Noya

You opened your mouth to answer—

“Director!”

Alastor’s eyes snapped to the entrance, irritation flashing bright and instantaneous beneath the courteous veneer.

Vincent leaned in the frame, one hand on his hip, "I need you,” he announced, “We’ve got an issue in Studio 4. Something only you can fix.”

Alastor’s jaw tensed so sharply you heard the tiny click of his teeth grinding together.

You tried to keep your voice neutral. “Oh— um… okay. I’ll see what’s wrong.”

You grimaced apologetically. “Alastor, I’m so sorry. I should check that out. If his show misses broadcast time, corporate will yell at me again.”

He forced a small wave. “Of course, my dear. Duty calls.”

Vincent stepped aside with exaggerated politeness, hand near the small of your back. “Thanks for coming,” he murmured to you. But his eyes flicked past you to Alastor, taunting him silently.

*

The conference room was too small for the amount of tension inside it.

You sat at the middle of the long table, folders and production notes spread before you. To your left sat Alastor — tidy, composed. To your right sat Vincent — leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, ankle crossed over knee.

Half the department was there, but it felt like only the three of you breathed. “Alright,” you began, scanning your notes. “Visual media first. Vincent, why is your show’s prep behind schedule this week?”

Alastor's grin widened. Oh, what excuse will the tv show host give? Alastor prided himself over punctuality, over how he put everything in his script until it was perfect. And you liked that; that's the reason he got along with you so well.

Across the polished table, several visual-team staff braced themselves. Vincent didn’t. He leaned back in his chair with a lazy confidence that made Alastor’s eye twitch.

“Rendering issues,” Vincent said, waving a hand. “A few tech hiccups. A few idiots.”

He smoothly pivoted. “But I know you understand the struggle. You’re a capable, independent woman — brilliant, actually, and you know sometimes the schedule just can’t keep up with your creativity.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a warm laugh. “Flattery, Vinny, will get you far… but only so far. Double your pace this week, and I’ll approve the new graphic set.”

Vincent pressed a hand to his heart dramatically. “For you? Twice the usual speed.”

“Good.” You nodded professionally, tapping your notes. “We need that if you want your premiere to stay on schedule.”

Alastor wasn’t amused.

A pet name? Since when did Vincent earn a pet name? Since when did you smile at him like that?

Vincent felt the stare and smirked a little harder, leaning back comfortably, clearly enjoying the reaction he was provoking.

You flipped to the next page on your clipboard, shifting your attention from the team to your right.

“Alright, radio division,” you announced, tone brightening. “Alastor—your last episode was fantastic, but…” You looked at him with a half-smile he instantly leaned into. “You know I adore your perfectionism, but the audience needs a little more drama. A bit more spice. Give me some razzmatazz.”

He lifted his chin and considered you for a heartbeat, “If it’s excitement you want,” he said thoughtfully, “how about we cover that serial killer who’s been making headlines? An investigative segment, perhaps. Something… tantalizing.”

Your eyes brightened. “Oh—yes. That would absolutely work.”

He hummed, smug satisfaction softening his posture.

You added, almost without thinking, “Good work, Al.”

Across you, Vincent’s head snapped up like someone had thrown ice water on him. Al. Pet name. The same kind of casual affection you had used with him.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head toward Vincent and smiled a smile so self-satisfied...A shit-eating grin, sharp and far too pleased.

“Why, thank you, darling,” Alastor replied, voice deliberately silky, eyes fixed on Vincent as he said it. “Always happy to provide exactly what you’re looking for.”

Vincent bristled, sitting forward in his chair as if ready to throw hands across the meeting table.

The meeting wrapped with the usual shuffle of papers and exhausted groans from the staff. People filtered out, chatting in low voices.

But Vincent and Alastor didn’t move. They both leaned forward at the same time, clearly ready to talk to you before the other could—

The producer marched in, face red with irritation.

Your brows lifted. “Sir? What brings you here?”

He didn’t answer right away. He held up a stack of papers, slammed it down on the conference table, and spat. “Our ratings have dropped.”

You blinked. “What? No—sir, our network is ranked first among all media houses this quarter.”

“And still not high enough!” he barked. “We’re only ahead by a thin margin. One scandal, one failed broadcast, one wrong creative decision—and any rival house can overtake us.” His glare sharpened. “Frankly, I should’ve known better than to hire a woman for this position.”

Your jaw tightened, but your voice stayed controlled. “I’ll do better.”

He scoffed. “You’d better. Or I’ll move someone competent into your position.”

And then he turned on his heel and left, the door slamming behind him. Both men were staring at the door like they could burn it down with their eyes.

Vincent’s jaw flexed once—hard. Vincent had met dozens of directors who cared about nothing but money, who would’ve thrown him away the moment a better opportunity came. You had taken a chance hiring him when everyone else treated him like some young, untested brat with flashy ideas. You listened to him. You trusted him. You put your career behind his show.

And this bastard spoke to you like that? Hearing someone belittle you ignited something feral in him.

Alastor, meanwhile, was eerily silent. He stared at the door the producer had vanished through, eyes darkened with something cold and ancient. He had seen cruelty. He had seen discrimination. But he had never seen a director who fought for every employee—race, background, gender—none of it mattered to you. You made the workplace better simply by being in in it.

And this man dared to undermine that? To insult you? To threaten your job? Unacceptable.

----------------------------------------

It was nearly midnight when he tossed the producer into an office chair, the metal scraping across the concrete floor. The man’s face was already swollen—one eye purple, lip split, cheekbone bruised. Vincent hadn’t held back.

A strip of cable wire bound the producer’s wrists behind the chair.

Vincent rolled his shoulders, adjusting his gloves, and casually flipped a knife through his fingers.

The producer whimpered. “P-please—this wasn’t personal—”

“Oh, I know,” Vincent purred, circling him like a shark. “You treat everyone like shit.”

The producer sobbed. “I’ll— I’ll give you money—anything—”

“Boring.” Vincent stepped around him again, bringing the knife to the man’s cheek. “I want something more valuable.”

The blade glided lightly over swollen skin, leaving a thin trail of blood.

“Tell me,” Vincent said softly, crouching to eye level, “what’s your favourite organ?”

The producer’s breath hitched. “W-What?”

Vincent tilted his head, smile growing. “Your eye? Should I take that first?” He lifted the knife, blade inches from the man’s trembling eyelid.

“No—no, please—!”

“Oh, no, no…” Vincent grabbed the producer’s jaw with one gloved hand, fingers digging in until the man cried out. “I’ve decided.”

The knife tapped the corner of the producer’s mouth. A cruel sparkle lit Vincent’s eyes. “I should take your tongue first. For dishonouring our sweet, beautiful director.”

Vincent swore under his breath the second the cable snapped.

The producer twisted violently, the chair tipping. Vincent lunged for him, but the man ripped free, shoving Vincent hard enough that he stumbled backward into a desk.

“You little—!” Vincent hissed, regaining his balance.

But the producer was already sprinting down the hallway of the abandoned building, blood dripping, breath ragged.

Vincent straightened. “Shit—”

He stalked after him. The producer didn’t get far. A strangled scream tore through the building.

Vincent rounded the corner and stopped. The producer was sprawled on the concrete, clutching his shoulder, blood pooling beneath his palm. Above him stood Alastor, coat pristine… and a hunting knife embedded in the man’s shoulder.

Not a fatal strike, just enough to stop him.

“Well, well,” he purred, turning toward Vincent, “someone’s new at this.”

Vincent blinked then choked out a low, incredulous laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He stepped forward until he and Alastor stood shoulder-to-shoulder over the trembling man.

Alastor lifted the producer’s chin with the tip of his knife. “But it seems we are… like-minded in our intentions tonight.”

The producer sobbed, trying to crawl away. Blood smeared under him.

A feral grin spread across Vincent’s face. “Alright then, Al.” His voice dropped, dark and hungry. “How about you show me how you do it?”

Alastor’s eyes gleamed with vicious delight. “Why, my dear Vincent,” Alastor murmured, “I would be delighted to.”

*

You had almost reached the elevator when you froze.

Your stomach dropped. Your bag. You’d left it in your office. Your keys, your ID, your entire life was in there. “Great,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “Just great.”

The building was mostly empty now, lights dimmed for the night. You walked back down the hallway toward your office. A faint crackle echoed from deeper in the building. Then you turned the corner. And your heart stopped. The world tilted.

Vincent and Alastor stood over a body. Blood pooling beneath him.

All three of you froze. No one breathed.

“Sweetheart,” Vincent began, hands half-raised as if trying to block your view. “It’s— it’s not what it looks like—”

Alastor snapped his head toward him. “That is the lamest excuse,” he hissed, voice low. “It won’t work on her.”

You turned and ran.

You didn’t think. You sprinted down the hall, shoes slapping the linoleum, heart punching your ribs, the image of them over the body burned into your skull.

*

You had spent the entire day carefully avoiding both men. You moved through the hallways with calculated precision, taking different routes to meetings, sipping coffee at odd times, and slipping in and out of rooms so no one could catch sight of you.

By the end of the day, you were exhausted. Relief washed over you as you packed your things into your bag, exhaling shakily. I can’t do this every day, you thought. Maybe I should just look for another job.

You were so absorbed in your thoughts that you didn’t notice the soft click of the office door closing behind you.

Your spine prickled, and instinctively you turned around. “Vincent,” you breathed, startled.

He was leaning against the door, his hands in his pockets, his eyes sharp and unreadable.

“H-Hey,” you stammered, trying to steady your voice. “Um… did you want something?”

He pushed off the door, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. “Tsk,” he said, his voice low and amused, eyes sweeping over you, “Pretending everything is fine?”

You instinctively took a step back, your hip hitting the edge of your desk. “Stay away from me,” you said, forcing steel into your voice, though your pulse thundered in your ears.

Vincent chuckled softly, a sound that slid under your skin and made your body tense. “Why? Are you afraid?” he asked, stepping even closer.

“I’m not,” you said too quickly, and the honesty slipped out before you could stop it.

Instantly, his smirk widened, sharp and knowing. He placed one hand on your waist, firm and possessive, yet not hurting you. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the side of your neck.

First came a slow, warm press of his mouth, and then another kiss. He trailed a delicate suck across the pulse point of your neck. Your breath hitched, and before you could stop it, a soft moan escaped you.

Vincent hummed against your skin, his voice vibrating softly. “So you weren’t lying,” he murmured. “Your pulse is fast… not because you’re afraid, but because you want me.”

Heat rushed to your face, and your stomach twisted. You hated that he was right. Vincent’s eyes sparkled with cruel delight as he leaned closer, his lips grazing your ear. “Look at that,” he whispered, voice low and teasing. “So pretty when you get all shy.”

You pull back only an inch, indignation caught tight in your throat. “You—”

But the protest dies as something shifts behind you — a familiar presence, a familiar warmth, those unmistakable arms sliding around your waist like they belonged there. Your breath stutters.

Alastor.

He steps out from the darker corner, as if the shadows themselves had been holding him. Had he been hiding there from the beginning? So… they planned this.

Your pulse jumps.

Alastor’s fingers curl around your hips as he gently turns you toward him, sharp eyes softened with that theatrically polite guilt.

“My dear,” he murmurs, “forgive us if we startled you yesterday. We simply… disliked how that man spoke to you.” He exhales a laugh that doesn’t touch his eyes. “You will forgive us… won’t you?”

Before you can even shape a reply, he leans in.

His mouth claims yours — warm, coaxing. His hand cups your jaw, guiding you closer.

Then Vincent’s lips touch your neck. You jolt, breath catching sharply. His grip tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him, with every slow kiss he trails down the column of your throat.

His hands glide upward, teasingly slow, fingers tracing beneath your ribs as if savoring every inch. Then they rise higher, cupping your breasts through your clothes — reverent, hungry, palms warm and deliberate.

You gasp into Alastor’s mouth.

Alastor smiles against your lips, amused at how they unravel you between them. His thumb strokes your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss, guiding your mouth to open wider, inviting him in.

Behind you, Vincent unbuttoned your blouse, massages your breasts in slow, claiming circles — his thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten under his touch.

Your breath shatters the moment Vincent’s hand slides lower — past your stomach, past the edge of your waistband until his fingers slip beneath the fabric.

Al leans in, lips grazing the side of your neck before sealing around your skin. The first slow pull of his mouth is deliberately sinful — hot, wet, claiming. He sucks hard enough that your knees weaken instantly, and his hand tightens on your waist to keep you upright.

“Oh, she likes that…” Vincent breathes behind you, as his fingers find your pussy.

You gasp — loud, involuntary — head tipping back against Vincent’s shoulder as his fingertips slide through your slick folds, stroking you like he’s mapping every reaction.

“Fuck…” he mutters, low and delighted.

Alastor’s chuckle vibrates against your throat. He shifts, sucking a deeper mark just below your ear, lips dragging lower, teeth grazing lightly before he closes his mouth around your skin again. He takes his time — each hickey bold, deliberate, like he wants you painted in him.

Vincent sinks two fingers inside you. You choke on a moan, body jerking, clutching at Alastor’s chest to stay upright. Vincent’s other hand locks around your hip, pulling you tighter against him as he pumps his fingers slow, deep, purposeful — curling just right, hitting that spot that forces your thighs to tremble.

“That’s it,” he purrs, fingers thrusting faster now, slick sounds growing filthy in the quiet room. “Take it. Give it to me.”

Alastor nips your neck, humming with pleasure at your every sound. Your hips start moving on their own, chasing Vincent’s rhythm — shallow, desperate little rolls you can’t control. Your breath comes in sharp, needy bursts, your body tightening with every curl of his fingers.

Your moan rips out of you, your entire body seizing as the orgasm hits fast and violent — heat rushing through you in a pulse that makes your vision blur. Vincent holds you firmly as you shake against him, fingers relentless until you’re gasping, overstimulated, clinging to Alastor like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

Alastor’s lips finally leave your neck — several dark bruises already blooming there and he tilts your chin up with a wicked smile.

“My, my…” he murmurs. “Already so undone.”

Vincent withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, and you feel the wet slide of it. You shiver.

“We’re not even close,” Vincent whispers against your ear.

“Not yet,” Alastor adds, smiling like he’s about to ruin you in the most patient, elegant way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The mark encircling his neck had begun to darken.

It wasn’t so dramatic that it could be confused for anything else, merely a bruised ring, uneven, fading into his skin like something he hadn’t fully embraced.

Vincent was slumped into the couch, shirt half unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely, a cigarette smoldering slowly between his fingers. The ash had grown long, threatening to drop, yet he didn’t flick it away.

The TV remained on, low volume, his own voice echoing from earlier that evening.

“…trust me! With your entertainm—”

Vincent leaned forward and turned it off mid sentence.

Silence enveloped him, thick and immediate. He exhaled, smoke rising, curling against the dim light of the lamp beside him. His gaze remained fixed on the blank screen, as if it might flicker back to life and reveal something new... something better.

They adored him, that was the truth, they adored him... the station had the numbers to back it up. Ratings soaring, letters pouring in, strangers stopping him on the street as if he were someone worth remembering. His name held significance now. Not just recited from a script, but acknowledged and desired.

And yet...

He took a deep drag on the cigarette, as if trying to extract something from it that wasn’t there. It only took one comment. One casual remark from a producer, a guest who didn’t quite smile the right way, a pause that lingered half a second too long on air, and that was all it took for the cracks to reappear.

Not liked enough... not convincing enough... replaceable, his jaw clenched, he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the cigarette finally dropping ash onto the carpet. He didn’t notice... or didn’t care, there was a glass on the table, half whiskey, no ice left.

He reached for it without looking, took a swallow that burned more than usual, his throat still felt tight, he briefly wondered if the bruising had anything to do with that.

Probably... he let out a dry laugh, more breath than sound.

“Fuck.” The word lingered there.

On the table next to the glass, there lay a small, rolled up bill, accompanied by that familiar powder he adored so much.

He lingered on it for a moment longer than necessary, then averted his gaze as if that counted as self control. It didn’t, nothing ever did. The silence remained, merely shifting, growing louder in various ways. It filled the gaps between his thoughts, stretching them until they morphed into one long, dragging question: Is it enough?

Vincent already knew the answer. Abruptly, he stood up, pacing once across the room and back again. The cigarette burned down between his fingers until it singed his skin. He hissed, dropped it, and crushed it under his shoe with excessive force.

"I'll show them.." he muttered, though no one was there to hear it. Tomorrow, he’d sit behind that desk again, perfectly composed, voice steady, eyes locked onto the camera as if he were speaking to each person individually. They’d believe him, they always did. That was the worst part.

He was good at it, effortlessly so, good enough that no one questioned the cost it exacted from him. Vincent picked up the glass again, finished it this time, and finally reached for the rolled up bill. His fingers hesitated for just a moment before he picked it up. Control, he reminded himself, just enough to steady things, that was always the narrative.

He brought the bill to his nose, closing one nostril before leaning down, following that line he had previously made neatly on the table with a sharp inhale.

Oh fuck, that felt incredible.

He leaned back against the couch, his head tilting slightly, eyes half lidded as the room softened at the edges. The tension in his chest eased, just enough to breathe without having to think about it.

For a brief moment.. it felt eerily quiet in a way that was almost manageable, his gaze drifting back to the darkened screen of the television.

Tomorrow, they’d be watching again, and he’d deliver exactly what they craved.

The paper crinkled softly between his fingers as he leaned over the table once more, aligning it with more precision than anything else in his life lately.

The door clicked.

He didn’t turn, he recognized the sound, the weight of it, the way it always arrived just a second too late when it was you. Your footsteps were quieter than usual, as if you were already preparing yourself for what you’d find.. and there it was.

You halted a few feet behind him, taking in the scene, the glass, the cigarette burns, the small, careful line he was bending toward as if it were the only straight thing left in the room.

“…really?”

Your voice wasn’t loud, which made it worse. He paused for a moment, his eyes flicking up to the table, to nothing in particular, before he continued anyway. As if the interruption hadn’t warranted more than that.

“Long day,” he replied, flat and almost automatic. It sounded rehearsed, as it always did. You moved closer, slower this time, and when you settled beside him, the couch dipped just enough to throw him slightly off balance, but he didn’t pull away either.

He lingered there, caught in that space between finishing what he started and pretending he hadn’t.

“You said that yesterday,” you murmured, yet he chose not to respond.

Your hand hovered for a moment before it gently rested against his arm, grounding, or perhaps just hoping to be.

He exhaled through his nose, faintly annoyed, but not enough to shake you off.

“I’ve got it,” he said, quieter now. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t convincing, no, it wasn’t meant to be. You looked at him properly then, not at the table, not at the mess, but at him, your gaze lingering on the darkened skin around his neck, and your expression shifted in a way he didn’t want to dwell on for too long.

“…does it hurt?”

That made him pause, though not entirely.. his hand lingered on the table, fingers hovering near the rolled up bill, but the action froze, as if something inside him had lost its way.

"What?" Vincent inquired, even though he had heard you, your hand shifted, just a bit, brushing close to the mark but not actually making contact.

"Your neck," you replied, your tone softer now. "From a few days back."

He leaned back at last, as if the question had yanked him from a trance, his head tilting against the couch, revealing the bruise more clearly in the dim light, he avoided your gaze..

"It’s nothing."

The words came out harsher than he meant, you let out a breath, the sound thin and laced with frustration. "It didn’t look like nothing when I found you."

He chuckled briefly, dry and devoid of humor.

"Yeah, well," he muttered, his eyes now half-closed, "you have a knack for showing up at the worst moments."

That hit hard, and he was aware of it, but he didn’t glance to see, your hand remained steady where it was, thumb lightly brushing against his sleeve as if to remind him of your presence.

"You could’ve—" you began, then caught yourself, your brows knitting together. "You didn’t have to do that."

He took a moment before responding, reaching forward again, this time slower, less deliberate, the edge of his actions softened.

"I didn’t," he finally said. "Sooo..."

You moved in closer, your shoulder nudging against his, insistent in a quieter way.

"I’m serious," you said, your voice trembling just enough to betray your feelings. "You scared me."

Your eyes fell to his neck, the mark appeared worse in reality than it had in your mind earlier that day..darker now.. uneven. Almost as if something had nearly gone too far but, for reasons you couldn’t grasp, had chosen to halt midway.

Your throat constricted before you even uttered a word.

“I walked in,” you murmured softly, your voice already strained, “and for just a moment, you were gone from the floor and I thought—” you hesitated, the rest of your thoughts failing to come out clearly.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” you continued, your tone steadier now, though still thin. “Just like that. Like I’d walk in and that would be the end.”

Your thumb moved slowly, as if you were trying to imprint the warmth of his presence into your memory.

“I pulled you down,” you added in a whisper. “You don’t even remember, do you? Of course you don’t... a whole bottle of whiskey vanished that day.”

A flicker crossed his jaw, a small twitch, something lost, and when his voice finally emerged, it was rough.

“Doesn’t matter.”

You exhaled, a sound that was almost disbelief.

“It fucking does, Vincent!” you insisted. “It matters.”

He leaned back slightly, his eyes half closed, as if the weight of everything was something he could physically escape from.

“I’m still here,” he stated after a pause, as if it were a simple fact, your hand froze on his shoulder.

“That’s not what I saw,” you countered.

His gaze shifted, just a fraction, not quite meeting yours... it passed through you.

“I was fucking tired,” he admitted, and you nearly laughed, but it morphed into something else halfway through.

“Tired,” you echoed. “That’s what you’re calling it?”... he remained silent.

Because there was no clear answer left within him, everything he had constructed around himself, being desired, being observed, being untouchable in front of a camera, had begun to decay into something heavier when no one was watching.

You moved closer, your shoulder pressing into his once more, firm this time, no longer asking, your hand rose gently, brushing his hair back from his forehead, then resting against the side of his face. He didn’t lean into your touch, nor did he pull away.

"I was terrified," you repeated, your voice now softer. "I can’t find another way to express it." A lengthy silence followed.

Then, quieter than anything he had uttered all evening:

"…I know."

This was the closest semblance of acknowledgment he could offer, you breathed out slowly, your forehead resting momentarily against his temple, your hand lingered on his cheek, your thumb moving in gentle, repetitive circles as if you were trying to keep him safe in the moment through your touch alone.

Then.....

"I’m sorry."

His apology didn’t come out smoothly.

It emerged fractured from the beginning, as if it had been bottled up for too long and came out wrong because of that.

"I don’t know what I’m doing anymore," he repeated, his voice now softer, as if saying it again made it more tangible instead of less. "I don’t— I can’t figure out how to stop it."

His hands hovered in front of him for a moment, useless, then fell onto his knees as if they couldn’t decide what part they were meant to play in all of this.

You kept your hand on his face, the only thing preventing him from collapsing entirely in on himself.

His breathing began to shift, becoming uneven, shallow at first, almost as if he was trying to maintain control but failing in slow motion.

"I keep thinking I can mend it," he murmured. "I keep believing that if I’m good enough, if I endure long enough, if I—" He halted mid sentence as his voice cracked, and something within him finally broke, his head bowing forward.

Suddenly, as if whatever he had been standing on gave way, he made a sound he hadn’t intended, small, sharp, almost furious at himself for it, and then it morphed into something worse because he couldn’t contain it after that.

His shoulders trembled once, then again, he pressed a hand over his mouth as if that would remedy it, as if he could physically hold himself together that way, but it didn’t work. It only made everything quieter and more suffocating.

"I’m sorry," he repeated, but this time it was distorted, fragmented between gasps. "I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t know how to exist in my own mind anymore."

He leaned in closer, elbows resting on his knees, his posture folding in on itself as if it had nowhere else to go.

You, on the other hand, don’t push him to escape it, you simply remain there while the tremors gradually lose their intensity, while his breath continues to hitch as if it forgot the rhythm it was meant to follow.

Your hand finds its way to his neck, firm and unwavering even as he struggles to keep himself upright.

"It’s okay," you murmur softly, his hands still covering his face for a moment, but eventually they fall, slow and heavy, settling against his knees. He doesn’t meet your gaze right away... as if he’s ashamed of what just transpired... or frightened that it’s still ongoing.

You shift your hand from his neck to the side of his head, your fingers weaving through his hair gently. He flinches at first, more out of instinct than resistance, but then he stills... allowing it to happen. His breathing remains unsteady, but it begins to calm as he adjusts to your presence instead of fighting it.

"I’ve got you," you say softly, and he exhales a shaky breath through his nose, almost as if he can’t quite accept it, yet he doesn’t argue anymore either. You lean your head slightly toward him, keeping your tone soothing. "You don’t have to fix anything right now."

His gaze stays downcast. "...I don’t know how to do this," he mutters, his voice rough. "I know," you reply instantly, your hand continuing to stroke his hair, slow and repetitive, small gestures meant to prevent him from spiraling back down.

"You don’t have to do anything right now," you add softly. "Just sit here."

He leans back a bit into the couch again, not completely upright, not entirely collapsed anymore... somewhere in between.

The room felt muted, as if everything had been dialed down, except for his breathing and the warmth radiating beneath his skin.

He lingered near you after you helped him regain his balance... too near, as if your presence was the only thing that made sense in a world that felt utterly chaotic.

His gaze darted to your face and then away, as if he was struggling to process the reality of you still being there.

"I’m fine," he muttered again, but it didn’t sound like a declaration anymore, more like a reflex.

You shot him a look, and he didn’t contest it after that, a few seconds ticked by before he unconsciously shifted closer, as if his equilibrium and thoughts were no longer in sync. His hand rose, resting gently on your arm, then your shoulder, then your neck, while his other hand began to trail down your body, lingering as if he were trying to find himself in something familiar.

His eyes flickered to your lips for a brief moment before he leaned in.

You sensed it instantly.

Your hand shot up between you, halting his advance before it could escalate.

"Vincent," you said, your voice low and steady, and he froze mid motion, his eyes blinking as if he had just emerged from a deeper place than the room. You didn’t withdraw your hand immediately, creating a clear boundary without escalating the situation.

"You’re not thinking clearly," you said softly, and his throat worked as if he was searching for words but couldn’t find them. "I—" he began, then trailed off, his hand falling from your lower body as if it had been severed.

"...sorry," he murmured, quieter now, and he seemed so lost. You shook your head gently.

"No," you replied. "Just... come on." His breathing was still uneven, but more stable than before, and you softened your tone.

"You’re overwhelmed. That’s all it is."

He met your gaze for a moment longer, then nodded faintly, as if even that was too much to contest. You got up and stepped back just enough to completely break the moment, then...

"Bed," you stated plainly, and he complied... a silent submission from someone too exhausted to maintain the facade of control. As you guided him down the corridor, he remained near, no longer reaching out, instead leaning into your support, allowing you to lead him to a place secure enough to shield him from the night's grasp.

Behind you, the living room remained illuminated and vacant, as if it had already moved past all the things he had nearly done within its walls.