was left. Even if it lingered just a little longer, and even if you pretended not to see the splintering strands in the string tying you together.

So you let it settle. Let it rot somewhere you couldn’t feel it.

The two of you fall into the kind of closeness that you’ve always had, and time passes as if it was always meant to be this way. It’s easier this way. For a while, it does work, but nothing ever really stays under wraps. Despite your incessant protests in telling yourself it’s fading, the scars he’s inflicted on you are just that. Scars. Unmoving yet subtle.

The thinning thread finally snaps a few years later, when MC develops feelings for a coworker in the Hunter’s Association. The day the cracks in the glass bridge holding you together shatter beneath your feet into a million different pieces.

“When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

He’s sprawled shirtless on the couch of his apartment in Skyhaven, freshly out of the shower after you arrived to visit him for the first time in months—only to see that he’s nearly overworking himself to death. Despite him going off to the DAA after college, you’d kept close contact, the connection between the two of you never wavering regardless of your restricted time. It only changed after news of MC broke out. Worried, you’d rushed to Skyhaven to make sure he was doing okay, which you’re clearly glad you did now. You’d practically had to drag him to the shower to keep him from passing out next to the front door in his gear.

Caleb, clearly, is off. You suppose you don’t blame him. The woman he loves is yearning for another. Almost poetic, really, but you don’t like seeing him this way. Especially when you know what it feels like yourself, even if you’ve gotten used to it. Gotten over it. He looks like a kicked puppy. Hurt, like a dog who’s just been scratched by its owner. 

“I dunno.”

You peer into the empty abyss that is his fridge and frown. There’s a few measly apples sitting inside, and a half-eaten protein bar that’s been there for god knows how long. “What the hell have you been eating?”

He responds with a grunt, letting his head fall back against the sofa. You decide to make do with the instant noodles he has stashed in one of the cupboards and bring it over to him once it seems mostly done. With a fork, you stick out a few noodles to his face, urging him. “Eat.”

“Not hungry,” he mutters.

“Don’t care. Sit up.”

He opens one of his eyes to peek at you, which somehow urges him forward. There’s darkness beneath his eyes—even stubble littering his chin from a few days worth of not shaving. You want to reach out and poke fun at him, but the state he’s in deters you. Instead, you silently feed him, watching him chew his food while staring at your hands. It makes you wish you put on a fresh set of polish before you came.

You twirl another small forkful and hold it out. He leans forward this time without being told, taking it quietly. His shoulder brushes yours as he settles back against the couch, and you can feel his skin through your shirt.

“Thanks,” he mutters, voice rough from disuse more than anything. “For coming.”

“Yeah,” you say, quieter now. “Someone had to make sure you didn’t rot in here.”

He huffs a faint laugh, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Probably would’ve. Dramatic way to go out, huh?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Starving to death in your own apartment? Real heroic.”

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. It makes your heart flutter. Stupid feelings.

“…thanks for coming, splints,” he says.

Your chest tightens—sharp and sudden. It feels like it’s threatening to feel something that’s not yours to feel. So instead, you look down at the bowl, pretending to focus on separating another bite. You twirl your fork, more carefully this time. “I had to. You weren’t responding, so I thought you died, or something. Open.”

He rolls his eyes, but obeys anyway. “Bossy.”

“Learned from the best.”

His lids flutter shut, voice dropping to a lower hum. “I missed this.”

Your hand stills. “What?”

He shrugs, eyes still closed. “You being here.”

His hair is sticking to his forehead, still damp from the shower. Before you realize what you’re doing, you brush a stray strand of hair off his forehead. You speak quietly. “You look like shit.”

“Wow,” he mutters. “You have a way with words.”

You frown, and without thinking, your hand lingers at his temple for just a second longer than it should. His skin is warm, still hot from the shower.

“Idiot,” you whisper.

He catches your wrist. Not tight, not stopping you. Simply holding it there for a moment that feels too long and not long enough at once. Your eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and then you’re looking away, setting the mostly finished bowl of noodles onto the coffee table to pull away.

“Don’t make this a habit. I’m not flying out here every time you forget to eat.”

“Could,” he murmurs. “You would.”

You don’t respond to that, because he’s not wrong.

“…Is she okay?”

It slips out of him like instinct. Like breathing. And just like that, everything shifts. You don’t answer right away—instead, your fingers tighten slightly around the fork.

“She’s fine,” you say eventually. Leave it, you plead in your head.

“Did she say anything?” he asks, sitting up a little more now. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s searching. “When you talked to her.”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone even. “Just normal stuff.” Stop, you think. Please stop talking.

“Like what?”

“Like her job. Her grandma. Nothing serious.” Shit.

He frowns slightly. “She didn’t mention him?”

There it is. It’s always about her.

You know he’s in a vulnerable spot right now, but it does nothing to ease the sudden flame roaring in your chest. Whether it’s from years of repressed hurt or shame, all it amounts to is a relentless ball of rage inside of you that leaves your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. You stare at him, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you inch away from him. 

“Does it matter?”

Caleb’s face relaxes. “What?”

“Why does it matter what she thinks about him? She likes him, end of story, no?”

“I just want to know if he’s a decent guy.”

Your ass. “That’s not really your business, Caleb, but sure. He’s a great guy. Amazing, honestly. He’s really gentlemanly and checks every single box. He lives above her apartment, so they’re right next to each other. He treats her gently, too. I’d bet every girl would jump at a chance to date a guy like that.”

You’re not sure where the words are tumbling out of, but it’s too late to go back. Neither do you want to.

“I wonder if he has a brother. Maybe MC could set me up or something.”

“Oh. Is he…” Caleb’s back straightens, and you notice his fingers digging into his thighs. “...handsome?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I’m telling you, he’s perfect. His face could pay for the Linkon rent by itself.”

He suddenly stands, and you glare up at him through your eyebrows. “Why are you talking like that?”

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

He narrows his eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in a while, since Caleb rarely gets upset at you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about, splints.”

“Can you just spit it out? What am I saying differently?”

“You’re angry.”

You stand, following suit. He looms over you to have his shadow essentially engulf you, and you wish you could kick his ankle so he falls to the ground. “Maybe if you weren’t so irritating, I wouldn’t feel so annoyed right now.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to watch, Caleb,” you hiss out in exasperation, throwing your hands into the air. “It’s always pipsqueak this, pipsqueak that, pipsqueak what. Seriously, we’re not kids anymore, you need to get over it!”

You’re not sure if you’re talking to him or yourself anymore.

“Can we calm down and talk? If I’ve been talking too much about it, I can stop, so—”

“We haven’t seen each other in months, Caleb! And all you want to ask me about is how she’s been? Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you’re so curious? Oh, but you can’t, because you always have to be perfect in front of her. So instead, you dump all of this on me. Your goods and bads, all of it, just for me to get kicked to the curb like I’m some dispensable object.”

“What?” his balks. “Dispensible? Are you serious? As if I haven’t gotten you out of every little thing you’ve gotten yourself into the past decade of our lives? As if I haven’t picked you up every weekend from your friends’ places at three in the morning? Like I haven’t called you every single week—”

“Well, I want you to stop that!” your words spit at him like weak knives, growing louder by the second. 

“You didn’t seem very against it the last forty times.”

“I am now.”

“What has gotten into you, splints?”

“Don’t call me that right now,” you glower, and you try to ignore the hurt flashing across his expression. “I’m just sick of seeing you follow her around like some wet dog. She doesn’t see you like that, can’t you see that?”

Your breathing begins to stutter, and you suck in a deep breath through your nose. Your chest stings, and you pray that you don’t lose composure so the tears threatening to bubble at the corners of your eyes remain hidden.

“You told me that you couldn’t give me what I wanted. Well, she can’t either,” you bore holes into his chest, too afraid of what you might see if you look up. “If I can get over my stupid feelings, so can you.”

But you’re not over it. Not at all.

He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For the first time in a while, you’ve rendered him speechless, and it feels even worse than what it felt to be rejected years ago. You’re not sure how your nails haven’t drawn blood at this point. You’d rather that they do, so you have some excuse to use the restroom.

“It’s not fair what you do, Caleb,” you try to will your tears to stay at bay, but you can’t help them. They sting, blurring your vision as you drop your head in some pathetic hope that he won’t face them head on. “How you treat me when you don’t like me like that is not fair. At least MC doesn’t know, but you—you know, and yet you—”

The rational part of you says that it’s not entirely his fault. Sure, you insisted on staying by his side. Sure, you insisted that you could push down your feelings. Sure, you’ve promised a lot of things, but it’s his fault too, for being the way he is—so kind, so thoughtful, just so him. 

You wipe desperately at your tears. It was a lost cause from the start.

“Please don’t cry.” His face drains of color, apparent even against the dim lighting in his apartment. He steps towards you, and you take a step back. “Please don’t cry, splints, just not that.”

But when your tears refuse to cease dripping down your cheeks, your face flushing in humiliation, you feel both his hands cupping either side of it. He tilts your gaze up, and you realize that he’s only inches away from you, so much so that you can feel his breath against your skin. It’s moments like these that you lose yourself in his beauty. The deepness of his eyes that seem to peer into your very soul is one of the first features that you fell in love with as a child, and it hasn’t changed since. Damn him. You blink, eyes wide while his own flicker to your lips. 

“Be as mad as you want. Hit me, hate me even,” he whispers, his nose almost touching yours now. His thumb pad smooths your tears away. “But don’t waste your tears on someone like me.”

You think you might be imagining things. Because with the tension that nearly suffocates you and his lashes almost fluttering against your skin, you think he might be about to kiss you.

A sharp pain jabs you in the chest. Is it pity? A consolation prize dressed up as something softer? Is it to smooth things over, to make this moment easier for him to leave behind? Or is it rebellion? Something reckless from the fact that he can’t have her? Your tears have dried up, but the rest of your body seems to weep, as no excitement, no butterflies course through your veins. 

Why is it always something else? Why is it never you? It only hurts—because even now, you’re just the place he empties everything he feels for her.

Instinctively, you press your palm into his lips to push him away, and it feels like the air itself has stilled.

His breath lingers against your skin. Yours stutters like it’s forgotten how to exist in the same space as him. The air is so thick you could slice it with a knife.

Eventually, he pulls away. Caleb stares at you with an expression you haven’t seen before, though you don’t look long enough to analyze it. Wordlessly, you gather your things, stuffing your jacket into your bag and stumble over to the door—all while he stays locked in a petrified state, like he’s processing what he just did. Your gaze remains fixated on the wooden panels of the floor while you pack, refusing to look any higher in case you might see anything other than his feet.

“Don’t follow me,” you tell him as you leave. 

You don’t wait to see if he hears you.

The journey home feels like there’s a gaping hole in your chest, and all you can do is stare out the window as you feel the vibrations of the train through your fingertips. Outside, the world blurs past in streaks of dim lights and shadowed shapes, and you wish that your feelings were as fleeting as the buildings blurring by. 

You try to count the number of trees you see. Not on the warmth of his breath against your palm. Not on how close he’d been. Not on the fact that, for a second, you almost let him.

If you hadn’t pushed him away, would it have meant anything? Or would you have just been a mistake he’d regret in the morning?

Your phone buzzes frantically in your pocket, and you pull it out to see his name in big bold letters. He’s texting you simultaneously, apologizing in so many different ways that they all start to blend into one message you don’t plan on reading. You refuse to give into what your heart wants. It’s hurt you too much in the past. So instead, your thumb hovers above the ‘mute’ button.

You press it and shut your eyes.

Even if it’s difficult to adjust the first few weeks without him, you can’t bear to face him either. He shows up at your door. Nearly every day for some time, knocking softly and asking if you’d be willing to talk. When you simply plug in your earbuds and bury yourself into your bed, he apologizes through the door and leaves you something to eat. You tend to throw it out at first, but after a while, you figure it’s just a waste. Just like that, a month goes by. And then another. Then another. Until you can’t count them on one hand anymore. He comes by once every two weeks or so now, likely busy with his work.

Despite how much your body seems to miss his presence, you wonder if you should distance Caleb permanently. It’s a daunting idea. One that you never would’ve thought just a few years ago, but the embarrassment runs deeper than you want to admit. The feelings you’ve tried so hard to hide clearly aren’t hidden. Is this sustainable? 

Regardless of what you think, he comes around like clockwork.

“Are you in there?” He knocks gently on your door, voice soft. He probably knows you are.

“No.”

He chuckles from the other end. “Right. Happy birthday, splints.”

You glance at your phone calendar. He’s right. 

As usual, he begins to talk about random events in his life that he hasn’t had the opportunity to tell you, and while you usually muffle it out, you decide to quietly shuffle over to the door today. To tell him, maybe, that you don’t want to keep doing this. Or maybe just to hear his voice, you don’t know. Either way, you slide your back down the door where he’s on the other side, pulling your knees into your chest.

“I don’t know if you’ve read my text, but–”

“I don’t read them.”

Caleb stops, and you can almost hear his breath hitch. You usually don’t give him more than a few words, much less a full sentence, so it seems to have taken him aback. After the brief remission, you hear him clear your throat. “Splints, can you open the door? I want to talk—apologize to you.”

Silence.

“Or I can do it out here. That’s fine,” he sighs. “I want you to know that it’s okay if you want to hate me forever after this. I won’t keep clinging to you if you at listen to what I have to say, but I really just—I need to say that this is my fault.”

You half-heartedly hear his words drone on, his confidence wavering every so often while you pull up his chats on your phone. You have no idea how you hadn’t folded and read his chats until now, though it might’ve been more so for your own peace than anything. There’s too many to scroll up to, so you read the most recent messages, squinting in the dark against the light of your phone. 

[1:41PM]

[caleb]: are you eating well?

[caleb]: i made this today

[caleb]: [image attached]

[caleb]: your favorite dishes :) i’ll drop them off at your place later

[caleb]: i hope you’re not just throwing them out…wouldn’t blame you tho

[caleb]: at least take care of yourself :)

[8:13AM]

[caleb]: hi splints :)

[caleb]: you probably watched it already but that movie you wanted to see came out a week ago. I went to go see it

[caleb]: i still think it’s kind of bad…but it was entertaining

[caleb]: unless you wanna argue about it ?? :3

[5:32PM]

[caleb]: ranked first today

[caleb]: i was excited to celebrate it with you and then remembered :/

[caleb]: it doesn’t feel as good when i can’t tell you lol

[caleb]: hope you’re okay

[11:23PM]

[caleb]: i wish i hadn’t been so stupid

[caleb]: i didn’t deserve you back then

[caleb]: i still don’t

[caleb]: i shouldn’t have lost my cool when you were over here. didn’t like hearing you talk about that guy like that

[caleb]: im sure he’s a good looking guy, and i know you’re particularly weak to good looking guys…

[caleb]: i was being childish and i wish i could’ve explained it to you then

[caleb]: i know you don’t owe me anything and you don’t have to listen to what i have to say

[caleb]: but i never wanted to make you feel used, and i never did. if that even sounds believable lol

[caleb]: it was never about her

[caleb]: there’s so much more i want to say but i’ll say it in person

[caleb]: miss you a lot

[caleb]: sleep tight

You wish the tightness in your chest would go away. You wish you didn’t feel his sorrow through him. And you wish you didn’t care about your own feelings for him.

“I love you, splints,” he murmurs, and your attention tears away from the chats, your phone nearly clattering onto the floor. Your eyes widen, suddenly regretting that you missed the first half of his speech. 

“Not in the way you say it to your friends, or the way you say it to family. You’re my life, and you’ve been my life since the day you gave me that ring. I care for MC, but what I feel for you is different. It’s always been different. I realized that years ago, but I was afraid that it wouldn’t be fair for you. I thought you deserved someone better than someone who doesn’t know how to understand their own feelings.” Your throat dries. “I thought it wasn’t fair because I’d already put you through so much.”

“At the same time, I’m a selfish guy, you know? I couldn’t let you go either, because I couldn’t bear to see you with someone else. I wanted it to be us, and the only way I could think of existing without feeling like I was ruining you was to stay how we were. Stagnant, I guess,” he chuckles, but it feels sad. Weak. “I’m an idiot when it comes to you, you know.”

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t have anything to say—if anything, there’s too much. It crowds your throat, every word scraping against the next until none of them can make it out. Your fingers hover uselessly over your phone, screen still lit with a conversation you can’t even remember reading.

‘I love you.’

The words echo, but they don’t land the way you once dreamed they would. They don’t bloom or soften or fix anything. They just sit. Too heavy. Too late.

Your chest tightens, aching outward like it’s trying to break free. Because you’ve wanted this—God, you’ve wanted this—for so long that you stopped letting yourself imagine it could ever actually happen. It should feel like relief. Instead, it feels real, but fragile.

Because you remember too much. The almosts. The waiting. The way you learned how to swallow your emotions when he built a wall between the two of you—and that doesn’t disappear just because he finally found the words.

Your hand curls slightly against the door, fingers brushing the cool surface.

Even with all that, you still miss the warmth of his skin. How his hair felt through a towel as you dried it. How he’d flick your forehead when you’d get a question wrong during one of his tutoring sessions. How he’d tease you about your grades or interests, and learn more about them anyway. How he’d message you throughout the day about random endeavors. How he’d always be there. How with just a call of his name, he would’ve crossed the continents for you. His eyes. His lips. His face. His painfully handsome face.

You remember him in all parts of your life—and not a single moment you’ve spared has gone without him. You remember how he held your hand when you’d broken your arm, and the way he’d lifted you into the air and embraced you when you were accepted into the same college as him. You remember how he’d pet your hair as you complained about him going too far for the DAA, promising he’d visit often. And he did. He always kept his promises.

Your body moves on its own, as if this was how it was always meant to be. The door slowly creaks open.

“…We’re a mess.”

A faint, tired smile is all you can give him. Still, when he sees you, the world seems to stop for just the two of you, and it takes him a moment to fully register that you’re really there. That you’re not just a figment of his imagination, and he hasn’t truly lost you forever as he’d feared. “This doesn’t mean you’re completely out of the woods. I’m still mad.”

“You should be,” he whispers out, nearly breathless.

Hesitantly, you step towards him. He reaches his arm out, brows furrowed cautiously like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to even blink right now. The tips of his fingers twitch towards you. You raise a brow, and he swallows the lump in his throat, retracting back until you nod. 

Realizing you don’t have shoes, you step onto the fronts of his shoes one foot at a time, taking his hand until you’re flush against him and he’s already engulfing you into a crushing embrace. His arms wrap around you, strong and warm. He smells good. Though you can’t confidently say the same for yourself given the state you’re in, he drops his chin into the crook of your neck and inhales deeply, like a man starved.

“Note to self,” you mumble. “Don’t propose to any handsome guy you see.”

Caleb laughs, airy this time, and you feel it against your collarbone. “I thought you were going to leave your husband out here to die in the cold.”

“I should divorce you. We’re not even married yet.”

He grins, lopsided. “You should.”

“I won’t.”

“I know.

You bury your face into his chest, fingers digging into the fabric on his back. “I don’t want a version of my life without you, Caleb. As annoying as you are.”

He pulls away for a brief moment and places a kiss on your cheek, his own dusting red. Flowers feel like they’re blooming on the spot he pecked, but somehow, it feels natural. You’ve always been close to him physically throughout your upbringing, even if it never involved lips–that was new territory. You cross your arms, relying on his hands around your waist to keep you upright. “Tell me more.”

“You nag too much.”

He kisses your nose. “Hm?”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“Ouch.” He kisses your temple.

“You’re too good at things you don’t try at.”

Your jawline.

“You’re unstable. You’re too protective. You’re stupid.”

“I love you,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours. His lips hover above your own, just centimeters away.

Your lashes flutter against his. “Then prove it to me.”

Draped across your dorm couch like a swooned Victorian lady, Ace sighs, loud and dramatic.  “Maaan, this year’s entrance ceremony was so boring.”

“That’s a good thing, Ace,” you deadpan from the floor.  “Riddle would’ve had everyone’s heads if last year repeated itself.”

“Ehh, probably.  But the Headmage could’ve at least made his speeches shorter, couldn’t he?  It’s not like anyone's actually paying attention.”

Deuce throws a pillow at his head.  “Just because you weren’t paying attention doesn’t mean nobody was!”

“Yeah, Ace!” Grim snickers.

You scoff lightheartedly.  “You weren’t listening either, Grim.  You literally slept through the entire thing.”

The accused whips his head around at you, betrayed.  “W-Well!” he scrambles.

At the flash in Grim’s eyes, you realise: Oh no.  You should not have drawn attention to yourself.  Not when you’re equally culpable.

And here it comes: “At least I wasn’t making goo-goo eyes at Jade Leech the whole time!”

“Yeah,” the redhead snickers as your face heats up, “I guess you can’t get any worse than that!”

Deuce throws a second pillow at Ace—“Be nice!”—but he doesn’t disagree.

Nor do you have any dignity left to deny it, yourself.

“Hey, look on the bright side: he’ll probably break up with you soon,” Ace assures.  “He’s gonna be too busy being a vice-housewarden and thinking about his internship!”

“Oh right,” Deuce and Grim collectively realise with their single shared brain cell, while your heart drops a couple storeys lower than you'd like.

Ace’s argument is a good one—a great one, even—but you've already thought of it before, many times, in fact.  And it’s good news!  You should feel relieved that you’ll finally be free from Jade’s emotional clutches, especially considering how your goal in the first place was just that.

The issue: you're in too deep.  When you’d first gotten into this mess, you were only a few rungs up on the ‘whippedness’ ladder.  You were ready to jump off of your own accord and just sprain an ankle or two, metaphorically.

Now, you're too high on the ladder, about to be shoved off before you're ready, and you’re gonna break both your legs and maybe your back.  And it almost feels like it's not a metaphor anymore.

Instead of voicing any of your inner turmoil, you argue weakly, “We're not even together.  There’s nothing to break up.”

The trio stares at you, in varying degrees of confusion, shock, and exasperation.  Not even a peep.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you add.

“Aren't you dating?” Deuce asks, absolutely dumbfounded.

“Sure, but it’s just dates.  I could go on a date with Ace, and it wouldn't make him my boyfriend.”  You ignore the latter’s disgusted grimace.

“So it’s a good thing then!” Grim responds a bit too abrasively.  “Jade can’t actually dump you, so he’ll just ignore you forever!”

Your heart dips even further.

“Ghost,” Ace adds very helpfully.  “He’ll ghost you.”

Unable to sink into the floorboards at will, you settle for tugging your ceremonial hood over your face.  “Yeah,” your voice breaks.  “Yeah.  Great.  Thanks, guys.”

The very next day, Jade himself shows up to your door before class.

You know that trope in those TV shows, when a cop shows up to someone’s wife’s door, takes off his hat, and solemnly implies in ten words or less that she’s now a widow?  Well, you sure feel like the wife here.

But as you scan his expression for any hint of impending emotional doom, Jade’s polite smile betrays nothing.

“Good morning, Prefect,” he greets.

“Morning, Jade,” you parrot without any heart.

His gaze lingers on your face for an unsettling amount of time, probably to watch the light leave your eyes as he dropkicks your heart into the sun.

This is it.  He’s about to tell you he never wants to see you again.

You square your shoulders and steel yourself for his next words…

“Are you ready to go?”

…which were not what you were expecting.

You nearly collapse in relief.  “Oh, uh, yeah,” you exhale, bracing your spine up against the doorframe.  “Grim?” you turn and call, “it’s time to go!”

A blur of grey shoots past your legs and out the door upon noticing your company.  “Stay safe, Henchhuman!  I’m outta here!”

The eel simply laughs at your furry ward’s blatant fear of him.

Before this, Jade has never come straight to your door to pick you up, so Grim absolutely thinks he’s about to kidnap you or something.  Maybe you should be concerned that your so-called ‘boss’ is so quick to abandon you, but as you spot him in the distance periodically glancing back, you’ll choose to be grateful for the privacy instead.

As if magnetic, your fingers interlock with Jade’s, and oh Seven—

Why does this feel so right?

His hands not clammy or uncomfortably warm, his skin smooth like silk satin but still seemingly unbreakable…  If you really focus, you can feel the dim pulse in his fingertips humming into the back of your hand.

Wouldn’t it be nice to do this every day?

You blow up the tracks of that train of thought and drive it full-steam off a cliff.

It’s not until you arrive at your classroom that you finally begin to slip your hand from Jade’s grasp.

But when you step past the threshold, you fail to suppress a squeak as you’re abruptly tugged back by the same damn hand (which apparently did not fully slip out of Jade’s), straight into his chest.

“Just a moment,” the bastard croons into your ear.  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Your legs buckle, but Jade holds you firmly against him.  “No?” you sputter.

He simply hums.  And then he tips your chin and fucking kisses the top of your head.

“Have a good class, Prefect.”

You distantly hear Deuce, and Ace screaming (“PREFECT, NO!!!” and “WHAT THE FUCK?!!” respectively) down the hall from where they witnessed it.

Jade finally lets you go, and you do, in fact, collapse.  Ace and Deuce scream even harder, and oh hey, Grim’s here too.  “Stay with me, Henchhuman!  I’ll reverse the curse, don’t worry!”

As your friends all panic over the curse that Jade must’ve cast on you, the latter crouches down to your level, amused as ever.  “Are you alright, Prefect?”

“Yup,” you croak, too dazed to notice the hand (the same.  fucking.  one.) that he’s offering you.  “Bye, have a good class~”

“You’re positive you don’t need me to bring you to the infirmary?”

“Uh huh.  See ya…”

On your knees, as the world spins around you, you make a new realisation:

Jade’s not dropping you cold turkey.

He’s gonna build you up, and drop you only when it’s most interesting for him.  Which, by definition, means when it’s most inconvenient for you.

You’re so not ready for this.

For three months, through homework and prefect duties, through midterms and finals, you walk the line between indulging your yearning for Jade and holding him at arm’s length.  It is exhausting.

Every morning, Jade walks you to class.  Every afternoon, he walks you back to your dorm.  You still go on little dates every few weekends.  And every time you two part, he kisses the top of your head.  Which is also fairly mortifying when you’re surrounded by your schoolmates, but that’s beside the point.

The pesky eel has whittled your certainty down to a sliver, so much so that you eventually ask your friends, “Do you think Jade… actually likes me back?”

Their response: a homogeneous blend of grimaces, “Nope”s, and “Don’t go there”s.

“Cool, cool, that’s what I thought too.”

You need to get yourself out of this predicament before your emotional fate is actually officially, irreversibly, terminally out of your hands.  That means breaking off this… thing with Jade before winter break.

So, drunk on desperation and sleep deprivation, you devise a gameplan:

Step 1: Hold yourself accountable.  Tell your friends that you’re breaking things off with Jade and do not let them down.

Step 2: Meet with Jade.  Schedule a time and place.

Step 3: Finish the job.  Say: “This has been fun, but I’m breaking off whatever this is between us.  Stay away from me until the end of time, please and thank you!”

Emotional freedom in three simple steps.  It’s a foolproof plan!  (And if it feels like you’ve been through this song and dance before, no, you have not.)

At 2 am the day before winter break, you start with Step 1.  Opening your now-second-year group chat, you cursorily text a declaration:

You: i’m gonna break things off with jade today. wish me luck guys

then immediately turn your phone on silent before anyone can respond—if anyone’s even awake (Someone probably is.  Your money’s on Ace)—and conk out instantly.

You jolt awake to the sound of knocking on your bedroom door.  

“Hello?!” you bark.  It’s light outside, and Grim still lies beside you, fast asleep.

“Good morning, Prefect,” the most enchanting voice seeps through the seams of your door.  “You must've overslept your alarm.  Are you decent?  May I come in?”

“Uh, yeah!” you bark out reflexively, scrambling out of bed.  “Wait, no—wait—hold on!  I'm in my pyjamas!”

The door cracks open, and in pops the eel plaguing your mind 24/7.

You both stand there like two cowboys in a standoff.  Jade looks you up and down with his usual smile.  You glare at him.

“Jade.  Out,” you command, closing the gap in an attempt to shoo him out.  He doesn't budge, even when you start shoving against him.

“Fufufu, so this is what you look like when you wake up,” he comments, immovable.  “How cute.”

“Out.”

“Alright,” he chuckles, taking a step back.  But then he places a hand on your head, smoothing your hair down.  “You have bedhead, Prefect.”

You almost lean into his touch.  You nearly forget that you have a plan to follow.  You just barely remember that you're breaking things off with Jade today.

Do not let him change your mind.

Channelling your inner black belt, you seize the wrist of the hand petting your head.  “Are you going to Kalim’s party tonight?”

Eyes wide in surprise, Jade slowly retracts his hand.  “Y-Yes,” he stutters out.  “The Lounge will be closed today, so I expect I will be.”

“Good.  I have something I need to talk to you about.”

He tenses.  “…Should I be concerned?”

“No,” you sigh.  “It’s nothing to you.”

“I see.”

“I’m gonna make you late, so you don’t need to walk me to class today,” you continue when Jade makes no move to leave your room.  “And you don’t need to worry about walking me back, either.”

“…Are you alright?” he enquires after a moment.

You almost laugh.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ll see you later, okay?”

To your chagrin, Jade stares right into your eyes, probably in search of answers you refuse to verbalise.  To shake off the intensity, you dart your eyes in every direction but him: eye contact with Jade is a terrible idea no matter which way you look at it, especially now.

“Have a good day,” you add awkwardly, crossing your fingers that he’ll actually leave soon.

After far too long, he backs away.  “You too, Prefect.  I’ll see you later, then.”

Step 2, done.

As you watch Jade walk alone down the path to the main school building, you’re hit with the nagging feeling that you’re missing something.

Did you forget to do your homework?   No, you weren’t assigned anything for the last day of classes.

The dishes, maybe?   Did you neglect to do those last night?   That’s not it.

Is it someone’s birthday?   No, that’s not it, either.

After 20 minutes of hard thinking, you realise: it’s the kiss.  Jade didn’t kiss you goodbye this time, and it feels horrible.

You’re experiencing fucking Jade Leech kiss withdrawal.

You scream into your pillow.

You show up to Kalim’s party in the evening, fully ready to land the final blow.

The only issue: Jade isn’t here.

You haven’t seen him, none of your friends have seen him, none of the other students you’ve asked have seen him.  He hasn’t texted you, either.

Jade fucking stood you up and it’s totally psyching you out.

You text him

hey where are you

only to get left on read.  He knows.

You call him, even though you don’t expect him to answer.  And sure enough, the phone rings once, twice, three times…

He actually picks up.  To your utter surprise.

“Where are you?” you hiss.

For a silent moment, you think that he might just refuse to humour you, might just hang up now.  But the eel sure has a thing for subverting your expectations.  “…I’d rather not show up for something so… unpleasant.”

“What are you talking about?  Who said anything about ‘unpleasant’?”

“Perhaps you should be more selective in what you tell Grim,” the bane of your existence answers, “seeing as his favour can be bought with just a few cans of premium tuna.”

“Ugh, I'm gonna strangle him.  Why do you have to be so difficult?  Can’t you spare me just this once?”

“I…” He pauses.  “That… wouldn’t be in my best interest.”

“Jade, you’re actually starting to piss me off.  I’m not gonna let you keep stringing me along for your own fucking amusement,” you snap, “and you refusing to show up isn’t gonna change my mind.”

“…Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks softly.  “‘Stringing you along’?  And here I was, thinking that we were both enjoying ourselves.  Was I mistaken?”

You scoff.  “Yes—no—UGH,” you groan, then try again.  “I’m just gonna come out and say it: you know I like you; I know you don’t actually feel the same.  So I have no reason to keep playing along with you.”

For what feels like a minute, the line is quiet.

“Hello?”

“…I’m here,” he breathes.  “I… You were right.  I think we should discuss this in person.  Have you left Scarabia already?”

“No,” you huff.  “Grim’s still stuffing his face, so I’m waiting in the hall.”

“Good.  I’ll be there in a second.”

“Are you here?”

“Perhaps,” he hums, and you hear the music and chatter of the party grow louder from his end of the phone.  “See you soon.”

Sure enough, Jade takes no more than a minute to find you.

You’re the first to speak.  “So what is it that we needed to discuss in person—”

“You’re wrong.”

Caught off guard by his uncharacteristic brusqueness, you flinch.  “Uh?”

“About how I don’t feel the same.  You’re wrong,” he repeats.  His usual polite mien is nowhere to be found, leaving only raw sincerity.

A nasty bout of hope seizes your heart and clogs your throat.

“If you’re truly set on parting ways, then I can’t stop you,” Jade continues, voice level, “but if the basis of your choice is my supposed lack of… fondness for you, please consider sparing us both the unnecessary misery.”

You scoff shakily.  “Say it straight, Jade.”

“Very well.  I return your affections, Prefect.”

Heart beating a thousand beats per minute, eyes wholly unfocussed, you find your consciousness peeling away from your body and brain.  “…Okay, I’m gonna get going now~” a voice rings in your ears—your voice.

“Where are you going?”

“Dunno…”

Jade steps closer to you and places his hands on your shoulders, maybe in an effort to ground you.  It doesn’t work.  “Shall we continue this conversation later, then?”

You hum.

“Alright, I’ll give you some time,” he whispers, turning to leave.  “Have a good night, Prefect.”

But before he can get far, your hand snags the sleeve of Jade’s blazer.  “…You’re forgetting something.”

“Oya?  And what would that be?”

No words come out, but to your chagrin, your other hand rises…

and points straight at the crown of your head.

What.  Is.  Wrong.  With.  You.

Luckily, with a shake of your head, you do manage to snap out of your stupor before he can honour your request.

Less luckily, not in time to stop him; only enough to feel his lips meet the exact spot where you’d pointed just a second prior.

The touch of his lips is like a shot of epinephrine, the way the warmth diffuses through your bloodstream, head to toe.

Or maybe it’s an injection of poison, killing you slowly but surely.

Well, if this is death, Great Seven, does it feel nice.

You’re dead.

You really died.

Or at least you’re about to.  Because the Grim Reaper is currently in the act of busting down your bedroom door to get to you.  (After that incident with Jade, you started locking your door at night, thank Seven.)

The paintings on the wall swing like pendula.  The junk in your drawer rolls about like water in a hot pan.  You even discover tuna cans that Grim (yours, not the Reaper) hid at some point, inching their way out from beneath furniture with each shake of the room.

But your bed is so comfortable right now…

“Shrimpyyyyy,” whines from behind the quaking door.  “Open sesame!”

…Oh, it’s Floyd.  Which might actually be worse than the Grim Reaper.  But to Floyd’s credit, you would prefer seeing him over his brother right now.

“What do you want, Floyd?” you whine back.  “Go away.”

The pounding only gets more aggressive.  “Open up!”

“No.  Let me sleep.”

“Okaa~ay!  I’mma kick down your door!” Floyd threatens.  “In 5, 4, 3…”

“FINE,” you groan, dragging yourself out of the warm embrace of your duvet.  “I’m coming, I’m coming.  Don’t wreck my house.”

You swing the door open, glaring at the eel on the other side.  “What.”

“Fix Jade,” he blurts, pouting.  “He’s broken.”

Unimpressed, you try to close the door, but Floyd shoves his way past you and into your room.  “That’s just normal Jade,” you sigh.

“No, he’s being weird!  He’s ripping up flowers and speaking in tongues!”

You yawn.  “Sounds normal to me.”

Floyd grimaces.  “Eehhhh… Is Shrimpy always this stubborn?  No wonder Jade’s having such a hard time courtin’ ya.”

“Wha—He’s not—” you sputter, and Floyd takes advantage of your blue-screening to throw you onto his shoulder.  “I’m not—!”

“Uh~huuhhh,” he dismisses, already in full stride.  “Save it for Jade.”

Remember when you thought you’d prefer seeing Floyd over his twin?  Well, you take that back.  As much as Jade likes to make life difficult for you, at least he wouldn’t haul you—clad in only your pyjamas—across campus in broad daylight while it's snowing.  Probably.

After a long, uncomfortable trek on Floyd’s shoulders—shoulders, plural, because he would just toss you onto the other shoulder when one side got tired—you finally make it to Octavinelle.

With little regard for your flailing body, your captor skips down the hall to his twin’s door and kicks it open at the tail end of Jade’s mutterings.

“Got a delivery for ya~”

“…me not,” Jade finishes quietly, attention fixed on the picked-bare flower stem between his fingers.  “Ah, Floyd, you've brought the Prefect.  What a pleasant surprise.”

Though his distaste is directed more at his brother than yourself, Jade’s sarcasm is obvious.  His tone is curter than he uses with you, gaze sharper than what you’re used to, but Floyd is nonetheless unfazed.  He throws you onto Jade’s bed.

Which already has Jade on it.

You are on top of Jade.

“Floyd—!  You—!” you squawk, rolling off of the bed, off of him, hitting the floor with an impressive thud.

Over the edge of the mattress, olive and gold eyes scan over you in fleeting concern.  “…Floyd.”

“You’re welcome!” Floyd spits back with equal irritation.  “Someone needed to fix you before we go home!”  And then he bursts into abrupt giggles, bounding out of the room with the door left just slightly ajar behind him.

The door is still open.  You should follow him out.  Just leave; Jade didn’t invite you here in the first place.

But you don’t.

You stay, sprawled out on your crush’s rug, surrounded by a dense dusting of snow-white petals.  From the sheer amount of them, Jade must’ve plucked over forty giant daisies bare.

The sound of your heart pounding in your ears almost drowns out his murmur.  “Do you need more time?”

You’ve heard Jade weave sarcasm into polite words.  You’ve heard him excitedly info-dump about a passion of his.  Just yesterday, you even heard him nervous and raw.  But to this extent?  Never.

You sit up.  “…I need you to be transparent.”  Your voice is shaking.

“You don’t actually like me, do you?  Or maybe you find me interesting or fascinating or whatever.  But you’re gonna get bored of me, aren’t you?

“If you know this won't go anywhere, then just tell me now,” you plead.  “Please.”

Jade slips off the bed and kneels down to your eye-level—not that it matters when you don’t have the courage to meet his eyes.

Everything depends on his next words; you'll go all in if he says one thing, all out if he says the other.  You might as well just bet your life on a coin toss.

He chuckles without humour nor coldness, “You truly have no faith in me, do you, Prefect?  Since you insist on doubting my feelings, allow me to set the record straight now: I sincerely care for you, and I don’t expect that to change.”

You collapse back onto the floor with liquified muscles, all stress and heartache draining from your bones, gaze falling on the man-sized mushroom plush propped up on a stool in the corner of the room.  Jade has dressed it up with a bow tie.  You throw a hand over your eyes before you can be overwhelmed by the adorable sight.

“Cool, just making sure.  Uh, I… don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Oya?  And you had such a succinct plan to break up with me.  Perhaps you should get into the habit of making contingency plans.”

You guffaw dryly.  “I plan for the worst case scenario so if it doesn’t go according to plan, I can be pleasantly surprised.”

“Are you, then?” Jade asks.  “Pleasantly surprised?”

Your hand begins to fall asleep; you shift your arm back down to a comfortable position.  The sight you’re met with—of Jade smiling back at you with such relief and fondness—ignites the answer in your throat.  “I am.”

The two words come out more watery than you’d expected, and apparently more than Jade had expected too, because he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You’re crying,” he notes.

You wipe your eyes with your hand.  “Oh.”

Pulling out a handkerchief, Jade gently blots away your tears.  “May I safely assume that these aren’t tears of sadness?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, closing your eyes as he pats over them, “sorry.  I just…  I’m super relieved?  I'm not always such a big crybaby, I promise.”

“I know,” he reassures, stroking your hair.  “Though you are a very pretty crier.”

“Jaaade,” you whine, tossing over in embarrassment.

“Oya?  Why so shy?”  He pokes your exposed cheek.  “You act as if we haven’t been dating for the past five months.”

“We haven’t had a label for the past five months.  I’ve been preparing for you to dump me,” you correct.  “Not that we have a relationship to dump in the first place.”

Jade’s fingers brush down to your cheek.  “Shall we fix that?”

“…You wanna be my boyfriend, Jade Leech?”

“Very much so,” he replies in full seriousness.

And so, your fate sealed, Jade gives zero resistance when you pull him down to your side.  He wraps his arms around you, you press your cheek against his chest.  The heart within beats faster than you’d expect.

You still have a question left unanswered, though.

“Jade?”

“Yes?”

“What’s with all the petals?”

He tenses, just barely, just for a millisecond before he melts back into you.  “It’s… a fortune-telling practice.”

“Huh,” you twitter, amused.  “I would’ve thought you’d only need one flower.”

“I would,” Jade agrees, “but curiously, each of the daisies I’ve come across so far has had an even number of petals, and I happen to be looking for a result different from what those ones suggest.”

You chuckle.  “You gonna keep picking?”

He hums, nestling into you as if the floor with your company is the most comfortable spot in the world.  “No need.  I have my answer.”

It's impossible for a person to exist without ever having heard a love song, read a love story, watched a romcom, any or all of the above.  Even so, none of the heart-wrenching melodies, flowery words, or dramatic confessions could ever have prepared you for the pure paradise you’ve been living for the past two months since making your relationship official.

(Wow!  Who knew that life could be so happy when you’re able to love freely!)

Admittedly, Jade hasn’t treated you any differently from how he did before he’d officially become your boyfriend.  He’s always been courteous, considerate, and only a touch concerningly sketchy.

The real difference?  Your ability to actually enjoy it all.

When it comes to you, he somehow always knows, even when you don’t.  The second before your stomach growls, he already has a snack at the ready.  When you feel particularly touchstarved, he wraps you in his arms.  When you trip on a crack in the pavement, he nonchalantly pulls you upright like a knight in shining armour.

And now, you don’t need to worry about declining Jade’s offers, or dodging his touches, or dissociating while in his presence lest you fall further for him.  Now, you’re safe leaning in.

Your friends, on the other hand, are… worried, to say the least.  It’s nothing new; they’ve been this way since before you even started dating Jade, but you thought they’d at least get used to it by now.

Apparently, you were wrong.

Last week, they tried to inconspicuously block you from spotting Jade in the halls.  To no avail, of course: it's impossible for a barricade of guys lined up shoulder-to-shoulder to not arouse suspicion.

Yesterday, while you and Jade walked hand-in-hand through the courtyard, Sebek Red Rover’ed his way right through your joined hands.  You hadn’t even seen him coming.

And today, as Jade walked the path to Ramshackle to meet you in the morning, Epel leapt out of a bush to football tackle him to the ground.  Luckily, the blanket of snow cushioned their fall, but in an ideal world, you wouldn’t have a boyfriend-shaped imprint on your lawn at all.

Naturally, you pull said boyfriend inside to warm him up, and the feisty little perpetrator sprints off before you can question him, let alone scold him.

“How cruel,” Jade laments without any real chagrin, pouting and shivering in an exaggerated show of pitifulness.  “With my fragile disposition, I’m afraid I have hypothermia.”

“You grew up in subzero waters, you melodramatic eel.”  You tenderly brush the snow from his nose and lashes.  “But I'm sorry I let it get this far.  I’ll talk with them today.”

He preens under your touch like an overgrown cat.  “If anything, I find it most reassuring that you have such loyal friends.  As for myself, however,” he puts back on a dramatic pout, “my nose is still so terribly cold, it'll be frostbitten if I leave it be.  Won't you please remedy that?”

His frigid cheeks nestled comfortably between your warm palms, Jade’s expectant gaze is impossible to ignore and equally impossible to misinterpret.

So you lean in, bringing your lips ever closer to the tip of his nose…

and cup your hand over it.

“Ah, how romantic,” the eel sighs dreamily.  Like this was what he'd wanted all along.  “I'm feeling much better already.”

“Happy to hear it.”

As if it were a campfire, everyone gathers around the gaming setup that Ortho brought over.  Not you, though—you lurk in the corner—until the robot cinnamon roll himself shines the spotlight on you.

“Prefect!  You’ve been standing there for twelve minutes, and you’re exhibiting physical signs of anxiety.  Are you okay?”

At your silence, the other former first-years (now second-years) pause their game and turn to also look at you.  “Ugh, how do I say this…”

You huff, shuffling closer to sit crosslegged on the floor before them.  “Jade.  You guys are bullying him.”

Seven pairs of eyes blink at you; you blink back.

When they give no verbal response, you press on.  “I know you guys have your thoughts about him—and I get it, I do—but he’s also my boyfriend now.  And you guys are my friends, and I care for you all, so… what’s going on?

“Has he done something to you recently?  Am I not spending enough time with you guys?  What… What do you need for this to work?”

The seven pairs of eyes blink at you again, then at each other, then at you again.

Sebek breaks the silence first.  “Does he care about this as much as you do?”

“About what?  The teasing?” you assume.  “No, definitely not.”

“The relationship,” Ace corrects.

It stings, your friends’ lack of confidence in you and your judgement.  But on the other hand, you know it comes from a place of care and concern.

Jack clears his throat.  “You really care about him, Prefect.  If he doesn’t actually feel the same way, that’s a problem.”

“He does,” you say desperately.  “You’re just gonna have to trust me on that.  He hasn't done anything sketchy since we started dating, and believe me, I’ve been looking.”

“It ain’t that we don’t trust ya, Prefect,” Epel responds.  “It’s him we’re worryin’ about.”

You sigh.  “I get that, but we’re together now.  Could you guys play nice, just for my sake?”

The seven pairs share one more look.

“I’ll think about it.  Especially if he brings tuna.”

“Alright…”

“Sure.”

“Fiiiine.”

“Of course!”

“If you insist.”

“But if anything does happen, we’ll be here.”

“That’s all I'm asking,” you smile.  “Thanks, guys.”

Sure enough, one day passes without incident, then two, then three, and before you know it, Valentine’s Day rolls around.  And boy, have you been preparing for this day.

You’re armed and ready with chocolate.  So.  Much.  Chocolate.

Chocolates filled with caramel for your friends.  90% cocoa dark chocolate for other friends.  Hollow white chocolate eggs coated in a thin layer of milk chocolate and with a surprise toy inside (the best kind), for other other friends.  Slightly-botched-but-still-edible homemade chocolates for your distant acquaintances.  Severely-botched-so-you-leaned-into-it-and-added-laxatives chocolates for your enemies.

And last but far from least, homemade mushroom-shaped chocolates for the boyfriend, in four different flavours.

Once you've personally delivered your greater haul to the doors of each of your friends, all that’s left is Octavinelle, home of your ultimate recipient.  You find Azul and Floyd working in the Lounge—busy with the influx of customers expected during a Valentine’s Day promotional event on a weekend—and give them their gifts: a set of your finest, most potent laxative (jk.  or am i) chocolates for Azul, an assorted pack of novelty chocolates from Sam’s for Floyd.

As for Jade, he'd somehow managed to convince his housewarden into letting him take the day off.  The details aren’t worth fretting over: you’re simply grateful to have him to yourself today.

Funny enough, as you walk down the hall toward Jade’s room, it feels as if someone’s watching you.  But each time you turn, nothing’s there.  Hmm.

You tuck the box of chocolates coyly behind your back and tap your knuckles twice against the door.  He’s been waiting for you: if you couldn’t tell from the haste in which he opens the door, then the antsy little smile on his face would surely give it away.

“Hi, Jade.”

“Hello, my dear Prefect.  Do you have something for me?”

“Well, aren’t you cocky,” you grin, withdrawing the heart-shaped box from behind you and placing it in his waiting hands.  “Happy Valentine’s.”

“Happy Valentine’s,” he parrots, lifting the lid with a tiny gasp.  “Mushroom-shaped…?”

“Did I go overboard?  I almost put them in a mushroom-shaped box too, but I was worried you’d think it was Mushroom Day, not Valentine’s.  For the record, I know you’re more than just ‘mushroom man’, but—”

“It’s perfect.”

A cacophony of thumps and yelps from down the hall draws away your attention.

You sigh like a weary parent of seven when you spot them.  “I told them to behave—”

“It’s alright,” Jade chuckles, merely withdrawing into the room to grab a stack of… envelopes?  “Allow me to handle this.”

“Jade Leech, if you’re blackmailing my friends, I will fry you alive.”

“I'd do nothing of the sort!” he laughs, prying off the hand with which you'd subconsciously gripped his arm.  “No need to worry.  I’ll be back in just a moment.”

So you watch from the doorway as your boyfriend eerily approaches your dogpiled gaggle of idiots.  They’re too far and Jade’s voice too quiet for you to hear, but as the latter hands them the ominous envelopes, their feelings are clear as day.

You follow your friends’ journey of expressions, beginning with fear, morphing to confusion, then shock, and settling into joy before they roll off of each other and shuffle back down the hall with such excitement you’d think they won the lottery.  Ace even throws you a quick thumbs up.

Your eel returns with a satisfied smile, summoning a pouch that couldn’t fit in his pocket.  He presents it with a flourish: magical sparkles and pink hearts that float about like bubbles in the air.  “And for you.”

“Jade…”  You gingerly take the sachet and open it, revealing chocolates in your favourite flavour.  But that aside: “Did you just pay my friends a dowry?”

“My, such marital language!  I had no idea you’d set your sights so far ahead.”

Your blood runs cold.  Too much.  “Wait, I—Not like—!”

“To think that we haven’t even had our first kiss yet,” he prattles on, ignoring your protests completely.  “Marriage!  How scandalous, fufufu.”

Right.  It’s near impossible to weird out (or outweird) Jade Leech.

Your face contorts into a cringe, whether at his antics or at yourself for finding him even remotely charming, indeterminable.  “Alright, buddy.  I’m starting to think you’ll never experience either of those things.”

“And if it wasn’t enough to tease me with the dream of marriage, you threaten to deprive me of your affection.  Poor, unfortunate me, to have fallen for someone so cruel.  Boo hoo.”

Your grimace is impossible to maintain as his brows furrow and his lips press into a dramatic, irritatingly adorable pout.

His.

Lips.

…Nope.  You’re not about to reward him for his bullshit.

You press a chocolate into his mouth and nudge him away by the forehead.

“You sure live up to your name, Leech.”

“There’s no one I'd rather be stuck to,” he hums with his mouth full, “though I did intend for these chocolates to be eaten by you.”

If you tasted him now…

…Nope x2.

You stash away the sweets and leave, holding your hand out beside you until Jade inevitably catches up to you and slips his fingers into yours.

“Now this feels familiar, doesn’t it?”

You squeeze Jade’s mittened hand in silent agreement.  As you walk hand-in-hand through the harbour, you’re reminded of your first date in the Kingdom of Roses.  Though this time, instead of summer fare and games, it’s… lovey-dovey stuff.

Each shop has a Valentine’s promotional deal, game stalls host challenges for couples to test their bond, pop-up vendors sell charms for ‘everlasting love’.  And people actually showed up for this bogus.

You could’ve sworn there weren’t this many people on this tiny island, but everyone must’ve come up from RSA since they’re mushy like that (ew).  Can’t relate, you think, ogling your boyfriend whenever you think he’s not looking.  (He always is, to both your embarrassment and your pleasure.)

Jade gestures with your joined hands at a nearby booth.  “They’re giving out free lip balm at that booth there.”

“Free?”  Enough said.  “Lead the way.”

When you reach the front of the line, you realise that it’s not exactly for free, per se.

“So here’s how it works,” the brand ambassador explains.  “I’m going to give one of you a cotton swab with a secret flavour, and the other will have to correctly guess the flavour for you to get your free lip balms.  Sound good?”

The Chapstick Challenge.

“Excellent,” chirps your scheming boyfriend, clearly unsurprised by this information and far too pleased with himself.

“Uh huh,” you grumble, exercising your nastiest side-eye.

You snatch the cotton swab yourself before Jade gets any more ideas.  For a split second, you consider applying it to yourself… but no.

Grasping his chin with your free hand, you trace his lips with the applicator.  Frictionless, it glides over the peachy skin and leaves behind an even film of balm.

“You slimy eel,” you whisper, deep in concentration.  “You’re not chapped at all.”

Smug eyes are what you expect to see when you look up.  Instead, his eyes are blown wide and dazed.  Heh.

“Here goes!” you announce louder than needed.  Then, angling yourself to block the worker’s view, you bring your face ever closer to Jade’s, lips ever closer to his…

Just enough to catch a whiff of the balm.

You whip back around before your lips can touch.  “Lavender vanilla?”

“Yes, that’s right!  Here’s your prize!”

You’re forced to tug your eel by the hand to get him moving again.

“I’ve fallen for a tease,” he sighs after five minutes.

“Well I’ve fallen for a swindler,” you titter back.  “C’mon, my swindler, I know you’re hungry.  Let’s go get some food, hmm?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Because Fate hates you, you happen to lead your boyfriend into a pasta restaurant where the owners greet you so warmly, you're now morally obligated to stay and order something.

And of course, because Cupid hates you too, this restaurant has a promotional deal: finish a bowl of one (1, singular) ultra long spaghetto with your significant other to get 30% off your meal.  Jade’s eyes regain their light (read: cunning gleam) upon hearing this.  You, on the other hand, do not want to have your first kiss over a literal noodle.

But 30% off the meal…  And the only conditions are that you finish in under five minutes and eat from one end of the noodle?

Of course you accept the challenge, to your eel’s poorly concealed excitement.

So the waiter brings out the manhole-cover-sized dish, Jade bites one end of the noodle, you the other, and the timer starts.

End held between your lips, you glance casually at the waiter, who stares back at you with bewilderment.  You glance back at Jade, who stares back at you with determination.  He’s already halfway through the pasta by the 1-minute mark.

You feel just a little bad when the intact end of the noodle slips from your lips, vacuumed straight into the maw of your resigned boyfriend.

“Uh, wow…!” the waiter nods, baffled.  “You finished in 2:11, so I guess that’s a success?”

“Sorry for being a poor sport,” you chuckle.  “I’m sure you guys expect your participants to kiss, but my boyfriend here is just ravenous today so I thought he’d appreciate the extra portion.”

“Oh, n-no, that's fine!  A lot of people try the challenge with their friends and we don't ask them to kiss, obviously,” the waiter rambles.  “Uh, I'm just shocked that he ate all that on his own… and so quickly?  It takes pairs at least four minutes!”

“And he’s still hungry, believe it or not!”  Being seated side-by-side, it’s easy to peck Jade on the cheek.  “Incredible, isn’t he?  I’m so lucky to have him.”  You pointedly play up the goo-goo eyes, amused at the way his eyes glaze over in defeat.

Of course you’d like to kiss him.

But so would he, and it’s good to make your eel work for what he wants, just once in a while.  Enrichment’s healthy!

Jade’s resolve is wavering just a little.

“Look over there, my loving Valentine,” he notes with sarcastic monotony, “it’s a kissing contest.”

Subtle.

“So it is.”

“I’d imagine it would be very cathartic to express one’s affection so freely.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would.”

He stops in front of you, eyeing your lips.  “Oya?  Then what are we waiting for?”

Smirking, you clasp your bare hands behind the eel’s neck; his amber eye shines ever brighter with hope.  But to his chagrin, your attention is pulled elsewhere.  “Wait, there’s a photo booth!”

“Ah.  I’ve heard about those.  I’ve still yet to try one.”

“There’s a first time for everything!” you pipe, beelining for the amenity.

It’s four photos to a strip and two copies are printed: you take one and sunnily slot the other between your eel’s frozen fingers.

The first photo is comedically tacky, as intended.  Your right and Jade’s left hands form the stiff, distinct shape of a heart; you don the most awkward grin you could muster, he wears his signature polite-and-nothing-more smile.  It looks like you’re both terrible actors being held at gunpoint to play the role of a lovey-dovey couple.

The second photo shows the aftermath of performing such a terrible (albeit deliberate) display: the left half blurred with candid laughter (yours) and the right half still and calm (Jade).  He’s smiling, genuinely, half-lidded eyes fondly trained on your dynamic visage.

The third photo is a snapshot summary of today.  Jade leans in toward you, his desires clear, and you press your fingers over his lips in a gentle rejection.  He looks at you with acceptance and affection; you look back with an amused grin (and equal fondness).

The fourth photo is Jade’s favourite.  Well, actually, he hasn't seen it yet.  But once he regains his senses, you have no doubt!

After all, it's the picture of your first kiss: chaste and sweet and picture-perfect.

You wake in the morning to a voice message from Floyd in the middle of the night, whining about how his brother is broken again; Jade won’t stop giggling and grinning in his sleep.  And sure enough, when the former swung his phone closer to the source of the sound…

“…mmm…again…fufufu…”

Cute.

Cute.

You make sure to download and back up the recording in at least five different locations, for safekeeping.

Stupid Ace jinxed you.

“He’s gonna be too busy being a vice-housewarden and thinking about his internship!”

That’s what Ace said back in September!

…Okay, maybe it’s not Ace’s fault.  But it’s also not Jade’s fault.  Nor is it yours.

It’s everything else’s fault.

The arrival of spring marks the beginning of a storm of projects, labs, and mock exams leading up to finals in June.  And on top of all that, your boyfriend has vice-housewarden duties and the Lounge and internship applications to worry about.

‘Worry’, of course, being relative; he seems to be managing just fine.  And that’s the worst part, ashamed as you are to admit it.

Because he’s fine without you.

Does he miss you even a fraction as much as you miss him?

Would he be just as happy if you’d never confessed to him?

Oh Seven.  If you’re like this already… how are you going to manage next year when you’re even farther apart?

You should be happy for him, happy that he’s doing well; you should have more faith in your relationship, be less insecure and clingy and insufferable.  But as the weeks pass and your paths cross less and less, catching the rare sight of him from across the hall feels more painful than it should.

You don’t tell Jade any of this; no need to make a mess of things when he’s got more important things to deal with.  At the very least, it can wait until after exams are done.

And things could always be worse!

Case in point: the annual Starsending ceremony being thrown into the mix.

First off, finals season and the weeks leading up to it are already stressful.  As fun as it is to wish upon a star, unfortunately, finishing that essay worth 35% and due in five hours might just take higher priority.

Plus, you'd completely forgotten this tradition existed.  It's only your second year in this world, after all, so excuse you for not being used to all the new customs.  You also didn’t make a wish last year, so the memory of the ceremony must've been thrown to the back of your mind—buried under all the overblots, perhaps!

It certainly didn’t help either to receive the reminder no more than a week before the ceremony.  The three unfortunate souls chosen to be Stargazers will have their work cut out for them.

And just who are the selected Stargazers?  (Take a guess!)  The horoscopes this year landed on November 5th—Jade and Floyd’s birthday—

and your birthday.  Congrats.

One after another, Crowley assigns you the position of Stargazer, the role of drummer in the ceremony itself, and the traditional Stargazer uniform (which is very… attention-grabbing).

“…Do I really have to wear this outside the ceremony?”

“Why, of course!  Haven’t you heard of the phrase, ‘dress for success’?” the Headmage replies with theatrical enthusiasm, then sobers.  “A Stargazer out of uniform would leave a lasting bad impression.  I'd be sure not to forget it.”

You shudder.

By the time you’ve gotten changed and swapped Grim’s ribbon to match, Jade has already magically donned his own uniform, and Floyd is… nowhere to be found.  No surprises there.

But back to Jade: your eyes skim right over the uniform itself and hone in on b a r e   s h o u l d e r s .

The muscles flex, rolling back in a smooth wave, taunting.

“My,” Jade giggles coyly behind his naked hand, “your gawking has me feeling incredibly flustered.”

Voiceless, you tug the dropped sleeves of his cape up and over the curve of his shoulders; they fall helplessly back down to their original position, ornate embroidery framing flawless skin.  Damn it.

The eel cocks his head, chin resting against loose fist.  “Is there something wrong with my appearance?” he coos, like he doesn’t already know.

You lean forward, muffling your exasperated groan in layers of (boyfriend) material.  Your heart has been aching lately, but the sweetness in Jade’s chuckle and the way he cradles your head against him soothes the sting. 

Through luck and madness, you somehow survive.  Three unit tests, an alchemy practical, Starsending ceremony rehearsals, the collection of hundreds of Wishing Stars, and you’re still alive.

Between your reputation (respected as the dependable Prefect and/or feared as Jade Leech’s partner) and threats incentives (brandishing Grim as a flamethrower and/or mentioning your boyfriend by name), the latter went smoother than you’d expected.

The process is simple: confront the target, demand they declare their wish, witness their Wishing Star light up with magic, collect it, and hang it up on the designated tree behind the school.

By Friday, all the stars have been collected and hung but Jade’s; a total happenstance—or so you thought.  He clearly had different plans.

When the eel opens his door to you the next morning, you're hit with a small but uncharacteristic bout of fear.

“…Jade.”

“Yes, my star?”

“Seven,” you flinch at the new, festive pet name, and his gleaming eyes crinkle into delighted crescent moons.  But nevermind the nickname, “Why are you wearing that?”

The ceremonial clothes.  Pretty shoulders out there for all (you) to see.

“To collect your Wishing Star, of course.”

“No,” you drawl incredulously, “I’m collecting your star.”

Silence from Jade; the cattish grin on his face speaks for itself: Plans change.

You squint back.  “Well, Floyd took my wish already.”

He hums, unconvinced.  “Your wish, or Grim’s wish?  I’m aware that the Headmage provided only one Wishing Star to share between you.”

“It’s worth more to him than to me.  I don't mind.”

“I do.”  He slips a jagged weight into your open palm, supporting your hand with his own.  “Make your wish.  We’ll light it with my magic.”

Void of magic, the magestone—Jade’s Wishing Star—is dark save for the hairline veins, smoky white, running through the mineral like rippling seafoam.  Each of the uneven edges presses a soothing kiss to the nerves in your fingers.

A dismissive chuckle breezes past your teeth.  Laying your heart bare for a casual tradition isn’t exactly an appealing idea.  A throwaway, then: “I wish you’d wear normal clothes.”

The dusky glasslike stone stays unlit.

Jade titters, “Come now, don't waste our wish.”

“What do you mean?  That’s what I want.”

He tips your chin to meet his eyes.  “It’d be a shame if we resorted to my unique magic to know your true wish.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” he concedes, returning his hand to cradle yours.  “I’ll be saving that for a more important question.”

You get a rush of tingles for some indiscernible reason.  “Ominous,” you laugh.

He sighs sweetly.  Such softness in his gaze, you’d think he was looking at a particularly freaky mushroom but no, he’s looking at you.

Oh.  It's the way he looks at you that gives you the tingles.  And also maybe the way he touches you.  And—

Great Seven, you've been dating this eel for almost a year now; shouldn't you be less lovesick by now?  Less distraught when you're apart?  Less smitten by his mere existence?

This whole tradition, these Wishing Stars are purely symbolic.  It won’t matter whether you wish to grow another 20 centimetres in height, or to do well in your finals, or for Jade to cover his damn shoulders.  A silly wish won't overwrite reality.

But something about him makes you want to wish wholeheartedly anyway.

What to wish for, though?

‘For your internship to be fruitful’?  Only a fraction of what you truly want.

‘To live the rest of my life in your arms’?  …Tone it down a notch, pal.

‘That Azul would stop giving you so many shifts at the Lounge’?  Okay, now you’re just griping.

You sigh, “I don’t know how to word it.”

“Is that so?” he hums with an impish grin, removing his hands.  “Or are you simply self-censoring?

“Would it help if I told you that I love you?  Or that I suffer in your absence?”

´(º—º)`

Kaput! goes your heart, AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH goes your brain.

“Jade, what—”

“I suppose I’ll suggest something, then,” he interrupts.  “Do let me know if I’m on the wrong track.

“‘We wish for the next year to be kind to us, and for any time we spend apart to pass in the blink of an eye.’  Is that alright?”

With wide eyes, you nod.

“Wonderful.”  He places his hands back around yours and recites the wish; this time, the star sparks alight like striking a match.  You’ve watched this process over a hundred times now, but it feels different this time: more brilliant, more meaningful.

The glowing centre of the magestone shines gold like Jade’s left eye, and at the pointed edges, fades into a soothing teal the same soothing teal as Jade’s hair.  Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

You open your mouth.  “Jade—”

“Shall we go hang this—”

“Shush for just a second, will you?!” you bark, shaking him like a broken vending machine by the lapels of his cape; obediently, his mouth snaps shut.  “We’re not just breezing by that!”

“…by what?” your eel feigns innocence.

Even as you glare at him—him with his knowing, expectant, self-satisfied little smile (stupid, stupid, stupid)—you can’t even manage to find him any less adorable.

“I hate you,” you lie, but the sweet kisses you press to his cheeks, his nose, his forehead each confess I love you, I love you, I love you.

 Just before meeting his, your lips bespeak your true reply: “I love you too.”

Crowley’s year-end homily feels shorter this time; maybe that’s because you now have the clarity to actually listen.  He probably reuses the same script every year, not that it's particularly remarkable: “What a pleasure it’s been to foster the academic progress of so many fledging mages!” and “This year has been fruitful for all of us!” and whatnot.

With the conclusion of the ceremony, you scoop Grim up and follow the flow with your clump of friends, yelling to each other about your summer plans as to be heard through the raucous crowd.

When you spot your boyfriend waiting for you in the courtyard and announce, “Bye, guys!  Have a good summer!” your friends are all sunny smiles and laughs.  Not a hint of stress to be found in your group, no concerns for your judgement, no suggestions or offers for alternative plans. Even Grim, who’s coming with you, has (close to) no complaints.

“Have a good summer,” they simply parrot, “invite us over sometime!”

One year ago, you confessed to Jade Leech.  You did it with logic at heart, but faulty logic in practice.

And yet as he peers back at you with adoration in his eyes, one hand jingling a pair of keys to a flat—to your flat in Ultramarine City—and the other hand outstretched for you to take, you can’t help but wonder why you ever doubted this contingency at all.

initial concept inspired by schoenpepper’s “Jade Leech and the Three Breakups” (deactivated; reblog to view the full fic) and cannedpickledpeaches’ “Sad Poems but I Choose to Interpret Them as Happy” :)  honourable mention to rel124c41’s many masterful fics (like this one, this one, and these ones) which simultaneously fed and fuelled my cravings for jade :’0  sorry for being so annoying but her works were genuinely the biggest reason i could finish this mess with any sanity remaining whatsoever

edit: oh my god i forgot to fix the part after the kiss where it's implied jade and floyd are still sleeping in the same bedroom. please pretend one of the following:

a) floyd felt like sleeping over and so jade let him stay

b) floyd barged into jade's room at 2 am and the latter slept through it

ALBEDO

You spend a lot of time in Albedo's lab. You're not entirely sure when it started becoming routine, but somewhere between him seeking your presence and you deciding to stay longer than necessary, it just... happened. You'd sit in the corner with a book or just watch him work, the way he moves through his experiments with methodical precision. 

Today, though, you're in the Favonius library instead. Albedo needed to research something specific, and you went along with him without question. You're sitting at one of the tables while he browses the shelves, pulling down various tomes with focused precision.

Lisa is at the front desk when Albedo brings his stack of books to check them out. You're waiting nearby, and she glances between the two of you with that knowing smile of hers.

"My, my, someone's been spending a lot of time with our dear Chief Alchemist," she says to you, her voice sweet as honey. She's already flipping through the first book. "Taking quite the interest in his work, are we?"

"Just curious," you say, suddenly very aware of how close Albedo is standing.

"Mm, how thoughtful of you." She continues scanning, her eyes flickering up to Albedo for just a moment. "Your lover must appreciate having someone so interested in what he does."

She says it so casually, so mixed in with the mundane task of checking out books, that it takes a moment for the words to actually register. By the time they do, she's already moving on to the next book, completely unbothered.

Albedo pauses. You notice it immediately—his hand stills on the counter, and there's a moment where he seems to be processing something. His gaze drifts to the side, not quite looking at Lisa, not quite looking at you. He's just... considering. Turning the words over in his mind the way he does with everything else. 

Then, just as quietly as the pause came, he seems to release it. He doesn't correct her. Doesn't say anything at all. Just sets down the remaining books on the counter in that careful way of his.

“Oh, uhm,” You begin, looking over at Albedo. “We, uh, aren’t together.”

Lisa glances up, catches something in his expression, and her smile widens slightly. But she says nothing more.

Later, when you're back at the library and Albedo is focused on his research, you find yourself thinking about what Lisa said.

"Do you think I'm a distraction?" you ask casually, not looking up from your book.

Albedo doesn't pause in his work. "No." The answer is immediate. Certain. You turn a page.

"Lisa thinks we're together," you say.

He sets down the vial he held with careful precision. Turns to look at you fully, and for a long moment, he doesn't say anything. His soft, analytical gaze is fixed on you, and the silence stretches out—long enough that you start to feel uncomfortable, long enough that you begin to wonder if you've said something wrong.

And then, as though he had reached a conclusion so simple and obvious, "Would that be so strange?"

You realise you don't have an answer for that. And more importantly, that perhaps, no, it would not be so strange after all. 

AYATO

The Kamisato clan commissioner rarely ventured into the markets. Usually, he would have sent either Thoma or one of his other myriad helpers to fetch whatever it was he or Ayaka needed. But, today, perhaps as a change of environment—away from the towering paperwork he had to fill—Ayato decided to accompany you in your shopping. He always had a peculiar habit of trailing behind you, even when it was unnecessary. You had gotten used to his presence in your life. A shadow. An extremely coy and teasing shadow, that is. 

Besides, perhaps the presence of the commissioner would snag you a couple of good deals while out and about. 

You curled a bolt of silk green fabric around your wrist. Pretty, smooth. Ayato peeked over your shoulder, scrutinising the item in so much more detail than you were at all. 

You turned back to look at him and huffed, a sound of amusement, “What, is it not to your liking, Ayato?”

“Well,” he seemed to draw out, catching your eyes. “I hardly think it’s your shade.”

Not your shade? Just as a retort bubbled up in your throat, you were interrupted by the sound of the vendor. “Ah, commissioner!” He said. “Interested in imported silks, are you?”

The man seemed to be pulling out more cloth, shades of different colours—silver, lavender, pink, blue. His hands moved with practiced efficiency as he laid out the fabrics over the counter. He seemed to be going on and on about where each piece was imported from—this one from Liyue, the other a local craftsman from Inazuma, the other cultivated in the meadows of Mondstadt. 

But then he picked out a specific piece and looked over to Ayato. “I’m sure your lover would look stunning in the deeper blues,” he said. “Does the lady have a preference, or should we let the commissioner decide?”

You tensed. 

Lover? And the man had said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. You felt your cheeks warm and suddenly you seemed to become all too aware of the little distance between you and Ayato. As though hypersensory, you could feel the way Ayato’s hands stilled, resting for a moment at your hip. You looked over at him. 

And yet, there was no change in his expression. If anything, the small smile he had on his face had stretched a fractional amount. His head tilted to the side. 

“I think she would look rather beautiful,” Ayato said. Simple and casual, his eyes snagging on you for half a second. It was like he hadn’t even heard the former part of the sentence. Or, scratch that, like he hadn’t heard anything the vendor had just said. 

The vendor was simply ecstatic to have sold something to the commissioner, and—apparently—his “lover,” and had left to wrap the item. 

You paused for a second, before turning to the man next to you. “What was that?” 

Ayato hummed non-commitally as he looked at you. “What was what?” He feigned ignorance, that smug idiot. He never missed a single thing. Once you had changed the scent of your perfume from Sakura Bloom to Naku Weed, and he had caught it the moment you stepped into his office; there was no way he hadn’t heard that. 

“He just called me your lover!” You pressed. 

Ayato just tilted his head, his fingers tapping against the wooden counter. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t correct him.”

“No.”

The heat in your face seemed to rise in temperature. Just what exactly was he playing at? Why was he staring at you like this was the most normal thing ever? Was he not bothered? And the way the merchant had said it, too, it was like everyone in the entirety of Inazuma knew about this except for you!

“Why not?” You asked, growing more shifty by the second. 

Ayato let out a laugh, a sweet, melodic little sound, “You didn't seem eager to correct him yourself.”

You opened your mouth to argue, and then closed it again. “W-Well, I was just about—but then, I…” Any and all justification that rose in your throat withered away. Especially when Ayato was staring at you like that. Like he was challenging you to question that assumption, daring you to change it. 

That day, the two of you walked away having bought an expensive indigo fabric. Matching the Kamisato insignia.

CHILDE

The training grounds were empty except for the two of you. You'd been sparring with Childe for the better part of an hour, and he was still grinning like he was having the time of his life—which, knowing him, he probably was.

"Your footwork's off," he called out, circling you with that predatory grace he had when he was actually engaged. "You're telegraphing your next move."

"Maybe I want you to know what I'm doing," you shot back, lunging. He sidestepped easily, but you'd anticipated that, spinning to catch him off-guard with a follow-up strike. He blocked it, and the impact sent a jolt up your arm. "Or maybe you're just slow today."

"Slow?" He laughed, and there was an edge to it now—the kind that meant he'd stopped holding back. He came at you with a series of quick strikes, testing your reflexes, and you matched him, parry for parry. 

Your muscles were already burning from the previous rounds, but you pushed anyway because he'd give you that look of approval when you did, that slight nod like you'd passed some invisible test. "You're the one who's slowing down. Your last five moves have been predictable."

"Only because you're boring me," you said, breathing harder now. You twisted away from his next strike, used his momentum against him, and nearly got him off-balance. Nearly. He recovered with infuriating ease, but you caught the flash of something in his expression—genuine interest now, not just amusement.

The sparring continued, and at one point, you overextended on a strike. His hand came out to steady you, gripping your arm just above the elbow. It was meant to be instructional—a correction of your form—but he held it for a moment, his thumb brushing against your skin before he released you. Neither of you acknowledged it. He just stepped back and said, "Again. Better this time."

You came at him again, and somewhere in the middle of it, there was a moment where he caught your wrist mid-strike. His hand was warm, his grip firm but not painful. He could have thrown you. Instead, he held it for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, and you were close enough to see the slight raise in his eyebrow—a challenge. You twisted your arm, trying to break free, and he let you go with a grin.

"Getting better," he said.

"I've always been good. You're just finally noticing," you replied, and charged at him again.

By the time you both called it, you were both breathing hard. Sweat dripped down your temple, and your arms felt like lead. Childe was still smiling though, that infuriating, easy smile of his that suggested he could do this all day. He grabbed his water bottle, tossed you one, and you caught it easily. The cold water was a relief as you drank, trying to catch your breath.

You were leaning against the nearby pillar, still catching your breath, when you heard voices approaching. Not close yet, but getting closer. You recognized one of them immediately—Paimon's high-pitched chatter, and underneath it, Lumine's quieter responses. You didn't think much of it. They were probably just passing through the training grounds on their way somewhere else.

Childe was standing a few feet away from you, already looking refreshed despite the exertion. He had that energy about him, the kind that didn't seem to deplete no matter how hard he pushed himself. He caught you looking at him and raised an eyebrow.

"What? Do I have something on my face?" he asked, already moving toward you.

"Just wondering how you're not completely dead," you said. "Normal people need recovery time."

"I'm not normal people." He stopped beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. Without any real thought to it, he reached over and fixed a strand of your hair that had come loose during the sparring, tucking it back behind your ear. It was such a casual gesture, the kind of thing he did without thinking. Your breath caught slightly, but he was already pulling his hand back, already grinning at you like he hadn't just done something that made your heart rate pick up for reasons that had nothing to do with the exercise.

"Definitely not normal," you muttered, looking away.

"Hey, Childe! Lumine and I were just—oh!"

You looked up to see Paimon floating toward you both, her expression shifting to something almost knowing as she took in the sight of you two standing close together, both flushed and breathing hard. Lumine followed behind her, her eyes flickering between you and Childe with that quiet observation of hers.

"We were just heading to the Adventurers' Guild," Paimon continued, but there was a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "But wow, looks like you two have been going at it pretty hard. I'm just glad Childe's finally found his special someone! But sheesh, do you have to go that hard on her?"

There was a beat. You opened your mouth to correct her, to clarify whatever assumption she'd just made, but Childe moved first. His arm came around you without hesitation, pulling you against his side in one smooth motion. It was the kind of casual contact you two shared all the time, except it wasn't casual now. Not the way he was looking at Paimon, not the way his hand rested at your hip like it belonged there.

"Yeah, well," he said, his voice easy and warm, "took me long enough to find someone worth the effort."

Lumine's lips curved into the faintest smile. "That's one way to put it," she said, and there was definitely something knowing in her tone.

You felt your face flush. You pushed against his chest, your hand flat against the fabric of his shirt.

"You're insane," you said, but you were already laughing despite yourself, despite the way your heart was doing backflips.

Paimon giggled, seeming satisfied with whatever she thought she'd figured out, and Lumine gave you both a small wave before they continued on their way. You watched them go, still half-pressed against Childe's side, and the moment they were out of earshot, you pushed away from him properly.

"You want to enlighten me on what you were implying there?" you asked, turning to face him.

Childe's grin was still there, but something underneath it had shifted. He wasn't quite looking at you directly, was instead focused on something past your shoulder, his expression caught between amusement and something you couldn't quite read.

"Was I implying something?" he said, but there was no real teasing in it now.

"You just told them we're together."

He finally looked at you then, and his expression was softer than you'd expected. Still smiling, but there was something real behind it—something that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with the sparring.

"And?" he said softly. "I wasn't lying though, was I?"

KAEYA

You'd been coming to the tavern with Kaeya for weeks now. It started innocuously enough—he'd asked if you wanted a drink after a particularly grueling shift, and you'd said yes mostly because you were too tired to say no. Somewhere along the way, it became routine. Every few nights you'd find yourself at the counter with him, and he'd order for you without asking. He always got it right, which was irritating in its own way.

Tonight was like any other night. You were sitting at your usual spot, the one that had somehow become your spot, when someone approached. One of the regulars—a member of the Adventurer’s Guild—someone you'd seen around enough times to recognize but not enough to know by name.

"Kaeya," the man slurred, leaning against the bar. "Your girlfriend's looking particularly radiant tonight."

You felt your spine stiffen slightly. Girlfriend. The word hung there for a moment, waiting to be corrected. 

You looked over at Kaeya, waiting for him to say something, to clarify, to do whatever it was he normally did when people made assumptions. But he just smiled. That easy, lazy smile of his. 

"Isn't she always?" he said, and the man laughed like it was the most charming thing he'd ever heard, and walked away.

You stared at your drink. The ice was melting slowly, diluting the amber liquid into something weaker.

"You could've corrected him," you said, looking over at him with barely concealed flustered confusion.

"Could have," Kaeya agreed. He wasn't looking at you, was instead focused on something across the bar with that detached amusement he wore like a second skin. "Didn't seem worth the effort."

You let it go. It was small enough, harmless enough. Kaeya was always like this—playing into characters, scenarios, whatever amused him in the moment. And besides, this was the tavern. People were drunk, made assumptions, barely thought twice about anything. Everything Kaeya said carried that thin veneer of humor, that deliberate lightness that suggested nothing he did was ever meant to be taken seriously. This must have been yet another attempt at his particular brand of entertainment, or maybe an effort to fluster you. Which you weren't falling for. Obviously.

But a few days later, he suggested dinner at Good Hunter's. You'd gone, mostly because you were hungry and he was there. Sara smiled when she saw you two sit down underneath the parasol. 

“Maybe the both of you would like a seat that’s more private instead?” She had suggested. Your face erupted into flames when she suggested that. And although you tried to correct it, Kaeya had already confirmed, and you found yourself in a shaded area to the side. The kind of area that everyone implicitly agreed was for honeymooning couples. 

You sat across from him, irritated, and tried to focus on your food. Kaeya, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered. He ate with deliberate slowness, and at one point he leaned across the table, his eye catching yours with a particular brand of teasing softness.

"You're scowling," he said, like it was an observation about the weather.

"I'm not scowling."

"You are." He reached over and tapped your forehead with one finger. "Right here."

You pulled back, but he'd already retreated, that infuriating smile still in place.

By the time you were walking back through the city, your irritation had crystallized into something sharper. Something that demanded to be addressed.

"What are you doing?" you asked, stopping abruptly in the middle of the street.

"Walking," Kaeya said simply. "Same as you."

"Don't be difficult. Everyone keeps thinking we're together and you're not correcting them. You're actually—" you gestured vaguely at the space between you, "—playing into it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed, that low, warm sound that always seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest. When he looked at you, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place. Something that felt almost like he'd been waiting for you to notice.

"I think you like it more than you're willing to admit," he said softly. His eye was half-lidded, that familiar amusement still there, but underneath it was something else. Something that made your chest feel tight.  "The question is whether I should keep pretending not to notice."

He was already walking ahead, already moving past you with that lazy stride of his, and you were left standing there, flushed and furious and unable to quite articulate why his assumption felt less like teasing and more like he'd read something in you that you weren't ready to show him.

Damn Kaeya.

LOHEN

The training grounds were filled with apprentice knights, all watching intently as you explained the formation they'd be running through. Lohen stood beside you, arms crossed, and you could already feel the restlessness radiating off him like heat.

"This is boring," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Just let them fight something real."

"They need to understand positioning first," you replied firmly, not even looking at him. "We're not sending them into the field unprepared."

"Unprepared is half the fun," he said, and you heard the grin in his voice.

You turned to face him. "You know what? Not everyone gets a thrill from almost dying."

"Their loss," he said, and there was something playful in his eyes, something that suggested he enjoyed getting a rise out of you. One of the younger apprentices nudged their friend, both of them watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement.

"This is why we have strategy," you continued, turning back to the group. "Lohen charges in and—"

"And it works," he interjected.

"And you get lucky," you corrected.

He laughed, "Lucky. Right. That's what we're calling it."

The training started smoothly enough. The apprentices moved through the formations you'd drilled into them, and you were positioned to observe and correct. Lohen was supposed to be doing the same, but his attention kept drifting, his foot tapping with barely contained energy. You could see him watching the apprentices with the kind of hunger that meant he was already bored. At one point, you caught him staring at you instead of the recruits, and when you raised an eyebrow in question, he just grinned wider.

After about an hour, one of the younger recruits approached as you and Lohen were standing together reviewing the performance. The recruit was still catching their breath, clearly impressed by how well the formation had held.

"It's lucky that the two of you are paired together," they said, glancing between you both. There was genuine respect in their voice. "Aren't the two of you together?"

The moment those words left the apprentice’s mouth, you could see something wicked shine in Lohen’s eyes. You opened your mouth to clarify, but Lohen moved before you could. He crossed the distance between you in a few strides and pulled you against his side, his arm wrapping around your waist like it had always belonged there. Your face went hot immediately, but he was looking at you with that chaotic grin of his, like he'd just been handed the best entertainment of his day.

"And she's the only person who could ever keep up with me," he said, loud and theatrical, and you could tell he was leaning into it now, performing for the apprentices. You felt your cheeks burn as you realized what he was doing, deliberately making a show of it, spinning this into something bigger just to see you get flustered. The manic energy was at full throttle, and he was clearly enjoying every second of your embarrassment.

Your face went hotter. One of the apprentices bit their lip to keep from smiling, while another looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the display. But most of them were watching with interest, waiting to see what would happen next.

"Lohen—" you started, trying to extract yourself, but he didn't let go. His grip on your waist was firm, not painful, just insistent.

"And she's brilliant," he continued, spinning you slightly so he could look at you properly. His hand was still on your back, and he was looking at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "Everything I'm not. Everything that keeps me from getting killed in a ditch somewhere." There was something underneath the chaos when he said it, something that suggested he meant it more than he was letting on.  A few of the recruits exchanged glances, and one of them smiled knowingly.

"You'd be lost without her," one of the bolder apprentices called out, earning a few quiet laughs from the others.

"Completely lost," Lohen agreed, but there was something in the way he said it that wasn't entirely joking. For just a moment, the manic energy seemed to settle, and he looked at you like you were the only thing in the training grounds that mattered. "Actually, yeah. I would be."

Then he released you, and the chaos returned. He was already moving away, already tossing some comments to the apprentices about formation angles, leaving you standing there flustered and hyperaware of every eye on you.

The rest of the training passed in a blur of corrections and positioning. By the time you finally dismissed the apprentices, your face had only just stopped burning. Lohen was already collecting his things, and you found yourself watching him move with that restless energy of his, wondering what he'd actually meant in that moment when everything had seemed to pause.

THOMA

You were sitting in one of the Kamisato estate's quieter rooms, mending a tear in one of the ceremonial clothes when Thoma appeared with tea. He set it down beside you without asking and settled into the seat across from you.

"That's going to take forever," he said, watching you work the needle through the delicate fabric.

"Only if I rush," you replied, concentrating on your stitching. "You taught me that."

He smiled at that, leaning back and watching you work. It was comfortable, the kind of silence that didn't need filling. You'd been coming to this room more often lately, always finding some reason to be here. Mending. Reading. Just sitting. And somehow Thoma always seemed to find his way in.

After a while, he got up and moved to sit beside you instead. He didn't ask permission. He just shifted closer until his shoulder nearly touched yours. He picked up a different piece that needed mending and started working on it without preamble.

"You're still doing that stitch wrong," he said after a while, no judgment in his voice.

"I know," you said, not bothering to correct yourself. "But you always fix it for me anyway."

He smiled, and you swore you could see the pupils of his green eyes dilate a fractional amount. His hand came over yours, guiding the needle through the proper motion. His fingers were warm, and he moved slowly, making sure you understood. When he pulled back, you found yourself missing the contact.

You worked like that for a long time. Sometimes he'd hum something soft under his breath. Sometimes you'd ask him about his day, and he'd answer while still focused on the mending. At one point, you reached for more thread at the same moment he did, and your hands brushed. Neither of you moved away.  You both just continued working, shoulders close, existing together in the quiet of the afternoon.

"You're thinking too hard," he said once, glancing at your face.

"How can you tell?"

"You get this little crease," he said, reaching over and smoothing it away with his thumb. It was such a gentle gesture that you forgot to breathe for a moment.

You were so focused on the mending that you didn't notice when Ayaka appeared in the doorway. She had a few attendants with her, but she stopped when she saw the two of you sitting close together, heads bent over the work, your shoulders nearly touching.

"Oh, there you two are," she said warmly. "I've been meaning to mention something." Thoma looked up, and you followed his gaze.

"There's a couples' festival coming up at the end of the month," Ayaka continued, her tone genuinely kind. 

"I thought perhaps you two might enjoy attending together. It would be nice for you to have some time away from the estate."

You felt your face warm. Thoma's reaction was immediate. His entire face flushed a deep red, from his neck all the way to his ears. He set down the cloth quickly, maybe too quickly, like he needed something to do with his hands.

"Oh, we're—" he started, his voice slightly strained. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, he was trying for his usual politeness, but the fluster was unmistakable. "We're not actually together, Lady Ayaka. We just spend a lot of time together because of work, that's all."

The correction was gentle, the way everything Thoma did was gentle. But there was something in the way his hands gripped the cloth a little too tightly, the way he wouldn't quite meet Ayaka's eyes, that made your chest tighten. One of the attendants looked faintly disappointed.

Ayaka's expression softened with understanding, and she nodded. "I see. My apologies for the misunderstanding." She excused herself politely, and the moment she left, the room felt smaller somehow.

You picked up your mending again, but your hands felt clumsy. Thoma did the same, but neither of you were really focused on the work anymore. The ease you'd had before was gone, replaced by something tense and uncertain. The afternoon light filtered through the screens, and the silence stretched between you, heavy with things unsaid.

When the sun started to set and you finally set down your work, Thoma was already moving. You said something soft to break the tension, just to ease it.

"That was kind of awkward," you said quietly, not quite looking at him.

He paused, his hand lingering on the cloth. You could see him turn it over in his mind, searching for something.

"I didn't mean to be rude," he said, finally meeting your eyes. "She was just... it caught me off guard."

"I know," you said, offering him a small smile. "It's fine. These things happen."

He looked at you for a long moment, and there was something in his expression that made your breath catch. Something that looked like regret, like he was reconsidering something he'd just said.

"Actually," he said, and his voice was steadier now, "about that festival."

You looked at him, waiting.

"It might not be a bad idea," he continued, and there was a careful consideration to his words, like he was choosing each one deliberately. "For us to attend together, I mean. Not because anyone thinks we should. But because..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Because I'd like to spend that evening with you. If you'd want to."

Your breath caught slightly. There was nothing casual about the way he said it, despite how carefully he was choosing his words. There was intention there, and something that looked a lot like hope.

"Yeah," you said softly. "I'd like that."

VENTI

Venti had dragged you out to yet another performance. You weren't sure why he felt the need to do this—invite you specifically, stand you in a particular spot in the crowd where he could see you, like your presence mattered to the mechanics of him playing. But he'd shown up at your door this morning with his elfish smile and asked if you were busy. A pointless question, really. He would have begged and whined until you relented had you said no. 

On the way to the fountain, he'd been insufferable. He kept humming fragments of melodies, stopping abruptly to ask your opinion on them, then laughing at your answers like you'd said something hilarious when you were just trying to be helpful. At one point he'd grabbed your wrist and spun you around on the street for no reason, just to see your expression, probably.

"You're going to make me dizzy," you laugh, pulling your hand back.

"Is that a complaint, windblume?" he asked, and there was something in his tone that suggested he already knew the answer.

"Yes," you lied.

He had just smiled like he could see right through you.

Now, standing near the fountain while he set up, you watched him adjust his lyre with great care; the kind of care reserved for especially special things in one’s life. Which, for Venti, was music and—you were noticing more and more—you. 

He kept glancing over at you, making sure you were in the right spot, making sure you could see him properly. You found it funny, it was almost like a nervous tick. A flick of his gaze to you every few seconds to make especially sure that you had your eyes on him. It was unnecessary. Of course you could see him. You were always looking at him anyway.

Another bard approached as Venti was finishing his setup—someone you recognized vaguely from around the city. They exchanged greetings, the kind of easy familiarity that suggested they knew each other from the musician's circles. You turned your attention back to the fountain, not really listening until the other bard said something that made you tune back in.

"Your recent stuff has been different," he was saying to Venti. "All of it sounds like it's about the same person."

You felt something shift in your chest. His recent stuff? You hadn't really paid that much attention, if you were being honest. But now that it was being pointed out, you found yourself wondering if that was true. 

You'd been hearing him play new things lately, pieces you hadn't heard before, and now you were suddenly wondering who they were about.

The bard glanced over at you, then back at Venti, and you watched something click into place behind his expression.

"That your muse?" he asked, gesturing vaguely in your direction.

Venti laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made people turn their heads, that seemed to move through the air like something physical. He spun—actually spun, his coat catching the light—and when he looked at you, there was something deliberate in the movement.

"The best one I've ever had," he said, and he was looking directly at you when he said it.

Your face went hot. The other bard laughed too, charmed, and the conversation continued between them, but you weren't really listening anymore. You were stuck on that phrase, on the way Venti had said it, on the realization that apparently his recent compositions had been about you and you'd been too oblivious to notice.

An hour later, after the performance was over and you'd managed to slip away, you found yourself at the tavern. You were nursing a drink when Venti sat down beside you. He waved a hand to the bartender, and Charles just sighed—a routine. And then Venti’s gaze was fixed on you.

"You've been thinking about what I said," he observes.

"I haven't," you say, which is a lie and you both know it.

"Mm." He's amused. You can hear it in his voice. "That's exactly why you’ve been zoning out since my  performance?” He had that teasing lilt in his voice. You wanted to puncture his voice box. 

"You can't just say something like that and expect me not to—" you start, then stop because you're not actually sure what you're going to say. Expect you not to what? Wonder if he meant it? Wonder what it means? Wonder if you're reading too much into it?

"Not to what?" Venti prompts, and there's that tilt of his head again, that soft amusement in his expression.

"You know what," you snap, trying not to sound flustered. 

Venti, all he does is laugh. You really want to puncture his voice box. 

thanks so much for reading!!

Al-Haitham

You'd been coming to Al-Haitham's place for research so often that it had stopped feeling like you were imposing. He'd never made you feel like you were, which was the thing about him—he didn't do false hospitality. If he didn't want you there, he'd say so. The fact that he kept making tea and setting out space for your notes suggested he actually didn't mind.

Today you weren't even pretending the visit was strictly academic. You'd finished what you needed to do an hour ago, but you'd both just... stayed. You were sitting at the table while Al-Haitham read something, occasionally looking up to comment on whatever you were saying. It was easy. Comfortable in a way that surprised you, given how sharp he could be.

"That scholar from the other day," you said, thinking out loud. "The one who argued that Dendro propagation follows a seasonal pattern regardless of region?"

"The one who contradicted himself twice?" Al-Haitham asked, not looking up from his page.

"Exactly. He came up to me in the hallway today and doubled down on it. Like he genuinely believed repeating himself would make it more true."

Al-Haitham turned a page. "Some people mistake conviction for evidence."

"Is that what you do when you're wrong?" you asked. "Just state it more firmly?"

He glanced at you then, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. Not quite a smile, but close. "I'm rarely wrong."

"That's the conviction talking, not evidence."

"Actually, the evidence is extensive," he said, returning to his reading. "But I appreciate your effort to provoke me."

You'd thrown a pen at him for that, and he'd caught it without looking, set it down beside him, and continued reading like interruptions were just part of his normal day. Which, around you, they apparently were.

That was the thing about Al-Haitham. He didn't waste energy on pretense. He said what he thought, you either agreed or you didn't, and the conversation moved on without any of the exhausting social dance that made time with other people feel like work. Somewhere along the way, you'd stopped making excuses for why you were at his place so often. He'd stopped asking you to justify it. You just showed up, he made tea, and hours would pass without either of you particularly noticing.

You were halfway through explaining why you thought that scholar's methodology was flawed when Kaveh emerged from his room, looking distinctly disheveled and irritated. His eyes immediately landed on the sink full of dishes, and you watched his entire face sour.

"Are you serious right now?" he said, staring at them like they'd personally offended him. "I cleaned this yesterday."

"You did," Al-Haitham said, not looking up from his reading. "That doesn't mean it stays clean indefinitely."

"It's been one day!" Kaveh gestured wildly at the sink. "One day and you've already—you know what, I'm not doing this. I'm not your maid."

"No one asked you to be," Al-Haitham replied, his tone completely level. "I was going to wash them."

"When?" Kaveh demanded. "When you finally take a break from whatever you're doing? I don't understand how anyone tolerates this. How do you even manage spending this much time with him?" He looked directly at you, and his expression softened slightly, almost sympathetic.

You felt Al-Haitham's attention shift slightly, but he didn't look up from his book. "Well," you said, laughing, "he makes good tea. And he's usually right about things, which is annoying but useful for my research."

Kaveh laughed, shaking his head like you'd just confirmed something he'd suspected. "That's fair, I guess. But I really don't know how you managed to get a girlfriend who's smart, funny, and actually willing to put up with him. The last part is honestly the most shocking."

The words landed, and for a moment you couldn't quite process them. A girlfriend. He'd just assumed, in the most casual way, that you were Al-Haitham's girlfriend. Your face went hot immediately. You opened your mouth to correct him, to clarify, to explain that you and Al-Haitham were just—

"Your method is inefficient," Al-Haitham said to Kaveh, turning a page in his book like the comment had never happened. "You rewashed items last week that didn't need rewashing. That's wasteful."

Kaveh's head snapped toward him. "You're seriously lecturing me about dish-washing right now?"

"Someone should," Al-Haitham said. "Your approach suggests you're cleaning reactively rather than systematically. You should establish a schedule."

Kaveh's voice went up. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. This is why I don't understand how anyone—"

"If you'd just listen instead of assuming," Al-Haitham continued, still not looking up, "you'd realize systematic cleaning takes less time overall. Your current method is objectively less efficient."

Kaveh opened his mouth, closed it, then threw his hands up and disappeared back into his room. You heard his door slam, and then there was just silence.

You sat there, staring at your notes without actually seeing them. Al-Haitham had completely ignored what Kaveh had said. He hadn't corrected the assumption about you being his girlfriend. He'd just... moved past it. Addressed something else entirely like the comment was irrelevant.

But it wasn't irrelevant. You could feel it sitting there between the two of you, unacknowledged but present. The fact that he hadn't corrected it meant something. You weren't sure what, but it meant something.

Al-Haitham turned another page. You watched him do it, waiting to see if he'd acknowledge what had just happened. He didn't. He just kept reading like this was a normal afternoon, like your heart wasn't doing something strange in your chest.

An hour later, you said you should probably head back to your dormitory. Al-Haitham stood when you did, and as you were gathering your things, he said, "I'm going that way. I'll walk with you."

It wasn't a question. You grabbed your bag, and the two of you stepped out into the night. The temperature had dropped significantly since you'd arrived at his place. The air was sharp and cold, and you found yourself wrapping your arms around yourself without really thinking about it.

You felt Al-Haitham notice. He didn't say anything for a moment, just kept walking beside you. Then, without any fanfare, he was shrugging off his jacket and draping it around your shoulders.

"Al-Haitham—"

"You're cold," he said simply. Then he was pulling you closer by the sleeve, drawing you against his side. His warmth was immediate, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing.

You walked in silence for a moment, unable to focus on anything except the fact that he hadn't corrected Kaveh. That he was walking like this with you now, your arm linked with his, his jacket around you.

"Kaveh thought we were together," you said finally. Some part of you did that to spark conversation, an interesting little tit-bit to talk about. The other, more genuine part brought it up because it had been killing you for hours. It felt like a little animal inside your rib cage that was constantly being killed and brought back to life, a little flicker of hope, a mix of dread. You wanted an answer. 

Al-Haitham hummed non-commitally. You could feel the weight of his arm around you, steady and deliberate.

"Did it bother you?" he asked, raising a brow.

The question caught you off guard. You'd expected him to explain himself, to rationalize why he hadn't corrected Kaveh. Instead, he'd flipped it back on you.

"That's not—I was asking why you didn't—"

"I know what you were asking," he said. His tone matter-of-fact. "I'm asking what matters more. Whether I corrected him, or whether the assumption bothered you."

You opened your mouth and closed it. You weren't sure how to answer that honestly.

"It didn't bother me," you said finally, and it was true. It hadn't bothered you. It had confused you, unsettled you, made your pulse race for reasons you didn't want to examine too closely. But bothered wasn't the right word.

"Then we're fine," he said.

"Al-Haitham—"

"Besides," he said, and there was the faintest hint of something that might have been amusement in his voice, "I didn't say he was wrong about the general principle."

Wanderer

You were three pages into your research on Dendro propagation when Wanderer arrived at your study table without asking if he could sit. He didn't ask permission for things like that. He just pulled up a chair and settled in like he'd always been meant to be there.

"That's going to be wrong," he said, not bothering with a greeting.

You didn't look up from your notes. "You haven't even seen what I'm arguing."

"Doesn't matter. Whatever thesis you're building on that foundation is going to collapse." He leaned back in his chair. "The propagation rates in the northern regions don't follow the same pattern as the southern ones."

You did look up then, specifically to narrow your eyes at him. "That's because I'm specifically studying the southern regions. The northern data is irrelevant to my argument."

"It's always relevant," he said. "Ignoring contradictory data doesn't make your conclusion stronger. It makes you look like you didn't do the work."

The comment landed like a jab. You wanted to argue, but he wasn't entirely wrong. You made a note to revisit the northern data, grudgingly accepting that he'd identified a gap in your research. There was something about the way he sat across from you—completely at ease in his certainty—that made you want to prove him wrong just to see if he'd admit it when you did.

"Anything else, or are you done?" you asked, turning back to your work.

"For now," he said. "I need to find that text on Dendro cultivation. Should be in the older section."

He stood and disappeared into the depths of the Archives, and you returned to your notes. You'd lost track of time when you noticed someone settling into the chair he'd vacated. One of the other scholars—someone whose name you could probably remember if you tried, but hadn't bothered to. He was the type who was always hovering around, always trying to insert himself into conversations in ways that made your skin crawl slightly. There was an entitlement to him, the kind of confidence that came from never being told no and deciding that meant he didn't have to listen when someone eventually did.

"So," he said, leaning back in the chair like he owned it, "you're always studying. You should take a break sometime. Come get dinner with me."

It wasn't a question. It was stated like a foregone conclusion, like your agreement was merely a formality. You didn't look up from your work. "I'm pretty busy right now."

"Come on," he said, and there was an edge to his voice that suggested he didn't appreciate being declined so casually. "You can't study all the time. I know this place outside the city. We could go tonight."

"I really can't," you said, keeping your tone polite but firm. You turned a page, hoping the gesture would make it clear you wanted to return to your work.

He was quiet for a moment, and you thought maybe he'd gotten the message. But then he leaned forward, and his tone shifted into something sharper, more frustrated.

"What does he have that I don't?" he asked, and there was real irritation underneath the words now.

You looked up, confused. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Wanderer," he said, his jaw tightening. "You're always with him. Every time I see you, he's here. You two are constantly together, and I don't understand what he has that makes you so willing to waste your time with him but not willing to give me five minutes. So what does he have that I don't?"

Before you could respond, before you could even figure out what you wanted to say, Wanderer appeared. He was just suddenly there, that book in hand, and his expression was the kind of blank that suggested he'd caught enough of the conversation to understand exactly what was happening.

"A brain," he said flatly, and his voice had that particular edge that made people take him seriously. "How about you go and pester someone else?"

The scholar's face flushed immediately. He tried to salvage the situation with some blustering comment about respect, but Wanderer had already turned away with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Humans," he said, more to himself than to anyone in particular. "Can you believe them? Making assumptions about things they don't understand. It's exhausting." 

He settled back into his chair like nothing had happened, opening his book with the kind of finality that suggested the conversation was over. He didn't look at you. Didn't acknowledge the scholar's eventual departure. Just sat in silence, reading or pretending to read, and left you sitting there with the weight of what had just happened pressing down on you.

The scholar eventually gathered his things and left, embarrassed and defeated.

You should have left it at that. Should have just gone back to your research and forgotten the whole interaction. It was the kind of thing that happened sometimes—someone misread a situation, made an assumption, got shut down. But as you watched Wanderer settle back into his chair, something stuck with you.

He hadn't corrected the scholar. He'd had the perfect opportunity to clarify—to say "we're not together" or "she's free to see whoever she wants." Instead, he'd simply shut it down with a cutting remark and moved on like the misunderstanding wasn't even worth acknowledging. The fact that he'd called out the assumption about humans making assumptions felt deliberate somehow, like he was pointing out something specific about what had just happened without actually saying it outright.

Hours passed. You continued your research, but your mind kept drifting back to that moment. To the way Wanderer had stepped in without hesitation. 

You found yourself noticing things you probably should have paid attention to earlier. The way Wanderer always positioned himself where he could see you in the Archives. How he'd appear exactly when you needed him, like he had some sixth sense for when you were about to run into trouble. The small gestures that suddenly seemed like they might mean something more than friendly concern. How he leaned closer when you were talking, like he didn't want to miss anything you said. The way his attention was always on you, even when he was pretending to focus on something else.

By the time evening rolled around and you were both packing up your things to leave, you were thoroughly unsettled. You couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't make sense of why he'd let the assumption stand. Why he hadn't corrected it.

Wanderer noticed. You could tell by the way he glanced at you, by the particular expression on his face that suggested he'd been watching you think all afternoon.

"You've been quiet," he observed. "Usually you're insufferable by this point in the day."

You didn't bother denying it. "Are you thinking about what happened in the Archives?" he asked, and there was something almost knowing in his tone, like he'd been waiting for you to bring it up.

You hesitated, then decided there was no point in pretending. "Yes. When that scholar made his assumption, you didn't deny it. You just let him think what he wanted."

He was already walking toward the exit, assuming you'd follow. You did follow, because of course you did. You always did.

"Why does it matter?" he asked as you walked through the hallways. "Why do titles matter anyway?  People are obsessed with naming things, categorizing them, putting them into boxes so they can feel like they understand something. It's exhausting."

"That's not an answer," you said, frustration creeping into your voice. "You could have just told him the truth."

"I've had too many names and identities to care about what we're called," he said, adjusting his hat to block the evening sun. "But I know what you mean to me."

The admission hung between you, heavy with implication. You felt your pulse pick up, felt something shift fundamentally in the way you were looking at him.

"And what do I mean to you?" you asked, your voice quieter now.

He smirked, and that familiar arrogance slipped back into place. But there was warmth underneath it, something that looked suspiciously like fondness.

"How about you figure it out?" he said, tilting his head slightly. "You know, for someone so intelligent, you're remarkably oblivious."

You stood there for a moment, completely still, watching him disappear around the corner without a backward glance. Your pulse was racing, your chest felt tight with something unfamiliar and terrifying, and you were left standing there in the empty street realizing that you'd completely miscalculated everything about him, about this, about whatever was happening between you. The worst part was that he knew it too.

Wriothesley

The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide had a habit of making you wait. Every time you had an excuse to visit his office, he'd somehow find a way to extend your stay. A question about the documents you'd brought. A piece of tea he wanted your opinion on. A conversation that started about work and drifted into something that had nothing to do with the Fortress at all. Every time, the line between professional and personal blurred when you were with him. And if you were being honest, you didn’t mind that at all. 

Today you'd come to deliver some documents. You'd done it a dozen times. But as you walked through the corridors, you found yourself hoping he'd be free. Hoping he'd ask you to stay for a few minutes. Hoping for that particular smile he got when he saw you—the one that suggested you were the most interesting thing that had happened to his day. Which was ridiculous. He was the Duke of the Fortress. He had actual responsibilities. The fact that you'd somehow become part of his routine was probably just coincidence. Or convenience. Certainly not because he enjoyed your company the way you'd started to enjoy his.

His office door was open when you arrived. He was reviewing paperwork, but he looked up the moment you knocked.

"Documents?" he asked, already setting down his pen.

"From the west wing," you confirmed, crossing the room to set them on his desk. "The quarterly inventory."

He gestured to the chair across from him. "Stay. I want to ask you about the discrepancies in the last count."

It was a convenient excuse. You both knew there were no significant discrepancies. All the paperwork you did was perfect, and Wriothesely knew that. But you sat anyway, because you were, apparently, incapable of saying no to him.

The next hour passed in a blur of conversation that had nothing to do with inventory. He asked about your week, mentioned something he'd read that reminded him of you, made you laugh at some observation about one of the other guards. His attention was focused entirely on you, and it was intoxicating in a way you weren't prepared to examine too closely.

At one point, he stood to get something from his filing cabinet, and when he passed your chair, his hand brushed your shoulder. It was such a small gesture, probably meaningless. Except you'd noticed he did it every time he walked past you. A small touch. Like he needed to reassure himself you were still there.

Or maybe you were reading too much into it, and he did that with everyone.

"You're distracted," he observed, settling back into his chair. "Something on your mind?"

"No, I'm fine," you said quickly. "Just thinking about work."

"I have a meeting with the senior guards in a few minutes," he said, glancing at his pocket watch. "Bureaucratic tedium. You're welcome to wait here if you'd like. Shouldn't take more than an hour."

Your pulse did something stupid at the casual offer. Stay in his office. Alone. Surrounded by his things. "Sure," you said, trying to sound unbothered. "I have time."

He stood, straightening his jacket. "There's tea on the side table. Help yourself to anything you need." After he left, you told yourself you'd spend the time reading one of the books on his shelf. Instead, you found yourself noticing small things. The way his desk was organized but not obsessively so. The way he'd left his chair still warm. The faint scent of something cool and expensive that you'd come to associate with him. This was getting out of hand. 

You needed to be more careful about how much time you spent in his company, how much you looked forward to it. The Fortress wasn't a place where relationships happened casually. People noticed things. People talked. The city as a whole was a place rife with gossip, and you weren’t exactly sure if this was the kind of gossip that needed to be spread. 

You stood and walked to the window, staring out at the courtyard below. The guards were doing their rounds. You weren't paying attention to your surroundings the way you should have been when you decided to stretch your legs in the corridor.

The hand on your arm came from nowhere. You were spun around, slammed against the cold stone wall before you could process what was happening. The air left your lungs in a sharp gasp.

An inmate. One you didn't recognize, eyes wild and desperate.

"You're with him, aren't you?" he hissed, his grip on your arm painfully tight. "The Duke. His partner. You'd know things."

Your heart was pounding so hard you thought it might burst. Fear flooded through you, crystalline and sharp. This was real. This was actually happening.

"I don't—" you started, but his grip tightened.

"Don't lie to me," he spat. "Where's the emergency exit? Where does he keep the keys?"

You tried to pull away, tried to think of something to say that might defuse this, but panic was making your thoughts scatter.

His other hand came up.

Then he was gone.

Wriothesley stood between you and him, and you'd never seen him look like this. All the charm, all the politeness stripped away. What remained was something colder. He looked every bit likt eh terrifying, infamous warden of Meropide. The kind of man you heard rumors about from people all around Fontaine but were hard pressed to believe them because he was never like that with you. Until now.

"Touch her again," Wriothesley said, his voice dropping, "and you'll find out exactly why I run this place." He didn't raise his voice. The threat was implicit in everything about him. The way he stood, the way his eyes had gone cold, the certainty that he could make good on whatever he was implying.

The inmate scrambled backward, apologizing frantically, and Wriothesley didn't even watch him go. He turned to you immediately.

"Are you hurt?" His voice shifted back to something more familiar, but there was still an edge to it. His hands came up like he wanted to touch you but was restraining himself.

You shook your head, still trembling. Your arm ached where the inmate had grabbed you. "I'm okay. I'm fine."

Wriothesley guided you back to his office without a word, one hand on the small of your back. Steady. Grounding. Once inside, he had you sit while he examined your arm, his touch gentle now, checking for damage.

"He didn't break the skin," he said. "But you'll have bruises."

You nodded, still trying to process what had just happened.

After several minutes of silence, when your heart had stopped racing quite so violently, the other part of what had happened filtered through.

You let out a shaky laugh—the kind that comes from adrenaline finally releasing. "Well. That was terrifying."

Wriothesley watched you, his expression softening slightly now that the immediate danger had passed.

"Maybe I should stop spending so much time with you," you said, trying to inject some levity into your voice. "He thought we were together. If I'm going to get cornered by inmates, at least let it be for something I'm actually guilty of."

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Is that what you're concerned about? Your reputation?"

"Among other things," you said, managing a small smile. "Mostly just the part where I nearly got my arm broken because someone thought I had access to your secrets."

"Fair point," he said, and there was genuine warmth in his expression now. He stood and moved to lean against his desk, close enough that you could see the amusement lingering in his eyes. "Though for what it's worth, that inmate did you a favor. Gave you a decent excuse to stay in my office longer than usual without anyone questioning it."

You stared at him. "That's your takeaway from nearly being cornered?"

"One of several," he said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Though I admit the timing was inconvenient. I was just starting to enjoy our conversation."

"You're impossible," you said, but there was no real heat in it.

He tilted his head slightly, considering you. "You could always use it as an excuse to come back more often. For your safety, naturally. Can't have you getting cornered again." His tone was light. "The offer stands. Anytime you need it."

The way he said it made clear he wasn't really talking about the physical space anymore.

Xiao

You'd learned to recognize the patterns of Xiao's presence. The way he appeared on your commissions before you'd even finished the previous one, materializing from nowhere with that particular blend of concern and restraint that he tried so hard to hide. How he'd always position himself where he could see you, even when he pretended he wasn't watching, his attention a constant weight you'd grown accustomed to. The small, almost imperceptible softening in his expression when you looked his way—a shift so brief you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention. But you were always paying attention.

Today's commission had been brutal. Your muscles ached with the kind of deep weariness that came from hours of constant movement, and your clothes were torn in at least two places. You were fairly certain you had a bruise forming on your ribs, tender to the touch. By the time you'd finished and made your way back to the inn, all you could think about was a hot bath and sleep, in that order. You climbed the stairs toward your room, already mentally preparing yourself for the solitude of it, when you remembered you hadn't eaten yet.

You made your way to the balcony overlooking the courtyard instead, needing air before food. And Xiao was there, exactly where he always was, leaning against the railing like he'd been waiting. You'd stopped trying to figure out how he got there before you did—he was an adeptus, after all, and teleportation was hardly the strangest thing about him. One moment the balcony was empty, the next he was there, solid and present, his gaze already on you.

"You're hurt," he said, his eyes sweeping over you with that clinical precision he had, taking in every torn seam and scraped knuckle.

"Just sore," you replied, settling onto the railing a few feet away from him. The evening air was cool against your skin. "Nothing serious."

"You should have called my name," he said, and there was something almost accusatory in his tone. "I would have protected you."

You couldn't resist. "Aw, were you worried?" you asked, tilting your head with a small smile.

He looked away, toward the valley. "I'm always worried about you," he said, his voice quieter than before but no less earnest. There was no deflection in it, no attempt to soften the statement with humor or distance. Just the plain truth, delivered with the kind of sincerity that made your chest tighten.

You didn't tease him further. Just sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. The wind moved through the courtyard below, carrying the scent of evening flowers and distant rain.

The innkeeper appeared on the balcony carrying a tray with soup, bread, and fresh water—the way they always did when you returned from your commissions. They were smiling warmly, clearly pleased with themselves for the thoughtfulness.

"Your partner must be hungry as well after watching you out there all day," they said kindly, setting the tray down on the small table beside you. Partner, you registered with faint amusement.

Their gaze flickered to Xiao, who was standing at the railing, and you could see them putting the pieces together in their mind. The protective stance. The way his attention never wavered from you. The obvious care. "Should I bring something for them as well?"

The words landed, and you felt Xiao go rigid beside you. You had to suppress a smile at the sheer absurdity of it. Partner. Xiao. The adeptus who spent half his time trying to convince you he didn't care about much else besides his ‘karmic duty’, who was allergic to admitting feelings, who acted like wanting someone was the most burdensome thing in the world.

"We're not—" Xiao said curtly, his voice sharp with irritation. He didn't even look at the innkeeper, just stared straight ahead. "I'm not her partner."

The innkeeper flinched slightly at his tone and quickly retreated with an apologetic bow, clearly having misjudged the situation.

And that's when you lost it.

"Oh my god," you said, not even trying to hide your grin as Xiao stood there, clearly agitated, his entire body practically vibrating with embarrassment. "Did you just—did you actually just deny that in front of everyone?"

"Don't," he said flatly, but you could already see the flush creeping up his neck. His ears were turning pink.

"Your ears are completely red right now," you continued, absolutely delighted at this rare display of genuine flustering. "I didn't know you could blush like that. It's actually kind of adorable."

"I wasn't blushing," he said, but his ears somehow got even redder at the mention of it, which rather defeated the entire purpose of his denial and made the situation even funnier.

"You denied it so fast," you said, leaning back in your chair with the kind of satisfaction that comes from genuinely embarrassing an immortal being. "I've never seen you move that quickly. Usually you're all stoic and composed, and then someone says 'partner' and suddenly you're rushing across a room like—"

"That did not occur," he muttered, and you could practically feel the irritation radiating off him in waves. “...no respect for the Adepti,” he mumbled under his breath.

"You were embarrassed," you pressed, enjoying this far too much. "Genuinely flustered. Xiao, what would be so bad about people thinking we were—"

"It's not that," he cut you off, his voice sharp with frustration. He finally looked directly at you, and there was real emotion in his expression—the kind of frustration that comes from not being able to articulate something you're desperately feeling, something that's been building up inside you. "It's just... people don't understand what I am. What being associated with me means. It's—" He stopped himself, jaw clenching hard enough that you could see the muscle work beneath his skin.

You tilted your head, your smile softening slightly as you realized this wasn't just about embarrassment anymore. "What? Being associated with you is what?"

He was quiet for a long moment. The sounds of the inn filled the space between you—the gentle murmur of other diners, the clink of dishes in the kitchen, the wind moving through the open windows. You could see the internal struggle playing out across his face, the way he was fighting to find words for something that clearly didn't have any.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. Quieter. Like he was admitting something he'd been trying desperately not to say, something that had been eating at him for longer than either of you probably wanted to acknowledge.

"You're the only thing I've ever wanted to keep. And that scares me more than anything."

Your breath caught. The teasing dropped from your expression entirely. Your pulse picked up in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exhaustion or adrenaline. It was just him. Just those words, delivered with such raw honesty that you felt them like a physical thing, like they'd reached inside your chest and squeezed.

"Xiao, I—" you started, but the words wouldn't come.

He stood abruptly, like staying still was suddenly unbearable. He simply disappeared—one moment solid and present, the next gone entirely, like he'd never been there at all. You sat alone on the balcony with the untouched tray of food, heat flooding your cheeks, your heart racing so hard you were certain the entire inn could hear it.

You had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

...i should really stop getting out of control with the word count >:(( but i get too excited writing about them 😭

you grumble, sighing before fluttering your eyes open. you were expecting your usual ceiling, but someone is blocking your view. his familiar mint green hair and piercing two toned eyes immediately wakes you up from your grogginess.

"l-lohen ? what ..." looming on top of you, he's looking down at you with a gentle gaze, no malicious shenanigans whatsoever that he always pulled on the knights occassionally. he just sits there, smiling softly as both his hands rest on both side of your head.

"good morning, sleepyhead. sleep well ?" he asks in a quiet voice. you are no stranger to this side of lohen, especially in private. as much as a battle maniac he is, its hard to believe he has a soft spot for you in his heart.

you simply nod. you bask in the tranquil of the early morning, observing your beloved in this rare moment. his coat is slipping down from his shoulder, revealing his sleeveless undershirt with a peek of his developing muscles.

"good." lohen leans down, pressing his face on the nape of your neck while peppering your skin with little kisses. he carefully drops his weight on top of you, enveloping your presence with his. he wraps his arms around your body, quietly caressing your mess of a hair.

lohen continues to kiss upwards your neck, your ear and cheek, before trailing down your jawline with much passion that it sends shivers down your spine.

"h-how long have you been here ?" you squeak, trying your best to not let out any weird noises. you cant help but to feel fuzzy with how he's treating you right now.

he chuckles at the shakiness of your voice, but doesnt comment anything about it. "since .... dawn ? and, you are quite the careless one. leaving your windows unlocked at night ? who knows anyone might break in while you're sleeping. thats a no no."

his lips finally finds the corner of your lips before straightening his back to see your face. bashful, red and shy. just the way he loves it. he adores you like this.

"thats because my boyfriend here doesnt like using the door like everyone else. its your fault for not wanting my spare key." your arguement is valid indeed. lohen has make it his habit to climb through your windows since the first day you both date each other. without a doubt, your boyfriend is something else and you've just grown accustomed to his antics.

he laughs, but not to mock you. he absolutely loves it when you try to talk back to him. its somewhat hot. threading his fingers through your bangs, he places a loving kiss on your forehead, while his other hand caressing your cheek gently. "you could've force me to take it and lock the windows at night. dont tell me you secretly enjoyi-"

"its not like that !" hands slapping his mouth shut from spewing more nonsense, which in return, makes him laughs again, yet muffled at your reaction. he pries your hand away before kissing the knuckles, like the knight he is.

"alright, alright. no more teasing~ how about we cuddle for a bit ? i know you have the time today." which is true. you dont have anything urgent to be done today. might as well take his suggestion into consideration.

even so, you cant bring yourself to refuse him everytime when he asks so nicely like this. as if saying 'yes', you curl your arms around his body. surprisingly, he doesnt reek of poison or blood this time. perhaps he has already cleaned himself up before sneaking into your room.

"you owe me another hour of sleep."

"sugarplum, i wont mind if you decided to hibernate like a wolf. be greedy, wont you ?"

lohen finally slips out from his coat and tosses it somewhere in your room. cupping your face, he gives you the most slow and passionate morning kiss. the way his lips fit right onto yours is like puzzle pieces. he moves carefully, not wanting to overwhelm you this early.

after a minute, he parts from you, resting his forehead against yours as he smiles sheepishly in victory, satisfied that he can spend his time with you like this.

"im not letting you out of my sight today, sugarplum."

"dont plan to, my dear vice captain."

-

After a day of locking himself in his house, he had come up with his very own poison. Made from the remains of a dendro slime, mixed with a few crushed petals of Dendrobium, and a generous splash of expired alcohol stolen from the Cat’s Tail.

He didn't know if it was truly toxic. In fact, he just mixed random ingredients he found revolting.

He wasn't planning on truly poisoning you after all. In its current concentration, it would merely cause temporary numbness (maybe).

And so he placed a cute little package in front of your house (he stole the documents that held information of those working under the Grand Master to find your address). Inside the package was a plate of Hash Brown he had cooked himself.

Of course, the poison was sprinkled on top as well.

He knocked on the door to your house and hid in a bush nearby.

He watched the door open, a shiver of excitement going down his spine.

But when you stepped out, his eyes widened. You weren’t what he had imagined. Not old, not bitter, not hunched over with tired eyes and stained robes.

You looked... young and composed. Normal in fact.

You glanced at the package, shrugged, and brought it inside.

The next day, he had half hoped there would be some commotion. Instead, nothing happened.

Lohen found that significantly more unsettling than if you had screamed.

Did you not open it?

Did you die?

Worse, did you throw it away?

By the second day, irritation curdled into curiosity again, and curiosity dragged him back to your house.

He hadn’t even reached the door when something stopped him.

A box.

His box.

He stared at it, then at the note pinned neatly on top.

It read-

---

Observation Log

Possible dendro slime derivative.

Taste profile:

Slight bitterness.

Floral aftertaste.

Perhaps traces of alcohol.

Symptoms:

Tingling lips.

Mild numbness in fingers.

Onset approximately twenty-five seconds.

Conclusion:

Sloppily made poison.

---

He stared at the handwriting. The faint smell of alcohol lingering on the hastily ripped paper.

'..... Sloppy?' he scoffed, annoyance creeping up into his face. He crumbled the paper, staring at the door with a sadistic smile.

"Fine then. I'll show you real poison."

The next morning, another box appeared at your doorstep.

Like last time, you took it into your home. You had no idea who was delivering these, but the last package being drenched in a mild toxin made it interesting enough for you to open.

You tore open the box.

This time, it was a plate of mushroom pizza.

"Oh, that looks delicious." you muttered to yourself, noticing the unusual purple coloring on the crust.

You reached and held a piece of the pizza near your mouth. And without a care, you took a huge bite from the area where the coloring was the brightest.

The following day, Lohen returned to find another note on your doorstep. This time it was more detailed than the last.

---

Observation Log

Low concentration of Aconitum.

Taste profile:

Initial sweet-bitter note.

Followed by burning sensation.

Symptoms:

Numbness.

Dizziness.

Loss of strength.

Conclusion:

Good posion. Easily countered.

Although, I liked the taste of the pizza.

(attached are my other observations)

---

There were six pages attached.

Six.

Lohen stared, flipping through the pages with a smile. "God. She's insane."

This started the exchange of poisons and paper notes.

The next package that Lohen put on your doorstep had a small note of his own.

---

To the Medic

Firstly, fuck you.

Secondly, you missed a secondary ingredient. (Hint : It was Naku weed)

Thirdly, thank you for complimenting the pizza.

I made it myself.

---

Your response appeared the next morning.

---

To the Poisoner

1. Rude.

2. I did not miss the ingredient. Naku weed has no toxic properties. Just color.

3. The posion on the crust was obvious. Are you perhaps new to this poisoning thing?

---

Your responses pissed the Vice captain even more. Because how dare a lowly medic like you have the audacity to critic his cooking?!

He tried even harder after that.

More precise blends. Better masking. Controlled dosages. Carefully calibrated ingredients. Tried perfecting the recipe so you couldn't find any faults.

Everything.

After making sure everything was perfect, he delivered the next package. A plate of Northern Apple Stew.

The reply next day was written in a crumbled paper with messy handwriting.

---

Rules for Future Poisoning

1. No explosive diarrhea.

2. No permanent injury.

3. No organ damage.

4. No blindness.

5. No poisoning children.

6. Food should remain edible

---

Lohen rolled his eyes at the rules. "Killjoy." To him these rules just were unnecessary boundaries that ruined his fun.

But he never wanted to stop this exchange between the two of you. It was much too entertaining for him.

Unknown to him, that night ended with you locking yourself in your room. Having non stop diarrhea for hours.

Soon the notes became longer than the poisons themselves.

One morning, the package you opened had a plate of Cream Stew.

And this time the note attached had a list of ingredients used.

---

Current Theory

The toxin should produce localized muscle weakness.

Estimated duration:

Two hours.

Possible side effects:

Dizziness.

Drowsiness.

Complaining.

Will you be able to guess what I used (Y/N)? °^°?

---

Three days later Lohen received something he could only call a report.

A dossier.

Twenty-two pages which included diagrams, charts, annotated symptom timelines.

And corrections.

So many corrections.

---

Page 14: dosage error.

Page 17: please stop using kitchen spoons as lab tools.

Page 19: “Did you eyeball the concentration?”

---

Unfortunately Lohen had. And he hated that you noticed.

Months passed and somehow it became a routine.

Your medic colleagues grew increasingly worried seeing you drowsy every other day.

"Do you know who keeps sending you poison?" one asked.

You shook your head. "No, not really."

"Shouldn't that concern you?"

You looked confused. "Why?"

"Because they're poisoning you...?"

You blinked. Honestly, if the person wanted to kill you, they could have used other deadly toxins. Yet, they always made sure to use small doses and non lethal ingredients.

You smiled to yourself. "They are very considerate actually."

"... Oh." the medic froze.

You tapped a finger on your cheek. "They also have lovely handwriting."

"..."

The medic walked away. Unable to continue the conversation.

Lohen, meanwhile, was also not doing well.

Varka had his suspicions when he first saw the crazed man laughing while tasting the exotic plants he had ordered.

One day, while Lohen was away on a mission, he broke the lock of his drawer and read through all the papers in there.

Papers about toxic plants. Possible ingredients. And of course, all the notes you had written to him.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell is happening in Mondstadt?"

Varka immediately dragged Lohen by the collar and pushed him into the store you worked in to apologize.

You looked up from your desk and instantly recognized him as your mysterious poisoner.

Not by his face. But by his hands.

The stained fingertips. The chemical burns. The ink marks. The quiet proof of obsession.

"Oh," you smiled softly. "It's you."

Lohen blinked.

Varka shoved him forward. "Apologise to the lady Lohen."

Oh. So his name was Lohen.

The boy looked deeply offended. "I don't want to."

"Apologize." The Grand Master repeated, his gaze cold.

Lohen sighed dramatically. Then glanced toward you. "...Sorry for poisoning you."

You immediately shook your head, a small laugh escaping your lips. "There is so need for apologies. I should be thanking you actually."

Silence.

Even Varka froze.

You continued, brighter now. "The poisons were genuinely fascinating."

Varka looked horrified.

"I learned to make dozens of new antidotes!"

Lohen stared. Mesmerized.

"Also the toxins were quite creative! Honestly, every morning became something to look forward to."

Varka took a breath, and turned his gaze to the ceiling, perhaps praying to Barbatos why they allowed these two people to exist.

"Also the notes were fun!" you added, opening your drawer and placing a the stack of notes you had carefully stapled.

Lohen wasn't even listening anymore.

Because you were smiling.

At him.

Because of him.

Because he had poisoned you.

It was a stupid conversation. The girl in front of him was grateful for poisoning her. It was reckless, idiotic and yet...

At that moment his heart made some several terrible decisions.

He realised.

With a lot of hesitation...

That-

'Oh.'

'Oh no.'

'You were kinda cute.'

He had known your name for months. Known where you worked. Known your habits. Your favorite medicinal herbs. The way your handwriting became messier when excited.

But seeing you in person? Actually talking to you?

He was finished.

Absolutely in love.

That night he didn't sleep. Instead he sat at his desk surrounded by herbs, powders, vials, and failed formulas, staring at his next experiment like it might hold divine answers.

Most men wrote poetry.

Most men gifted flowers.

Most men confessed.

But Lohen was not most men.

He lifted a vial of deep red liquid, watching it swirl under lamplight with a manic smile. "If she barely liked the last one... I'll just make one that is even better."

And thus began the greatest romantic pursuit in history.

Not through gifts or heartfelt letters.

But through an escalating series of increasingly sophisticated poisons.

Lohen's new life goal was simple.

Create a poison so fascinating, so beautiful so perfect....

That when you tasted it—

You'd fall hopelessly in love with its creator.

Unfortunately for him, the only thing you fell in love with was the chemical composition.

Fin

😭 😭 😭 I CANT WITH THIS GUY. I FEEL LIKE HE'S SOMEONE WHO'D GIFT YOU A BOMB CUZ HE LOVES YOU.

Some of the ingredients used r actually toxic while others r just bs. I tried making it as Canon as possible but I'm sure there r some mistakes. Sorry abt tht.