(⁠´⁠⊙⁠ω⁠⊙⁠`⁠)⁠！

You hummed softly in response, naked and sweaty beneath him. Your thighs were aching from the past 20 minutes of “foreplay” which he loves so much. Burying his face between your thighs while striking his cock but edging himself so that he could finish inside your warm, sweet hole.

“I’m not letting any of it go to waste, m’kay?” He had told you, before filling you up repeatedly with his sticky white seed.

His hand shifted from your thigh, warmth spreading to your tummy when his large hand pressed down gently. Eliciting a soft moan from you, your hands clawing into the silk sheets, curling your toes and squirming. As if you weren’t already on edge. “Mmm… s-stoppp.. don’t press there,” you whined, left eye closed from the twitching pleasure.

“No?” He raised an eyebrow, smirking, before lifting his hand obediently and staring at your abdomen. “S’hard not to… can see my cock bulging from inside your cute belly,” he hummed lowly, hips slowly pulling back.

It’s almost like you could feel what he was about to do, already watching your back and holding on a breath. His hips slamming forward, knocking the air out of you, a loud moan passing unfiltered through your soft lips. “Fuck… you sound good with me in you, you look incredibly good with me inside you, you smell so good when I’m in you… wanna marry me, doll?” He breathed out, his hand moving from above your abdomen to grab your chin.

“We’re already marriedddd.. stop talking and just fuck me..”

He chuckled, moving to push his index and middle finger into your mouth. “Don’t even need to ask twice…” he grinned, eyes half lidded with blissful pleasure. He blinked, watching you instinctively suck on his fingers with muffled soft moans, before he pulled his hand back, pushing your thighs down against your chest again. Lifting his hips, and slamming back into your again.

Plap. Plap. Plap.

Your breathing had quickened, your head lolling to the side, moaning out loud between every thrust. The room was loud and lewd. A fwop here and a shlorp there. “A-ah.. ah… mmh..!” You moaned out for him, mouth agape, eyes squeezed shut. While he was groaning shamelessly and moving his hips with a desperate pace.

“F-fuck yeah… you love this, don’t you?” He chuckled between his own gasps at your mindless nodding, “love being fucked dumb by me,” he punctuated dumb with a sharper thrust, pressing the gummy head of his cock against your cervix. Before focusing on the quicker, more shallow thrusts.

His pace quickened when he felt the tingle at the back of his spine, that euphoric sensation buzzing through him, before he stuttered and slammed against your hips for the last time.

Cum spurted from the tip of his cock, painting your walls in his warm white seed again. Filling you up for the nth time that night. His body blanketing yours in a warm hug, kissing the tension and stress away on your face. “Y-yeah.. just… a little more, angel..” he breathed out, muscles tightened and sweating all over. Nose nudging against your cheek.

“Just… a few more rounds, I need to see your tummy all big, whether that be from our babies… or just that cute bulge from my dick.”

"Gonna' cum-" Lohen groans into the curve of your shoulder, his face tucked against your neck. Bloody bite marks litter your skin, sitting far too high for your clothes to hide, and you know he did it on purpose just to be a brat. You're going to get so many pained looks tomorrow. The entire city is going to know exactly what the two of you have been up to. Again. Though you suppose you cannot exactly play the innocent card. Not when you spend far too much time standing in front of the mirror, absentmindedly tracing the indents and bruises scattered across your skin. Not when your nails are stained red from how often you pick at the scabs, never quite giving them enough time to heal properly.

"Y-You need to- ah! You... hah-You need to pull out," Your words cut off in a whine as Lohen jostles you higher in his arm. His fingers dig into your thighs as he adjusts his hold, folding you closer against him. Your stomach clenches, both because he's attempting to carve a space for his dick there and it's working, and the weightlessness now that your back isn't supported against the wall anymore. Everything but your shoulder and head is relying entirely on Lohen's strength, and your heart flutters at the display of strength. It's your second-favourite thing about him.

"Yeah, yeah, 'heard you the first time," Lohen is infuriatingly blasé about your stipulation, too busy making the most of you finally letting him fuck you raw. He's been away for weeks working on a solo mission. Something about an auction, though you cannot be entirely sure those were the exact words when you had been too distracted by sucking on his tongue. Regretfully, your gaze drifts down to the floor, where two broken condoms lie discarded nearby. Two failures in a row seem unlikely enough to be bad luck rather than anything else. Probably just a bad batch. It would be a shame to end the night over so soon, so as long as he pulls out, everything will be fine.

He's surely wasting no time making up for the weeks he spent away, returning all of his pent-up desire tenfold as he fucks into you mercilessly. His hips never stop moving as he holds your thighs apart, keeping you pinned between him and the wall. It feels deliriously good, enough to leave you dizzy with it, your body clenching around his cock, sucking him in deeper. In, out, in, out, in, in, in-

"Hey."

Your hands fly to his face, pulling him down until he's forced to meet your gaze. It's the clearest your eyes have been all night. You draw him closer, your lips brushing his as you whisper the words directly against them.

"If you cum in me, I'll get pregnant."

There is nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and the sting of nails digging into each other's skin as Lohen stares at you with half-lidded, clouded eyes. Then, like the stupid little pervert he is, his cock twitches inside of you. Warm thick cum floods where it shouldn't, and you're too stunned that Lohen seriously just came at that. Only when you feel yourself being lowered gently to the ground does he let out a quiet grunt, pulling out to watch your combined slick and cum ooze out of you, little wet sounds splattering onto the floor.

"You-" you're about to bitch and cry, ready to find the nearest object to break over his head because this isn't fair! If you seriously get pregnant from this, you're going to drug him and ride him until his hips snap in half! Your murderous thoughts come to an abrupt halt when you hear giggling. Lohen has a hand clamped over his mouth in a pathetic attempt to muffle it, but with how hard he's trying and failing to hold back a full laugh, it isn't working. His head tips low enough that his bangs fall across his face, and his other hand scoops the cum that leaked onto the floor. Lighting his hand, he slightly spreads his fingers before dipping them into his mouth to suck clean, and you frown at how gross he's being again. The cum is supposed to go into you; has he never attended a sex ed class before?

A soft pop sounds when he pulls his now-clean fingers from his mouth. He pushes his sweat-damp hair back, finally giving you a clear view of his face, and you shiver at his expression. That same deranged smile still plays at the corners of his lips, but his eyes look almost blown wide, so dark you could swear they're glowing red. He plants his hands on either side of your head and leans over you until his shadow swallows you whole, until all you can see is him.

It's hot. You're breathing each other's air, neither of you making any effort to pull away. Your legs remain locked around his waist, and he doesn't move back to give you space. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest just as surely as he can feel yours. Occasionally, you wonder how you let it get this bad. How someone could have such a monopoly over your life to the point you'd find any reason to keep them with you.

"You still think I'm the one being trapped?"

Before you can answer, his hands fall back to your thighs, and with a single pull, you're flat on your back again, your knees bent so far they nearly brush your head. He cracks his neck, then proceeds to slam in so hard you can feel him in your throat. So hard that you see stars behind your eyes. Hard enough that every coherent thought scatters, dissolving into nothing but a barely intelligible string of Lohen, baby, Lohen, baby.

When you manage to look up at him, you find his gaze already fixed on your face. You can feel the intensity of it as he takes in your parted lips, the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes, the fresh bite marks blooming darker against your neck. You see the tenseness of Lohen's mouth, still smiling but undeniably strained from pleasure, pleasure that you're giving him, drowning him in-

Lohen grunts under his breath, closing his eyes, enjoying the feeling of you swallowing every inch of him. He looks like a man on a mission, teeth grinding together, you can almost hear them crack from how tense his jaw is. His fingers bend at odd angles, lifting you and slamming you down that nearly gives you whiplash at each push and pull against sensitive nerves. At this point, you're more of a sleeve than an actual human being. You couldn't imagine anyone touching you like this, let alone fucking you. Thank the Archons, you hadn't done this on a table. Jean might actually kick both of you out if you showed up asking for another budget increase to replace broken furniture. Considering the look she'd given you after the bookshelf incident, you'd be lucky if she didn't start assigning the two of you retraining orders.

"S-Slow- slow- down-! You promised you- you wouldn't!!" You sob, fat tears slipping from your eyes. Despite your words, your nails dig into his skin, your ankles digging into his back to pull him closer. You'll fucking kill him if he doesn't cum in you again.

"Shut up-" Lohen rarely curses, so it's always a treat to hear him lose that princely appearance. Not that you have long to relish in your small victory when his hand slams beside your head, cracking the floor from the strength of his fist. With half your support gone, you feel yourself tilting to the side, the sudden movement making you tense up, clamping down on him. He lets out a low hiss, leaning forward to fully pin your body to the ground, as he buries himself deep on one last particularly bone-shattering thrust. You let your head drop harshly onto the floor as he cums, a burst of warmth that fills your stomach. You're shaking in his arms as his hips instinctively grind to ride out the waves that went on far longer than usual, throbbing in heavy pulses as he somehow dumps even more cum into you. It feels so good that you can't help but follow him, finally letting that wire inside you snap free.

You both don’t move for a while, just taking the time to catch your breath and settle back into each other’s presence. It has been getting increasingly lonelier each time Lohen gets sent halfway across the world. While you can understand his role as vice-captain, you don't appreciate seeing him fewer and fewer times. You move your hand to settle over your stomach, hope in your eyes, that hopefully now he'll have a better reason to stay.

“Sorry, I know I promised, but I couldn’t resist,” he says easily, voice soft as he presses a few lingering kisses to your cheek, yet making no move to pull out, “I’ll get you something for it tomorrow morning, alright?”

With your body fully caged in by Lohen, there's no wiggle room for you to kick him away or knee him in the gut to let you go. It's almost as if the past few minutes never existed. That same deceptively gentle smile sits on his lips, eyes catching faintly in the low light as he moves his hand on top of yours, lacing your fingers together. He raises it, pressing a small kiss on the back of your hand, whispering, "Don’t worry, nothing bad will happen."

Tomorrow morning, when you are still sleepy and woozy, Lohen will coax you into opening your mouth so he can slip in the same two white tablets, and you will groan and complain the entire time. They're oddly sweet for morning-after pills, and you've never been fond of sugar.

- 🐑

Being known, really known— was a luxury you hadn’t felt in months. See, people often offer a shallow kind of knowing, in passing conversations, careful dates— but nothing feels as authentic as crashing and burning in someone’s arms until you’re just loose limbs and flesh.

A few months ago— 18 to be exact— someone remembered how you took your coffee; someone knew that every time you were about to say something cruel, you tilted your head ever so slightly. And after that kind of intimacy, everything else felt like surface noise— like bodies that never quite fit the hollow spaces he had left behind.

You had grown used to the ache of it, almost comfortable in its familiarity. Even so, some nights you still woke up reaching for a warmth that wasn’t there, cursing yourself for the weakness.

With that lingering emptiness came the decision to join the study; a well-paid psychological experiment on intimacy and cognition. Six hours. One stranger. Clinical detachment in silk robes and signed consents— maybe it was a way to prove to yourself that you could still be touched without falling apart.

Because what is worse? Never being known again? Or never being felt again, in the fear of it?

You’d found the ad late one sleepless night, scrolling through a discreet forum for research participants. “Seeking emotionally mature adults for a paid study on human connection and decision-making under controlled conditions. Generous compensation. Strict confidentiality.” It felt clinical enough to be safe, intriguing enough to tame the voice in your head that whispered you were only doing this because you were awfully lonely.

You’d hesitated, of course. For days you left the tab open, rereading the description, weighing the risk against the numbness that had settled in your bones since the breakup.

What if the stranger is awful?

What if their hands feel wrong?

What if being touched by someone who doesn’t know you only makes the emptiness louder?

The apprehension sat heavy in your stomach— being touched without being known sounded almost clinical, transactional; skin on skin with no history, no shorthand, no one who understood that you liked your neck kissed softly at first, then harder when you started to tremble. Just a body. A stranger’s hands mapping territory that once belonged to someone else.

And yet, here you were. Because after eighteen months of dating apps and god-awful dinners that led nowhere, the idea of feeling something— even if it was manufactured— felt better than feeling nothing at all.

In the sleek waiting room that felt more like a high-end spa than a laboratory— a calm woman in a white coat greeted you with a smile. “Good afternoon, y/n. I’m Dr. Ellis. You’ll be subject A today.”

“Subject A?” you asked, clearing your throat awkwardly.

All around you— it felt less like the reception area of a research facility and more like the lounge of an impossibly expensive wellness retreat. Soft amber light spilled from recessed fixtures hidden within the ceiling, casting a gentle glow over pale stone floors and curved ivory walls that were so seamless they looked sculpted rather than built. Minimalist furniture sat deliberately spaced apart— cream armchairs, glass tables with no visible joints, and a single arrangement of pristine white orchids that seemed almost too perfect to be real.

There were no reception desks cluttered with paperwork, no ticking clocks, no magazines left on tables; instead, sleek touchscreens were embedded discreetly into the walls, their displays dim until someone approached.

Everything about the space had been designed to soothe, yet its perfection felt strangely unsettling, as though every texture, every light, and every silence had been calcutated long before you arrived.

“It’s simply how we identify participants during the study.” the woman smiled oddly.

“So there’s a Subject B.”

“There is.” she fiddled with some papers, like this was all normal and nothing to be concerned about.

“Am I.. supposed to know who they are?”

“No.”

You considered the situation, what could go wrong, right? It’s not like your life had anything to celebrate, you hadn’t taken any risks in a long long time— and surely this one was undeniably huge but the point still stands.

“Do they know who I am?” you asked.

“No they don’t.” she simply shook her head, “Before we begin, I need you to review and sign these consent forms.”

She slid a tablet across the low table. “The session lasts six hours in a controlled environment. You’ll be paired with another participant— someone we’ve matched based on compatibility metrics. Instructions will appear on a screen, and remember ! You are free to give or withdraw verbal consent at each stage, but full participation is required to receive payment.”

You scanned the dense paragraphs, heart picking up speed. “And… what exactly is the goal of this? The real one, I mean.”

Dr. Ellis folded her hands. “We’re studying how prior emotional experiences influence physiological and psychological responses during guided intimacy. Arousal patterns, decision-making, emotional regulation. It’s part sexology, part attachment research really. Everything is recorded for data purposes— biometrics, audio—but visual privacy is maintained within the room. You’ll wear a silk robe provided and no personal information will be exchanged unless the protocol requires it.”

After a pause, you signed and surprisingly your hand barely trembled. You’d thought about it a lot, it seemed like the right path to take— as controversial as that sounds— you wanted, needed, to feel something.

“Excellent. There’s a changing room just through that door. Remove your clothing, put on the robe, and we’ll proceed once you’re ready y/n.”

You stood in front of the full-length mirror of the changing room for a long moment, letting the robe hang open. Your eyes traced the familiar lines of your body: the curve of your waist, the faint marks time had left, the places his mouth used to worship. He used to kiss right here, you thought, fingertips brushing your hip. Like he was memorizing me.

You closed the robe, tied the belt with deliberate care, and stepped back out.

Dr. Ellis waited with a black silk blindfold. “This is for the transition, it helps reduce pre-session anxiety.” She tied it gently behind your head.

The world went dark, soft and complete all the while her hand rested lightly on your arm as she guided you forward. “Breathe normally. The room is private— audio monitored for consent and safety, but no visual feed inside. You’ll be fine.”

With that lingering emptiness still wrapped around your ribs like smoke, Dr. Ellis guided you forward one last time. The blindfold stayed firmly in place as you were led through a final door. Cool air brushed against your bare legs beneath the silk robe they had given you—thin, luxurious, and far too intimate for what this was supposed to be. You heard the soft click of another door closing behind you, the lock sliding into place with quiet finality.

You stood there, heart thudding slow and heavy, the world reduced to darkness and the faint scent of clean linen and warm skin. “We’ll proceed now,” she said quietly, and then her footsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.

Silence.

You sat there, nervousness making your fingers fiddle with the edge of the robe. The fabric whispered against your thighs as you crossed your legs, uncrossed them, heart hammering. Sensory deprivation made every sound louder: the air circulation, the mechanical click of something locking into place. Then footsteps approached from the opposite side of the room— measured, familiar in weight?

And … that scent— cedar and warm skin, with the faintest trace of the same cologne only he used to wear. You’d recognize it anywhere, god— even in a crowded room, even after all this time. It was all a cruel joke, a stranger wearing his scent like it was the most normal thing ever.

Then, gently, almost carefully, you removed the blindfold from your eyes.

There was no stranger, no unknown— because the man who sat before you, blond hair tousled, ditching his own blindfold— was only a person you knew too well.

Riki. Nishimura Riki.

The man you’d loved for so many years looked… healthy, the same way you’d always remembered him— his posture still effortlessly straight, shoulders broad beneath the silk robe, dyed hair had grown just enough to soften around his forehead, a few loose strands falling carelessly where you knew he’d brush them back without thinking.

Time had sharpened him in beautiful ways— his jaw a little more defined, the lines around his eyes ever so slightly deeper—but none of it was enough to make him unfamiliar.

He was still unmistakably Riki. The kind of face you’d once memorized in every light imaginable, from mornings to nights, now standing only a few feet away as if eighteen months had been nothing more than a badly remembered dream.

And somehow— it turned out that time had done everything except teach your heart who to belong to. You looked at each other the way abandoned homes remember their owners.

It was a peculiar kind of silence really —the kind reserved for funerals, churches, and people who had once known the shape of each other’s souls. No sharp breaths. No widened eyes in shock. No words at all actually. Just the heavy, crushing weight of recognition settling between you like fog.

Somehow, despite everything, the years folded themselves away— and god, it was almost insulting, how quickly it happened. Like someone familiar taking their old seat, you looked at him, he looked back— and there was no anger left. Only evidence that there had once been too much love.

Tears built slowly in your eyes, inevitable, blurring the sharp familiar lines of his jaw, the curse of his mouth.

His own eyes glistened in answer, water gathering there and a single tear tracing down his cheek before he brushed it away wordlessly, almost absentmindedly.

And god… you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Even if the world had caught fire around you, your gaze remained locked on Riki’s face. The tears that had been building finally slipped free, tracing warm paths down your cheeks, but you made no move to wipe them away. He didn’t either— instead, a small, broken smile curved his lips through the tears— ssad, aching, and so painfully familiar it twisted something deep inside your chest.

It wasn’t a happy smile, it was the kind of smile that carried every quiet moment when he must have wondered the same thing you did: What if we had fought harder?

God, this fucking hurt.

After a long silence, you lifted a trembling hand toward the mirrored wall without breaking eye contact with him. Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“There’s been a mistake…”

No response. No voice crackled through a hidden speaker. No footsteps outside the door.

Eventually, the large screen on the far wall lit up with soft white light and an automated, calm female voice filled the room, utterly detached:

“Subject A and Subject B have been paired based on compatibility metrics. You may not leave the room for six hours and you must follow every instruction in sequence. Refusal ends the session and forfeits payment. Verbal consent will be recorded at each escalation. Reiterate consent to proceed.”

The words landed like stones in still water.

You felt your breath hitch— this couldn’t be happening. A bitter, broken laugh almost escaped your throat, but it died before it could form, instead tears kept falling.

Riki’s smile faded slowly, replaced by something else. unguarded; he swallowed hard, jaw tightening, another tear slipping down his cheek and his hands flexed at his sides almost automatically, as if fighting the instinct to reach for you. He gave the smallest nod— barely there—his dark eyes never leaving yours. His voice, when it came, was low and rough, thick with emotion.

“I consent.” It’s almost as if he hadn’t even needed to think about it twice, an instinct, or more-so the lack of a survival one.

In response, you closed your eyes for half a second, overwhelmed. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. When you opened them again, Riki was still watching you with that same devastating patience— the same intensity that had once made you feel like the only person alive.

You didn’t want to leave.

Even after all this, even with the clinical voice echoing in your ears and the weight of eighteen months crashing down in one devastating instant, the thought of walking out felt impossible. Because if you left now— if you said no and ended the session— there was no guarantee you would ever see him again. No guarantee that life would ever grant you this kind of impossible second chance. The universe had already been cruel enough to rip him away once.

What were the odds it would ever align like this again? Zero. None.

You thought about the empty months stretching behind you. The way every new touch from anyone else had felt like a pale imitation— the way you still reached for him in your sleep. Walking out might protect your heart in the short term, but it would condemn you to wondering what if for the rest of your life.

Because of that, staying felt like the only sane choice. Even if it destroyed you, even if it tore open every wound you had tried so desperately to stitch shut. At least here, in this sterile room with its one-way mirrors and biometric sensors, you would have six hours. Six hours of him. Six hours where science itself forced you close enough to breathe the same air, to remember what it felt like to be known.

Strangely enough, the mechanics of it all made the decision feel almost fated— the locked doors, the no-escape clause, the payment dangling like an excuse you could hide behind later. Because of course, you had bills to pay, you had a broken washing machine, and loans to pay off.

It wasn’t my choice, you could tell yourself. The experiment made me stay.

But deep down you knew the truth, so you drew in a shaky breath, eyes still locked on his. “I consent,” you whispered, voice cracking.

The automated voice responded immediately, neutral and efficient: “Consent recorded for both subjects. Stage one will begin in thirty seconds.”

Riki’s gaze softened further, that heartbreaking little smile flickering back to life for just a moment— sad, tender, as if he knew exactly what storm was raging inside you. As if he was fighting the exct same one.

The automated voice returned, slicing through the thick silence: “Stage one: Sit facing each other on the bed, two feet apart.”

Without hesitation, you moved first, your legs felt unsteady as you crossed the short distance to the large bed. The mattress dipped softly under your weight. Riki followed in one smooth motion, settling directly across from you. Exactly two feet.

Close enough to feel him, far enough to not reach.

You looked at each other and in response, his eyes— those dark, familiar eyes—held yours without flinching. You were shaking, you couldn’t stop it— your hands rested on your thighs, fingers curled tightly into the silk robe, trying to anchor yourself.

“Maintain eye contact for ten minutes while answering researcher questions aloud,” the voice instructed.

The first question appeared on the screen. “Describe your history with this person in one sentence.”

Riki went first— ever the bravest; he swallowed hard, throat working visibly and his voice came out hesitant, cracking under the weight of emotion.

“She was my… my first love.”

After a pause, it was your turn— inevitably you’d have to talk, to purge yourself of this unpleasant feeling. But god were you petty…

“He was someone I knew very well. We um… used to date.”

Even then, the words felt like a lie on your tongue, too small to contain the entirety of him. You didn’t date— you felt, and you broke, you crashed hundreds of times with each other like planets colliding— as dramatic as it all sounds. It had been nothing short of a destruction.

But the voice moved on to the next question. “What is your strongest memory of this person?”

You spoke first this time, the memory rising unbidden.

“The day we broke up,” you said slowly, voice trembling. “How quiet it got, i guess.”

Riki’s eyes shimmered as hi jaw tightened. When he answered, his voice was barely above a whisper,

“I remember watching her cry because of me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks again but you didn’t bother wiping them. They were the same that had fallen that night, after what seemed like the hundredth fight.

“What do you still feel when you look at this person?”

That cruel voice stripped you bare until suddenly— you were there, saying things you’d never thought you’d say.

“The same thing I feel looking at someone I used to know… I don’t know, familiarity I guess… stuff I thought I outgrew.”

Riki looked surprised, not by your confession— but more by your stability, the way you kept walls all around you, walls he’d teared down long before and you’d quickly rebuilt.

“The happiest part of my life.” he answered.

You wanted to agree; god knew you wanted to, but you couldn’t. Agreeing would mean defeat and defeat would mean you had something to loose. The years you’d spent with Riki had been your happiest too, a lifetime of laughter, pleasure and complicity… but still, that had never been enough.

The questions continued mercilessly, like a vague health questionnaire. “Do you consider this person a part of your past, present, or future?”

“Past,” you said quickly, without giving it a thought.

Riki shook his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t think you can put someone like her in one category.”

Had he thought about it a lot? Had he spent hours staring at the ceiling wondering whether you were a thing of memories, or a constant? Because you had— but that wasn’t something you were ready to admit.

“Do you believe your feelings for this person are resolved?”

“No,” Riki answered immediately.

“Yes.” you said. He wasn’t even offended— because the thing with people who know you existentially, is that they can tell when you’re lying.

Riki knew you, knew how your tongue loved to tell tales, how you couldn’t even help it— that’s just the way you were, way too proud for your own good.

But thankfully, he was honest enough for the both of you.

“What part of your connection with this person do you not miss?”

You swallowed. “Feeling like I had to wait for someone who was always somewhere else.”

Riki’s expression crumpled slightly. “The moments when I made her feel alone.”

“And what part of your connection with this person do you miss the most?”

Too many possibilities tangled in your mind, where to begin? Would you be shameless enough to say you missed the way his hands fit against your cheeks? The way he knew your defence mechanisms like the back of his hand? The way he’d never blamed you for how loud and how inhibited you were?

There were an infinity of things to say— but all that came were grudges.

“The way I used to be before him.”

Riki’s voice softened, letting out a small breathy chuckle, truly amused by your ability to dodge the real questions. “I miss the ordinary things. Just… existing in the same space.”

“Do you believe this person knows you?”

“He used to.”

“Yes,” the man said without hesitation. “Still does.”

Did you though?

“What do you believe they should apologize for?”

“Nothing.” The word left your lips too quickly.

Riki took a shaky breath. “For thinking she had to leave before I could hurt her again.”

“Do you forgive this person?”

You nodded, “yes”

Dr. Ellis’s voice came through the speaker for the first time, gentle but probing. “Do you mean that, y/n ?”

You answered tightly, “I said yes.”

Lie.

Riki’s gaze was steady, full of sorrow. “I don’t have anything to forgive her for.”

He did— god he did, but he was so good, too good to say it.

“Did your physical response change when you first saw them?”

“No,” you said, but the heart-rate monitor attached to your chest beeped sharply, the line spiking on the screen.

Dr. Ellis spoke again. “Your monitor indicates otherwise.”

Maybe the monitor was right— your heart seemed to be beating out of your chest, but to your credit? It was hot inside that room, and your robe was too tight.

“Then it’s inaccurate,” you muttered, voice tight with frustration.

Riki’s answer? It was simple, “Yes.”

“And were you surprised by your reaction?” the voice prompted.

“No.” you shook your head.

Dr. Ellis asked, “Why?”

“Because I expected it to happen,” you replied, almost absentmindedly brushing a tear from your cheek.

That was a lie, (once again), you hadn’t even expected to be confronted to so many things today, you thought. you were in for a new experience, a way of feeling a little bit.

Instead you were feeling way too damn much.

When it was his turn, Riki answered, “Yes… I thought i was over it.”

The final questions landed like blows. Too much, too precise.

“Do you still love them?”

You didn’t even think about it— maybe if you had you would’ve said the truth, “No.”

Riki’s voice broke completely on his answer. “Yes.”

“If this person asked you to stay, would you?”

“No.”

Your ex lover looked at you for a long moment, eyes glistening. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Ellis prompted gently, “You don’t know?”

“Because I’d want to,” he finished, voice barely holding together.

See, anyone listening could think you were indifferent— cold, but youd spent eighteen months learning how to live without him, not eighteen months learning how to stop feeling. This was more or less your way of removing pieces of yourself before anyone else could touch them, before it could cause actual damage.

You refused to give the past anything soft to hold onto, because once this was over— once the 6 hours were done, there would be no excuses for you and Riki to be alone in a room dancing around feelings.

“Stage two: Touch only hands and arms. Trace each other’s arms, shoulders, and face. Maintain eye contact. Answer all questions aloud.”

After a long silence, you both moved toward the center of the bed like an evidence. You told yourself it was for the money but in all honesty?

You’d die if Nishimura Riki didn’t touch you right now.

As if any sudden motion might shatter the fragile tension holding you together, you sat facing each other, knees almost brushing. Riki lifted his hands first, palms up in quiet offering and you placed yours over his wordlessly.

The moment your skin met, everything got louder in your head.

Riki’s fingers trembled against yours— the old electricity was instant and terrifying, familiar, dangerous and terribly alive. It raced up your arms like lightning remembering its favorite path home.

Fuck, you thought, breath catching. This is too much.

The screen lit up with yet another invasive question.

“Rate your current arousal 1-10.”

Riki answered first, almst absentmindedly stroking his thumb across your palm.

“Eight,” he murmured. Then, softer, “Maybe nine.”

You swallowed hard, your skin was already burning where he touched you. “Seven,” you whispered.

The heart-rate monitor betrayed you instantly, the line spiking on the distant screen and in turn, the next question appeared.

“Does their touch feel different from strangers?”

You let out a shaky breath, his fingers tracing your palm slowly, carefully, following every line like he was reading a map he had once memorized by heart. There was no adequate answer; of course? obviously? definitely?

All you knew was that you hadn’t felt alive in months and his touch had given you that long-searched feeling.

“Yes,” you admitted, voice barely holding. “It feels… good.”

Riki’s eyes darkened, almost automatically, his fingertips moved to your wrist, tracing the delicate veins there with heartbreaking gentleness— his touch was warm, slightly calloused in the way you remembered, sending shivers racing across your skin.

“It feels like the only touch that’s ever made sense,” he said quietly.

Even then, the sensors were drinking it all in—pulse racing, skin conductance rising, pupils dilating. The room felt smaller; the silk robes suddenly too thin as his fingers continued their journey, slowly gliding up your forearms, tracing the sensitive inner skin with such tenderness it made your chest ache.

You followed, your hands moving to his arms. The muscle you found beneath your palms was warm and solid; yoou traced the veins on his forearms, remembering how you used to fall asleep with your head on this exact spot. God, you’d missed it, and you hated how much you’d missed it.

After a pause, the screen asked again:

“Rate your current arousal 1-10.”

“Nine,” Riki breathed, voice cracking slightly as his hands moved higher, brushing over your shoulders— his thumbs stroked along your collarbones with aching care.

You were trembling harder now. “Eight,” you managed. The lie tasted bitter— it was definitely a good old twenty.

His hands eventually moved to your face; in one smooth motion, he cupped your cheeks with both palms, thumbs brushing away the fresh tears that had fallen. You did the same, cradling his jaw, feeling the faint stubble beneath your fingertips.

The touch was so intimate, so full of history, that it hurt.

Somehow, despite everything, the electricity between you only grew. Terrifying. Addictive. Making it impossible to let go even for a breaths moment. Riki’s forehead nearly rested against yours, his breath mingled with your own, “Still you,” he whispered, so softly the microphones might not have caught it. “Even after all this time… still you.”

You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. You simply kept touching him— tracing the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear, the slope of his neck, as if your hands were trying to memorize him all over again before the experiment could take this away too.

The automated voice cut through the charged air again, “Stage three: Remove robes. Kneel facing each other. Kiss only.”

You sat there for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on your chest. Riki’s hands were still cradling your face, thumbs brushing slow circles against your skin like he was afraid you might regret thi.

Even then, despite the clinical detachment of the room and the monitors quietly tracking every spike in your pulse, heat pooled low in your belly.

You looked around the room— making sure there were no cameras, or maybe you knew there weren’t any, but you just wanted to take a breath without feeling like the whole world was pressing inside your chest.

With that, you reached for the belt of your robe first, fingers trembling only slightly as you untied it. The silk whispered open, cool air kissing your bare skin and Riki watched you, dark eyes drinking in every inch like a man starved. Almost out of pure unbidden instinct, he mirrored you, shrugging the robe from his shoulders in one motion. The fabric pooled around your knees on the bed, forgotten.

God, he looked exactly the same— broad shoulders, the lean muscle that had always made you feel safe and wild at once, the faint trail of hair leading down from his navel. Your gaze traced lower before you could stop yourself, and heat flooded your cheeks.

You both shifted, kneeling now, facing each other in the center of the large bed. Knees brushing, close enough that the warmth radiating from his body made the air between you feel electric.

Then the voice prompted again: “Begin kissing. Maintain contact. Describe aloud what you missed most about the other’s body.”

It felt so silly— but you’d take anything, to feel his touch again.

Riki leaned in first, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away— but you didn’t. You met him halfway, and the first press of his lips was soft—hesitant, almost reverent, just a brush, warm and familiar, tasting faintly of salt from the tears still dying on both your cheeks.

Eventually your hands found his chest, palms flat against the steady thud of his heart. The kiss deepened gradually, his mouth opening against yours, tongue tracing your lower lip with care. A soft sound escaped you, half sigh, half whimper, and he swallowed it like it belonged to him.

“Describe it,” the voice reminded neutrally.

You pulled back just enough to speak against his mouth, breath mingling. “I missed… your hands. The way they’re big enough to cover so much of me at once.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going, fingers tracing down his arms. “And your mouth. And… and the way you used to kiss me like you were trying to crawl inside my skin.”

He made a low, wrecked sound in his throat and kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a slow, devastating rhythm that made your toes curl. His hands stayed on your face for now, but you could feel the tension in them, the restraint.

Against his will, he broke the kiss just enough to whisper, “You’re so pretty. Still so goddamn pretty it hurts to look at you, my girl—” He froze, eyes widening slightly as the old endearment slipped out. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t— fuck.”

Tears welled up again in both your eyes, mixing into the kiss as your lips met once more. Salty and desperate now, the tenderness fracturing into something raw- you tasted the apology on his tongue, felt the way his breath hitched when your hands slid up to grip his shoulders.

Even so, the kiss didn’t stop— it grew deeper, hungrier, slow drags turning into wet, open-mouthed presses that left you both breathing harder. Your nipples tightened against his chest as you leaned closer, skin on skin for the first time in eighteen months, the contact earth shattering.

Riki’s hands slid into your hair exactly the way they used to— fingers threading through the strands at the nape of your neck, tugging just enough to tilt your head how he wanted. The familiarity of it made your stomach flip as h pulled you impossibly closer, forehead pressed to yours between kisses, breath hot against your swollen lips.

“This is so fucking unfair,” he whispered, voice breaking.

The screen lit up again almost immediately, the automated voice cutting in: “Subject B: Explain why you left.”

Riki stilled against you, hands still tangled in your hair and you felt his heartbeat stutter under your palm. For a long silence, he just breathed with you, eyes closed, lips brushing yours like he was gathering strength.

Oh God. . .

Finally, he spoke, strained, each word pulled out like it cost him something vital. “I left because I was terrified I’d ruin you. Because every time we fought, I saw how much it broke you, and I convinced myself you’d be better off without me fucking it all up again. I thought… if I stayed, I’d only hurt you more. So I ran like a coward. And every single day since, I’ve regretted it.”

You swallowed hard, tears slipping free again, but you didn’t pull away— instead, your fingers traced down his chest slowly, deliberately, finding the spots you knew would make him shiver— nails grazing lightly over his nipples, then lower, following the lines of his abdomen.

In turn, Riki’s hands moved too, one staying in your hair while the other slid down your back, palm warm and possessive against your spine. He knew exactly how to touch you— still. The perfect pressure, the exact rhythm that had always undone you. His fingertips danced along your sides, then lower, cupping your ass and pulling you flush against him so you could feel how hard he already was.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, kissing you deeper, tongue stroking yours with devastating precision. He knew you like no one else ever had— the way a firm tug on your hair made you melt, the way being held tight while you trembled always pushed you closer to the edge.

And you knew him just as well. Your hand slipped between you, wrapping around his cock with a slow stroke that made him groan against your lips, hips jerking forward instinctively. You weren’t even sure if you could— or if you had to follow instructions, but undoubtedly, it would be okay.

Nobody could see what you were doing anyway, how your hand moved on his length, tugging just the way he liked, thumb swiping over his tip like it had countless times before.

Somehow, despite everything, the years apart only made the knowing dangerous,evry touch loaded with memory. Every kiss felt like coming home and setting the house on fire at the same time.

The voice returned, a third wheel in the whole situation : “Stage four: Oral exploration phase. One gives, one receives. Then switch. Maintain eye contact at all times. Verbal consent required to proceed.”

You knelt there, still pressed close to Riki, his cock hard and hot against your stomach, your own arousal slick between your thighs.

After a long silence, he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes fully. “I consent,” he whispered, voice hoarse’ his thumb brushed your lower lip, tender despite everything.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering against your ribs. “I consent,” you managed.

“Excellent. Subject B will give first. Subject A, lie back. Subject B, position yourself between her legs. Begin slowly.”

With that, Riki guided you down onto the bed, the sheets were cool against your overheated skin, a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins and you lay back, propped slightly on your elbows so you could keep eye contact.

Riki moved with are, settling between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders pushing your legs wider. He looked up at you the entire time, eyes locked on yours.

His hands slid up your inner thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, parting you open for him. You were already wet, embarrassingly so, and the cool air made you shiver.

Riki leaned in slowly, pressing a soft kiss to the crease of your thigh first, then another higher up. His breath ghosted over your core, making your hips twitch.

“Describe what you feel, Subject A,” the voice prompted.

You hated it, you wanted it to shut up so you could focus on his mouth. But it dragged the honesty out of you, things you would’ve never said unprompted.

You bit your lip, “I feel… i feel attraction, like i want him closer.”

Riki’s eyes softened, and then his mouth was on you. A slow, broad lick from your entrance up to your clit, warm and wet and devastatingly familiar until your back arched instinctively, a broken gasp escaping your lips.

“Fuck— Riki…”

“Tell him how it feels,” the voice instructed calmly.

“It feels so good,” you whispered, voice trembling as he licked you again, slower this time, circling your clit with the flat of his tongue. “So… good.”

It made you hate how much you’d missed it. Like your body had never forgotte his.

He moaned against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. With that, he settled in deeper, arms wrapping under your thighs to hold you open, hands gripping your hips.

Riki ate you out like a man starved— long, luxurious strokes of his tongue, savoring every drop of your arousal; he alternated between broad licks that covered your entire pussy and precise flicks right against your swollen clit, sucking gently, then harder.

“Subject B, how does it feel?” the voice cut in.

Riki pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your wetness, “She tastes so good, so sweet and tangy and so fucking addictive. I hate how much I need this— still so fucking perfect for me.” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for leaving you empty like this pretty girl.”

Tears slipped down his cheeks as he dove back in, tongue thrusting inside you now, fucking you with it in shallow, deliberate strokes while his nose nudged your clit. You reached down, fingers threading through his hair, not pulling, just holding on as your own tears started to fall. The overload hit like a wave— love, resentment, all consuming need all crashing together.

Itd be a lie to say the pleasure didn’t build in slow, relentless waves. Riki knew exactly what to do: how to flatten his tongue and drag it up slowly, how to suck your clit into his mouth and hum, how to press two fingers inside you and curl them just right against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. But he didn’t rush. He drew it out, edging you, pulling back whenever you got too close.

“Subject A, how does this make you feel emotionally?” the voice asked, pushing deeper into the wound.

“It makes me feel known,” you sobbed, hips rolling against his face despite yourself. “Like he still owns every part of me. It hurts— god, it hurts so good because I love him… and… and I fucking resent him and I need him so much it scares me.”

Riki whimpered against your core, the sound muffled and desperate. Tears mixed with your slick on his cheeks. as he licked broader, messier now, devouring you with filthy, wet sounds that filled the room. “My girl… you’re dripping for me. Still so responsive. I missed this pussy so much. Missed making you fall apart on my tongue.”

He didn’t even bother correcting himself this time— that’s what you were at the end of the day, his girl. No matter how far, no matter how close.

The voice continued its relentless probing: “Subject B, does performing this act stir unresolved feelings?”

“Yes,” Riki gasped between long licks, tongue circling your clit relentlessly. “It makes me remember every time I made her come like this and then held her after. It twists the knife because I threw it all away.”

You cried harder, the intimacy almost unbearable— the clinical voice forcing you to confront every sensation, every buried emotion, while Riki’s mouth worshipped you.

Your thighs trembled around his head as he slid three fingers inside you now, pumping slowly, curling, scissoring, stretching you open while his tongue flicked fast and light over your clit.

“Fuck…,” you moaned, voice wrecked. “I’m so close…”

You didn’t want it to end, you were desperate for it to last a lifetime, even as your legs shook.

Riki doubled down, sucking your clit firmly, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. The wet, obscene sounds mixed with your sobs and his muffled apologies. “Come for me, baby— please. Let me have this.”

The orgasm built like a tidal wave, slow and inevitable. He coaxed it, drawing it out for long minutes, edging you right to the brink and then easing back, only to push you higher again. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tears streamed down your face in an incoherent mess.

Love, pain and pleasure braided together so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

“It’s too much— too deep. I’m gonna —fuck, Riki—”

He moaned encouragement against you and finally let you tip over. The orgasm crashed through you in powerful, rolling waves, your back arched off the bed, thighs clamping around his head as you came hard on his tongue, pulsing around his fingers. He licked you through it, gentler now, savoring every aftershock, murmuring praise and apologies into your soaked flesh.

You lay there panting, tears still falling, as the voice spoke again: “Switch. Subject A will now give. Subject B, lie back.”

God, give a girl a break.

After a long recuperation pause, you moved, limbs shaky. Riki lay back, cock achingly hard and leaking against his stomach and you knelt between his spread legs, eyes locked on his tear-streaked face. He looked wrecked already—beautifully so.

You started slowly, pressing kisses along his inner thighs, nuzzling the crease where leg met hip. His cock twitched in anticipation and you licked a long stripe up the underside, savoring the salty taste of him.

“Subject A, how does it feel,” the voice demanded.

“It feels good” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Bitter because I know exactly how he likes it.”

Riki’s hand came down to cup your cheek, thumb stroking gently even as fresh tears slipped from his eyes. You took him into your mouth gradually —first just the head, swirling your tongue around it, sucking softly; then deeper, inch by inch, until he hit the back of your throat. You hollowed your cheeks and bobbed slowly, one hand stroking what you couldn’t fit.

“Fuck— yes, just like that,” he groaned, hips twitching but staying controlled. “Look at you… baby…”

The voice interrupted: “Subject B, describe the sensations and emotions this evokes.”

“It feels like… fuck— i can’t, s’too much” Riki panted, eyes never leaving yours. “Her tongue is driving me insane— I missed her mouth so fucking much.”

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat, nose brushing his pelvis as you swallowed around him. Tears blurred your vision too— resentment flaring because he left, love swelling because he was here, raw need making you suck him with devotion. You pulled off to breathe, stroking him firmly with a twisting motion while your tongue laved his balls, sucking one into your mouth gently.

It made you feel so powerful and so small at the same time. Like you could ruin him and he could ruin you.

Riki moaned quietly, hand in your hair now, you returned to his cock, sucking harder, faster, but still deliberate— drawing it out. Long, slow bobs interspersed with teasing licks along the vein underneath, paying special attention to the sensitive head.

You knew every spot: the way he liked your hand twisting at the base, the way humming around him made his thighs tense.

Minutes stretched and yes, the voice kept prompting— “Subject B, does receiving this act make you confront why you left?”—forcing words between moans and sobs.

Riki’s answers grew more broken: “I left because I was scared I’d need her forever and fuck it up. Now I know I do.”

Your jaw ached a you poured everything into it— love, anger, longing— sucking him deep, stroking, worshipping. His hips started shallow thrusts, meeting your mouth.

“I’m so close but I don’t want it to stop,” Riki spoke, unprompted this time.

You redoubled your efforts, taking him as deep as possible, swallowing around him, one hand massaging his balls. Long, thorough minutes of wet heat and tight suction until his breathing grew ragged, thighs trembling.

Only when the tension became unbearable did he finally tip over, with your name on his lips and tears in his eyes. He came hard, pulsing thick and hot down your throat and you swallowed every drop, milking him gently through the long, shuddering orgasm, not pulling off until he was spent and oversensitive.

You crawled up his body afterward, both of you crying, clinging.

The voice announced a brief pause for biometric reset, but you stayed tangled together, foreheads pressed, breaths shared, the knife still twisting deep.

The automated voice returned after a brief, “Stage five: Full penetration. Timed pauses enforced. First position: Subject A on top, controlling pace. Answer researcher questions aloud. Consent required.”

Riki’s eyes met yours, dark and desperate. His cock was still hard, slick from your mouth, resting heavy against his stomach.

“I consent,” he rasped.

“I consent,” you echoed.

“Begin.”

You moved first, crawling over him with shaky limbs; straddling his hips, you braced your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. Riki’s hands settled on your thighs, thumbs stroking soothing circles even as fresh tension coiled in his muscles. You reached down, wrapping your fingers around his thick length, stroking him once, twice, lining him up at your entrance.

He didn’t thrust up, he waited, eyes locked on yours, giving you control. Slowly, you sank down.

You didn’t stop until he was at the hilt, so snug where he resided, overwhelming— burning, perfect, familiar. Syllables were left to die in your mouth, falling into the back of your throat as it clogged with a shaky inhale. You sat fully seated, pelvis flush to his, trembling as your walls fluttered and clenched around every inch of him.

“Fuck… Riki,” you whispered.

The voice prompted immediately: “Do you forgive them?”

There it was, the big question. With him so deep inside of you, you couldn’t even tell if your thoughts were real or implanted by the raw pleasure. You thought about it— in the limits of your own imagination— because if you were giving him your body right now, it had to mean something, right?

You rolled your hips experimentally, a slow grind that made stars burst behind your eyes. The drag of his cock inside you, thick and hot and hitting every sensitive spot, stole your vry breath. You rose slightly and sank back down, setting a deliberate, torturous pace.

“That’s right, beautiful… take this cock.. fuck, just like that.. you’re doing so good.” he praised, thrusting up just a tiny bit.

“It feels… so full.” you gasped, tears slipping free again as he throbbed inside.

Riki groaned beneath you, hands sliding up to grip your hips, not guiding yet— just holding. “Do you forgive me?” he asked, voice breaking, echoing the researcher’s question even as the voice waited.

You rode him slower, grinding deep on every downstroke, anger and longing twisting together. Your palm came down on his chest in a sharp slap, not hard enough to truly hurt but enough to sting. “I want to,” you sobbed, rising and sinking again. “I do and I don’t. You left me empty for eighteen months.”

The indecency of the words, the shame coming with them, made you forget the very setting you were in. The pleasure taking over your entire body, submerged in everything Riki gave you until you had no choice but to shake.

He thrust up to meet you on the next drop, deeper, and you moaned loudly. “Mine,” he whispered fiercely, eyes glistening. “Even if you hate me, you’re still mine.”

You clenched around him involuntarily at the possessiveness, and he hissed. “Shh baby, I’m not going anywhere. Give me a little breathing room,” he murmured, voice strained with pleasure.

Tears streamed down your face as you alternated between presses to his chest and leaning down to kiss him like you’d die without his mouth on yours.

“Subject A, rate your emotional state,” the voice demanded mid-thrust.

Oh fuck off.

“I… fuck,” you cried out, bouncing harder. “Riki I need you to fuck me deeper— ah—until I forget you ever left.”

Riki sat up slightly, wrapping one arm around your back to pull you closer, mouth latching onto your nipple as you rode him. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, while his other hand guided your hips in a punishing rhythm. The new angle made him hit that spot inside you relentlessly— pleasure coiling tight and vicious.

The first orgasm built fast and vicious, you thighs shook as you bounced harder.

“Ah, there you go. There’s my baby. Poor thing, it’s okay, you can come,” he murmured, pushing your hair back behind your ear.

You shattered around him with a broken cry, walls pulsing and fluttering wildly as pleasure ripped through you, your nails dug into his chest, tears streaming freely. But the orgasm didn’t stop at waves of clenching— it crashed harder, sudden and wet.

You squirted around his cock for the first time in months, soaking his abdomen and the sheets beneath you in hot, pulsing gushes. The release left you shaking violently, as the pleasure blinded you.

Still, you kept moving, overstimulated and desperate, fucking yourself on his cock like you could erase the past somehow.

Riki sat up, wrapping strong arms around you, mouth latching onto your breast. He sucked hard, tongue flicking your nipple as you rode him faster.

One of his hands slid up to your throat, wrapping gently but firmly, applying just enough pressure to make your head spin in the most delicious way, vision blurring at the edges with overwhelming sensation.

“So fucking good for me… look at you, soaking my cock like this. My perfect girl.”

Riki flipped you suddenly, moving you onto all fours in one smooth motion, he knelt behind you, gripping your hips possessively. He rubbed his slick cock along your folds once, then pushed in deep.

The new angle stole what little air remained in your lungs. He felt even deeper like this— you were going to loose your mind.

Riki started thrusting immediately, possessive strokes that rocked your entire body, one hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back just right, while the other wrapped around your throat from behind, choking you lightly as he fucked you. The combination made your eyes roll back, pleasure so intense it felt like drowning and dying at the same time.

“Mine,” he moaned against your ear, fucking you harder. “Still fucking mine. Such a good girl, taking me so deep.”

You pushed back to meet him, messy and frantic, tears dripping onto the sheets below and hee reached around to rub your clit in tight, relentless circles, never slowing his punishing rhythm.

“Look at you, creaming all over my cock. So fucking pretty when you fall apart like this. My baby— always so perfect.”

“Does this feel like love or just lust?” the voice demanded, reminding you of y the current setting.

You couldn’t even answer, incoherent babbles tumbling out of your pathetic mouth but Riki grabbed your jaw, whispering in your ear, “Answer baby, come on.”

“Both,” you sobbed, voice hoarse “ah, fuck—right there. I’m gonna— fuck—”

Another orgasm tore through you without mercy . Your body convulsed, another rush of wetness flooding out around him as you squirted harder, thighs quaking uncontrollably. Riki’s praise never stopped, filthy and tender all at once. “That’s right, baby… fuck, just like that.. you’re doing so good. Let it all out for me.”

The peak left you shaking, barely holding yourself up on trembling arms, your body gave out completely, collapsing forward. Riki followed you down, chest pressed to your back, still buried deep.

His thrusts grew erratic, desperate, and impossibly deeper. You could feel every twitch and throb of his cock inside you as he chased his own release; hiss breathing turned ragged against your ear, hot and uneven, broken groans vibrating through his chest.

The hand in your hair tightened, the one on your throat loosened into something almost protective as his hips snapped forward one final time, burying himself to the absolute hilt.

Riki came with a shattered, guttural moan of your name, his entire body seizing against yours. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded deep inside you, each powerful spurt accompanied by a helpless roll of his hips, as if he couldn’t stop trying to push even deeper.

You felt every single jet filling you until it started to leak out around his cock with every tiny after-thrust. His cock twitched and pulsed for long, drawn-out moments, the release seemingly endless as he poured months of pent-up longing into you. His thighs trembled violently against the backs of yours, muscles locked tight, a full-body shudder ripping through him as the pleasure wrung him dry.

“Fuck— baby… still you,” he gasped brokenly against your neck, voice cracking with as the last weak spurts emptied him completely. He stayed buried to the hilt, grinding slowly through the aftershocks, savoring the tight, wet heat of your pussy still fluttering around his oversensitive length.

Fresh tears slipped from his eyes onto your skin as he held you close, body draped over yours like he was afraid you’d regret the second he pulled out.

See… studies show a lot of things, for example that long-term partners can remain neurologically significant long after a breakup. They say it’s often a question of whether unresolved emotional attachment predicts involuntary sexual responsiveness between old partners.

But what it doesn’t say though, is how easily that same attachment can twist into something far more dangerous— how six hours in a sterile room can hook itself so deeply under your skin that it becomes impossible to ever truly pull free again.

The experiment ended exactly on schedule, six short hours later, the doors unlocked. Dr. Ellis’s voice offered neutral congratulations and payment confirmations.

You and Riki dressed in silence, eyes lingering too long, hands brushing with the kind of accidental-on-purpose touch that said everything words couldn’t.

When you finally stepped out into the real world, the city lights felt too bright, the air too cold, the absence of his body against yours already unbearable.

Somehow, that single night cracked you both open wider than the original breakup ever had. But it’s not like you hadn’t expected it just a little bit.

In the weeks that followed, the addiction set in slowly at first, then all at once. You told yourself it was just closure, just one text to check if he got home safely. Just one late-night call because you couldn’t sleep without hearing his voice.

But soon the messages grew longer, the calls stretched into early mornings, and the excuses became paper-thin.

Riki? He was no better.

He started “accidentally” showing up at places he knew you frequented— the cafe where you took your coffee exactly the way he still remembered, the bookstore you loved on quiet afternoons.

Each encounter left you both raw and starving for more and more and more.

Even then, you tried to fight it. You blocked his number once, only to unblock it three hours later when the emptiness felt louder than any self-respect.

He showed up at your door at 2 a.m. one night, eyes hollow, whispering that he just needed to see you. You let him in. That night turned into another desperate, tear-soaked reunion against your hallway wall, his hand around your throat and your nails down his back, both of you chasing that same devastating intensity the experiment had forced upon you.

Undeniably, the codependency only deepened. You became each other’s secret again— sneaking into hotel rooms, fucking in the back of his car like teenagers, meeting in abandoned parking lots just to feel his hands on you. The sex grew darker, more possessive, he’d choke you a little harder, hold you down a little longer, whispering “mine” like a vow and a curse while you cried and came and begged for more— addicted to the way he looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him sane.

Months blurred together. You stopped dating other people entirely and so did he.

Friends noticed the change— how distracted you were, how you’d disappear for hours with no explanation. But nothing else filled the void.

The experiment had proven what your heart already knew: no one else would ever jnow your body the way he did. No one else could make you break and sob and feel so painfully alive.

Eventually, the sneaking stopped being enough.

One evening he showed up with a suitcase and the quiet admission that his apartment felt like a tomb without you in it. You let him stay the night, then the week and then… indefinitely.

The dangerous liaison wrapped around both of you like chains you no longer wanted to escape. Fights still happened— ugly, tearful, screaming matches that ended with him fucking you against the nearest surface until the anger melted into desperate “I love you”s and “never leave me again”s.

You were linked now, deeper than before, codependent in the most beautiful and terrifying way.

The study had been meant to observe intimacy, istead, it had created an obsession neither of you could—or wanted—to break.

In the quiet moments after sex, when his cum was still leaking down your thighs and his arms held you like a fragile thing, you sometimes wondered if this was ruin or salvation.

But even then, with his heartbeat steady against your back and his whispered praises in your ear, you knew the truth: you were his, and he was yours.

And that felt like the only kind of knowing worth having

a/n : please, no hate on this, i’m only human, this is fiction, please don’t come at me for writing this— when people quite literally romanticize rape on here. this was something i needed to write, i don’t want to get hate for it because it’s incredibly vulnerable so please give me a break im tired, take in consideration that this is purely a form of art. That being said, take care of yourself, if you can relate (which i hope you don’t.) please please please don’t let a monster dictate your life.

“HE GAVE IN TO TEMPTATION. Men are weak, you shouldn’t let one moment define the rest of his life.”

The priest’s voice drifted through the dim confessional like dust motes in a shaft of stained-glass light— heavy with the scent of old incense and mildew. Father Elias sat on the other side of the latticed screen, his silhouette hunched like a weathered gravestone in the small-town church.

The building itself was a relic— cracked plaster saints with peeling paint, wooden pews worn smooth by generations of sinners, a rusty crucifix hanging crooked above the altar as if even God had grown tired of holding it straight. Outside, the wind moaned across the empty plains, carrying the faint howl of coyotes circling the bones of dead cattle.

You knelt on the hard wooden step, knees aching, fingers twisting the hem of your thin cotton dress; the fabric clung to your sweat-damp skin, faded like everything else in this godforsaken stretch of America.

Your body felt foreign, animal.

The violence had stripped the softness from you and left something feral in its place: a wild thing with bared teeth and trembling flanks, hiding in tall grass, ready to bolt or bite at the slightest shadow.

Sleep came in fitful snatches, curled tight like a wounded deer, muscles locked against phantom hands. Hunger gnawed but food tasted of ash. Touch— any touch—sent you spiraling into that dark place where flesh became meat- where your own body betrayed you with memories of tearing and bruising.

You had come to the church seeking absolution for your anger— but Father Elias offered counsel for the sinner instead.

“You have to remember that forgiveness is for everyone, even the man who hurt you,” he continued, voice soft as grave dirt. The words landed like stones in still water, rippling through your chest.

You swallowed hard, throat raw— the confessional smelled of candle wax and old sins and through the screen, you could see the outline of his clasped hands, knuckles white. Everything was so detailed yet so distant.

“Father… he didn’t just hurt me. He took. I said no. I begged. And he laughed.”

The memory surged, brutal: gravel digging into your back like the teeth of the earth itself, his breath hot and sour like cheap whiskey and damnation, hands pinning your wrists as if nailing you to some profane cross. Your dress torn like fucking temple veil.

Afterward, you crawled into the ditch like an animal fleeing the slaughterhouse— limbs shaking, throbbing with violation, soul leaking out onto the dirt.

Days blurred into weeks of hiding in motel rooms, washing blood from your undergarments in sink basins, staring at your reflection until the girl looking back became something hunted and hollow-eyed.

The pain had animalized you: instincts sharpened to survival, trust evaporated like morning dew on the sagebrush. You flinched at footsteps, bared metaphorical teeth at kindness, fucked up your own attempts at connection because intimacy now smelled like violence.

A prey animal wearing human skin, yearning for a shepherd who wouldn’t lead you to slaughter.

Father Elias sighed, the sound heavy with centuries of doctrine. “Holding on to anger only gives the devil another victory, my child. Let it go before it festers into something that damns you both.”

You pressed your forehead against the cool wood, tears slipping silent down your cheeks. The church creaked around you, wind rattling the loose panes like bones in a shallow grave.

Outside, the vast western sky stretched merciless, highways cutting through it like veins opened for bloodletting. You thought of the man—your executioner —sitting somewhere in this same county, perhaps lighting candles in this very church, confessing to the same priest.

Forgiven by God while you carried the carcass of what he left behind.

“He has confessed his sins before God,” the priest said gently, almost pleading. “Perhaps it’s time for you to let this go.”

The words carved into you. Let it go.

As if pain were a coat you could shrug off on the porch step.

As if your body could forget the way it was split open under moonlight, turned from temple to battlefield.

You had become the wounded lamb limping through the valley of shadow, but no rod or staff comforted you. Instead, rage simmered beneath the fear—a wild, gnashing thing that made you want to burn the fields, to scream at the indifferent heavens until they cracked.

“We all fall into sin,” Father Elias murmured, finality in his tone. “His happened to hurt you. But grace is for the fallen. Pray on it, daughter. Seek the light.”

You left the confessional on unsteady legs, the animal inside you snarling low. The church nave stretched long and empty, dust dancing in beams of colored light from windows depicting martyred saints pierced and bleeding. You genuflected out of habit, the motion mechanical, then slipped out into the blazing afternoon sun.

The dirt parking lot was empty save for your old pickup, paint sun-bleached and rust-eaten. You drove the back roads with windows down, wind whipping your hair like a scourge. Fields of dying wheat rolled by, golden and rotten at the roots, scarecrows standing sentinel like crucified sinners.

Home was the crumbling farmhouse on the outskirts— the same one that would later shelter you and James. For now, it stood lonely, porch sagging under the weight of unspoken prayers.

You stripped in the dim bedroom, standing naked before the cracked mirror.

Your reflection showed the thing you had become: ribs faintly visible from weeks of barely eating, bruises long faded to yellow ghosts on your hips and thighs, eyes too wide and haunted. Scratches from your own nails where you had clawed at your skin in nightmares, trying to scrub him out. Breasts that once felt soft and inviting now seemed like burdens, cunt a site of trauma rather than pleasure.

You touched yourself experimentally, fingers tracing the folds that had been forced open, and flinched at the echo of pain.

No wetness, only dryness and dread.

The yearning was there, buried deep— a desperate hunger for tenderness that felt like blasphemy in this landscape of judgment.

Nights were the worst. You lay on the iron bed, sheets tangled like restraints, listening to the coyotes sing their hymns. Dreams came feral: running endless highways, hooves instead of feet, the executioner’s truck always gaining, his hands turning into claws. You woke gasping, body slick with sweat that smelled of fear.

Masturbation brought no relief— only fragmented attempts that ended in tears, fingers too rough in mimicry of violence, leaving you emptier.

The animal in you paced, wounded and wanting, craving a touch that healed rather than hunted.

Days passed in ritual. You worked odd jobs at the roadside diner, pouring coffee for truckers whose eyes lingered too long, making your skin crawl with animal wariness.

You avoided the church after that confession, but the priest’s words haunted the empty rooms like ghosts.

Forgiveness. Grace. Letting go.

They clashed with the truth etched in your flesh: some sins left teeth marks that no prayer could erase.

You read old Bibles by lamplight, tracing passages about redemption, but they felt hollow.

The God of this land seemed distant, more interested in forgiving the wolf than binding the lamb’s wounds.

One evening, storm clouds gathered low on the horizon, turning the sky the color of bruised flesh. You sat on the porch with a bottle of cheap wine, the animal inside restless. Thunder rumbled like distant judgment.

You thought of the man who hurt you— perhaps he slept easy now, absolved, while you carried the weight of his temptation.

Anger rose, hot and righteous, but so did the exhaustion of holding it.

The priest was right about one thing: it was poisoning you, turning you more feral, more isolated. But forgiveness felt like dying all over again.

So you drove to the edge of town as lightning split the sky, pulling over at an old crossroads where faded signs pointed toward forgotten places. The rain came sudden and violent, washing the dust from your windshield as tears from a penitent’s face.

You stepped out into it, dress clinging transparent, arms spread as if inviting the heavens to strike. Water mixed with salt on your cheeks.

“Why?” you screamed into the gale- to no one in particular. “Why why why why.”

That night, back at the farmhouse, you lit candles around the bedroom, mimicking some half-remembered ritual. Naked again before the mirror, you traced the lines of your body with trembling fingers, trying to reclaim it.

“This is mine,” you whispered to the reflection. But the touch stirred only echoes.

The yearning deepened into ache: for hands that asked, for a body that sheltered rather than invaded, for intimacy slow as desert twilight and tender as a mother’s lullaby.

Longing twisted with carnal hunger. You wanted to be laid on an altar of flesh and worshipped, not sacrificed.

Sleep claimed you eventually, curled fetal like a creature in its den. Dreams shifted slightly— a figure on the horizon, boots kicking up dust, eyes like moss after rain.

A lover, perhaps.

A man who understood the animal and gentled it without breaking.

Morning brought pale light filtering through threadbare curtains. You rose, body stiff but the feral edge slightly dulled by the storm’s catharsis.

The priest’s words lingered, but so did your truth.

Forgiveness might come later, or never. For now, survival meant seeking the light he spoke of, even if it led down uncertain roads.

You packed a small bag— few belongings, a worn Bible, a change of clothes—and climbed into the truck. The engine coughed to life and highways stretched before you, endless blacktop cutting through golden decay, telephone poles like crucifixes.

You didn’t know where you were going, only that staying meant becoming more of a beast.

The priest’s counsel echoed: forgiveness for all. But your body remembered the violence, and it demanded proof of another way. Proof that flesh could sing hallelujah instead of screaming damnation.

Proof that a man’s weakness didn’t have to mean your destruction.

The desert swallowed your taillights, stars wheeling overhead like indifferent witnesses.

You passed abandoned farms and rusted water towers, relics of dreams long dead. Each mile peeled back another layer of th armor— fear giving way, inch by painful inch, to the fragile wish for connection.

By the time the sun bled orange across the plains, exhaustion and something like grace settled over you. The farmhouse waited somewhere ahead, empty and beckoning, its porch light a distant votive in your mind’s eye.

You pulled over once more, killing the engine under a sky turning violet. Sitting on the hood, legs dangling, you let the cooling metal warm your thighs. Hands pressed to your stomach, you breathed deep the scent of creosote and possibility.

The rape had made you feral, yes— quick to run, slow to trust, body a battlefield of phantom pains and instinctive snarls. But beneath it, the girl who once believed in tenderness still flickered, a candle in the ruins of faith.

“Forgiveness,” you whispered to the wind, tasting the word like bitter sacrament.

Not for him.

Not yet.

But perhaps space for something new.

For hands that built instead of broke.

For a lover who would kneel in the dirt and kiss the wounds without demanding you forget they existed.

Night fell fully as you resumed driving. The radio crackled with a faint Jeff Buckley melody— your heart beat in time, animal and human entwined, carrying you toward the farmhouse where dust settled on empty rooms, waiting for the man who would finally answer the prayer.

In the days that followed, solitude wrapped you like a shroud. You cleaned the old place with ritualistic care: sweeping floors that groaned like penitent knees, hanging faded curtains, placing wildflowers in cracked jars on the windowsill.

Each task was an act of reclamation, pushing back against the wildness. Yet at night the memories returned— visceral torrents.

The weight pinning you.

The grunt of conquest.

The way your voice had cracked on “please” until it became whimper.

You woke clawing at sheets, nails leaving red crescents on your arms, body slick with the sweat of prey.

One afternoon, you found an old rosary in a drawer, beads worn smooth. You held it, running fingers over the cross, and whispered fragmented prayers.

Not for the executioner’s soul, but for your own. For the feral thing inside to find rest.

The priest’s words returned unbidden: “We all fall into sin. His happened to hurt you.” They stung less sharply now, tempered by distance, but still you rejected the easy absolution.

Your hurt was not collateral. It was a ravine carved through your life, deep enough to echo.

You began walking the back fields at dusk, boots kicking up red dust, dress trailing like a robe. Coyotes watched from the treeline, recognizing kin in your wary stride.

One evening, a storm threatened again. You stood in the open, arms raised, letting the first fat drops hit your upturned face. Rain soaked through fabric, outlining the curves the executioner had claimed, but this time you did not flinch.

Instead, you imagined different hands— gentle ones tracing the same paths with reverence. The yearning intensified, a deep ache between your legs that was desire and fear braided together.

You slipped fingers under the wet hem right there in the field, touching tentatively. Slow circles on your core, breath hitching not with trauma but with tentative want.

The animal watched, curious rather than terrified.

You did not come, but the act felt like small sacrament— reclaiming the altar of your body one raindrop at a time.

Returning to the house drenched, you stripped and stood before the mirror once more. Water beaded on skin marked by faded lines.

You spoke aloud to the reflection: “You are more than what he made you.”

The animal inside softened its hackles, curling tighter but no longer snapping.

Letters arrived sporadically— distant family, concerned friends— but you answered little. Isolation was both cage and sanctuary.

In the quiet, you read from the worn Bible and secular books scavenged from thrift stores: stories of fallen women finding grace on the road, of bodies remade through love.

The longing evolved from vague hunger to specific prayer.

You wanted eyes that saw the scars and kissed them anyway. A voice that praised instead of degraded. A sex that filled with consent and care, slow as the turning of seasons.

The priest’s final counsel lingered during a return visit to the church weeks later. You did not enter the confessional this time but sat in a back pew as Father Elias prepared for evening mass. He noticed you, offered a nod heavy with unspoken words.

After the sparse service— a handful of elderly parishioners murmuring responses—you approached him in the vestibule.

“Father,” you said, voice steady despite the tremor in your hands. “I heard your words. About forgiveness. About sin.”

He clasped your shoulder lightly, a fatherly touch that did not trigger flight. “The Lord’s mercy is infinite, child. Even for the weakest among us.”

You met his gaze. “I’m trying. But the animal he left in me… it doesn’t forget easily. I’m learning to walk again. To want again.”

He smiled sadly, the lines on his face deep as arroyos. “That is the beginning of grace. Go in peace.”

You left lighter, though not healed. The drive back felt like pilgrimage. The farmhouse appeared on the horizon, its lights (you had left one burning) like a beacon.

Inside, you prepared simple food, ate at the wooden table, then bathed by lamplight. The water caressed your skin, warm and forgiving.

Fingers explored again, slower, imagining a future lover’s mouth replacing them. Soft moans escaped, echoing off tiled walls— sounds of tentative healing.

That night, sleep came deeper. Dreams featured open roads and a man walking toward you, hands open, voice like gravel and honey. James, though you did not yet know his name.

The animal in you perked its ears, in recognition.

The road finally delivered you to him on a night when the sky hung low and bruised, thunderheads rolling across the plains like the wrath of an old testament God.

You had pulled into the gravel lot of a half-forgotten roadside bar on the outskirts of another nowhere town. The air smelled of spilled beer, cigarette ash, and the metallic promise of rain.

Inside, the jukebox wept low country songs, and he was leaning against the scarred wooden bar when you entered, a silhouette carved from the very dust and decay of this land.

James.

Tall and lean as a fence post left too long in the sun, shoulders broad from years of hauling lumber and laying rebar on half-built churches that never quite got finished.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in careless waves, streaked with blond like moonlight on barbed wire.

A faded tattoo of a thorn-crowned cross peeked from the open collar of his shirt, ink blurred by time and penance. Scars traced his knuckles and the line of his jaw— road stories, bar fights, nights spent wrestling with angels and losing.

He was no savior in white robes.

James was a sinner with callused hands and a quiet faith.

A drifter architect of sorts, he built things that stood against the wind: barns for widows, shelters for runaways, sometimes just temporary altars out of scrap wood.

Men whispered he had blood on his ledger from a youth spent running moonshine and worse, but the women who knew him spoke of gentle strength— the way he held doors and held silences, never rushing, never taking.

A man who had buried his own ghosts under desert highways and risen with dirt still under his nails.

Your eyes met across the hazy room.

Something ancient stirred in your chest— the feral animal inside you paused its pacing, ears pricking not in flight but in wary recognition.

He didn’t approach like the others, with hungry grins and grasping hands.

James simply nodded once, a slow tip of his chin, and slid a glass of whiskey down the bar toward you when the bartender asked your order.

“Looks like you’ve been driving through hell’s back forty,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough, laced with that slow southern drawl that wrapped around broken things and tried to mend them. “the name’s James.”

You talked that night in careful fragments, perched on stools while lightning flashed outside. He listened like a confessor who had never betrayed a secret, black eyes steady as you skirted the edges of your story without spilling the blood yet.

He spoke of his own wanderings: building in dying towns, laying hands on structures and souls alike, searching for something real amid the rot.

“I don’t pretend to fix what’s broken,” he murmured. “But I know how to hold it gentle. The world’s got enough violence already.”

He didnt come inside the farmhouse that first night. Instead, he walked you to the door, hat in hand, rain dripping from the brim.

“If you ever want company that don’t demand nothing, I’m staying at the old Miller place down the road. No pressure, pretty.”

Days turned to weeks.

James became a presence rather than a conquest. He appeared with fresh-cut wildflowers for the sagging porch, helped patch the leaking roof without being asked, his hammer strikes rhythmic as prayer.

Evenings found you on the porch swing, sharing silence and then stories. He told you of the churches he restored, of laying bricks like laying down sins, of praying over foundations that might outlast him.

You spoke haltingly of the animal the rape had left behind— the flinch at sudden movement, the nights curled like a wounded coyote, the way your body had become a locked tabernacle no one was allowed to enter.

James never pushed.

Touches came slow: a hand steadying your elbow on uneven steps, fingers brushing yours when passing a mug of coffee. Each one asked permission with its gentleness.

“You set the pace,” he would say quietly, eyes on the horizon. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

Over months, he became your lover in the truest sense— not through claiming, but through presence. Shared meals at the scarred kitchen table. Walks along the dust roads where he matched your stride, never leading. Nights sitting close on the couch, his arm around you only when you leaned in first, thumb tracing soothing circles on your shoulder.

The animal in you learned his scent— sandalwood, sweat, and honest earth —and stopped baring teeth. Trust bloomed tentative.

One evening, as summer faded into golden, you sat together on the porch steps. James turned to you, voice soft as grave dirt.

“I see everything you carry, darlin’. The way that bastard tried to make you into something broken. I hate it down to my bones. But I see you too— my girl, still reaching for light. When you’re ready, if you’re ever ready, I want to show you that touch can be different. Yours to command.”

Your heart ached with the weight of it.

Here was the man who had become your lover through patience and quiet devotion, not force. The wanderer with boba eyes and callused redeemer’s hands, ready to kneel at whatever altar you offered.

The farmhouse waited behind you, oil lamps glowing soft, the longing had grown into something ready. James waited too— steady, reverent—until you took his hand and led him inside, the threshold crossing like the first true breath after long suffocation.

Pleasure wasn’t punishment.

Pleasure. isn’t. punishment.

James’ fingers brushed a strand of hair from your face, gentle as evening vespers. “You look like you’re carrying the whole damn county on your shoulders tonight, pretty.” he murmured. “Let me take that weight off you.”

His breath hitched, thhose dark eyes, shadowed by the brim of his worn hat, filled with a sorrow so deep it mirrored the dry riverbeds outside.

He pulled you against his chest, heart thudding steady beneath faded cotton. “Christ, baby. It tears me up inside knowing someone laid violent hands on you. Made you think love had to hurt. I’d burn the whole fucking town down if it’d erase that night for you.” He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “But I can’t undo it. All I can do is prove different. Every damn time you let me.”

The wrought-iron bed dominated your room, sheets worn soft from years of strangers’ dreams. You sat on the edge of the bed, knees together, vulnerable as a sinner at the altar.

James knelt before you, large hands resting on your thighs but not gripping. Never gripping unless you asked.

“Tell me what you need tonight,” he said, thumbs stroking circles that sent warmth pooling low in your belly. “We go as slow as you need. You say stop, I stop. You say more, I give you everything.”

“I need you close,” you whispered, voice cracking like parched earth.

All of you. Skin and soul. Show me tenderness, Make love to me like I’m something sacred.

James rose and undressed first, shedding flannel and jeans with unhurried grace. His body was lean muscle and scars— road life etched into him: a knife fight in El Paso, a crash outside Tulsa.

You reached out, tracing the tattoo over his heart— he shivered under your fingers but stayed still, letting you map him.

“Your turn, if you want,” he said softly.

You nodded.

He helped peel the flannelj from your shoulders, reverent as disrobing a saint. Cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples pebbling. His gaze drank you in—hungry but holy.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathed. “Beautiful. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”

Tears stung your eyes and he cupped your face, thumbs wiping them away.

“None of that shame, darlin’. Not with me. You’re allowed to want this— to need it slow and deep and loving.”

James laid you back against the pillows, the mattress dipping under his weight as he stretched beside you.

Skin met skin— warmth against warmth. His hand traced your collarbone, down the valley between your breasts, over the soft plane of your stomach. Every touch asked permission.

“Here?” he’d murmur.

You’d nod or whisper yes, and he’d continue.

You kissed him first, desperate for connection. His mouth tasted of smoke and salt, slow and devouring in the gentlest way, tongues slid together.

He groaned into you, a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. “So sweet,” he praised against your lips. “So pretty.”

Your hands roamed his back, feeling the flex of muscle, the raised lines of old scars. He rolled partially over you, careful to keep weight distributed, one thigh pressing gently between yours.

The pressure against your core made you gasp— slick heat building already, arousal a slow, sacred burn rather than frantic fear.

“Feel that?” he whispered, grinding softly, deliberately. “Your body’s getting ready for me, baby. So wet already. Does it feel good?”

“Yes,” you moaned, hips tilting up to meet him. “Don’t stop touching me.”

James worshipped downward— mouth latching onto a nipple, tongue circling with wet heat while his hand kneaded the other breast. Sensation bloomed: sparks shooting to your cunt, thighs parting wider of their own accord.

The old fear flickered— rough hands, forced entry—but James’s voice anchored you.

“You’re okay. It’s me, you’re okay, you’re safe pretty girl.”

He moved lower, kissing the dip of your navel, the crease of your hip. Pausing at the apex of your thighs, breath ghosting over glistening folds. “Can I taste you?”

You threaded fingers through his dark hair, tugging lightly. “Please, James.”

His tongue was heaven and hell— broad, flat strokes from entrance to clit, then tight circles that had you keening. He hummed in pleasure, the vibration pulling a curse from your lips, “Fuck—yes, right there.”

James drank from you like communion wine.

Two fingers pressed at your entrance, circling, waiting. “Inside?” he asked, voice muffled against your flesh.

“God, yes. Slow.”

He slid them in, curling against that spongy spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. The stretch was perfect, full without pain.

Pleasure wasn’t punishment.

He worked you open with patient devotion, mouth never leaving your clit. Pleasure coiled tight, intensse —body as altar, his tongue as prayer.

You came with a broken sob, thighs trembling around his head, walls fluttering around his fingers.

He licked you through it, murmuring, “That’s my girl. So good, coming so pretty for me. Let it all out.”

Aftershocks rippled as he crawled back up, kissing the tears from your cheeks. His cock rested heavy and hot against your thigh, leaking. You wrapped a hand around him, stroking the length.

“I want you inside,” you said, vulnerable and raw.

All the way. Skin to skin. Fill the places that hurt.

James’s eyes darkened with emotion. “You sure? We can wait. I’d wait forever for you.”

“I’m sure.“

James positioned himself between your spread thighs, rubbing the thick head through your slickness. Teasing your clit until you whimpered. “Eyes on me,” he commanded gently. “Breathe with me. If it’s too much, we stop.”

The first push was exquisite pressure. Inch by inch, he sank into you, groaning deep in his chest.

“Holy fuck— you’re tight. So perfect, swallowing me like you were made for me.” Fully seated, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours. Sweat beaded on his skin. The fullness was overwhelming—stretching, claiming, but chosen. “Talk to me, baby. How does it feel?”

“Full— fuck… safe.” Your legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “Move. Please”

He did. Long, rolling thrusts, each withdrawal dragging against every nerve, each return grounding deep. The wet sounds of your joining filled the room— obscene. His hand slipped between you, thumb circling your clit in lazy spirals.

“Look how well you take me. So fucking strong. Brave girl, letting me in like this. I love you.”

Emotions crashed through the pleasure. You clung to him, nails scoring his shoulders lightly.

James adjusted, hips undulating in deep, grinding circles rather than pounding. The head of his cock kissed that spot inside with every motion, sweat slickin your bodies, sliding skin on skin.

The scent was heady— sex and sage and his musk. You tasted salt on his neck when you licked him.

He whispered praises like scripture: “Am so lucky, so fucking lucky….”

Tears slipped from both of you now, mingling-/ his pace never rushed, even as your second orgasm built.

“Come for me again,” he urged, voice cracking. “Let me feel that pretty pussy squeeze me. I’m yours. All yours.”

It hit you like revelation— waves of ecstasy rolling from core outward, cunt pulsing around his thick cock. You cried out, and James followed soon after, burying deep with a guttural moan, spilling hot and thick inside you. Pulse after pulse, marking you with love instead of violence.

He stayed buried, collapsing carefully to the side and pulling you atop him so you rested on his chest.

For long minutes, only breathing and the creak of the old house. His hand stroked your back in long sweeps. “You okay? Any pain?”

“None,” you whispered, tracing the tattoo on his chest. “Just full.”

He kissed your hair. “Good girl. You were so good. So beautiful. I’m so lucky.”

The night stretched on. You talked in the afterglow, voices soft as he told you stories of the road— lost highways where he’d prayed for something real.

You shared fragments of the trauma, how it felt like God had turned his face away. James held you tighter.

“Maybe he sent me instead. A sinner to love a saint.”

Later, desire stirred again. You rode him this time, slow and deliberate, hands braced on his chest, he looked up at you like you hung the stars outside.

“Ride me however feels good, pretty’. Use me”

His hands rested on your hips, guiding but never forcing; you ground down, taking him deep, clit rubbing against his pelvis.

Curses fell from your lips —“Fuck, James, you’re so deep”— mixed with his praises: “Beautiful. Take what you need.”

Orgasm claimed you both again, slower, sweeter.

Afterward, he drew a bath in the clawfoot tub down the hall, lukewarm water from th pipes. He washed you with careful hands, soaping every inch, rinsing with cupped palms.

Then you did the same for him, kneeling between his legs, mouth eventually finding his spent cock to coax it back to life with tender sucks and licks. He came down your throat with gentle hands in your hair, whispering, “I love you.”

Days blurred into this rhythm in the farmhouse. Mornings where he woke you with his mouth between your legs, tongue tracing on your clit until you shattered.

Afternoons on the porch swing, his fingers inside you under a thin blanket while cicadas sang.

Nights of full union— missionary with eyes locked, spooning with his hand cupping your breast, against the wall with one leg wrapped around him, always slow, always checking.

One stormy evening, lightning illuminating the rusted cross outside, vulnerability peaked.

You broke down mid-act, old memories surfacing as he moved inside you. James stopped instantly, slipping free, pulling you into his lap.

“Hey, hey. I got you. We don’t have to.” He rocked you through sobs, kissing tears, murmuring, “That bastard doesn’t get this part of you. Only I do, and only when it’s love.”

You eventually asked him back in, needing the reclamation. He entered you again like returning to prayer, movements even slower, foreheads pressed. “You’re safe, you hear me?”

James proved it time and again— intimacy wasn’t the violence of the past. It was slow unraveling, ecstasy in the flesh. You found peace in the decay —in the creaking bed, the flickering lamp, the man who loved you like the last honest prayer in a godless land.

And in his arms, the truth finally settled over your bones like warm rain on parched earth: you were never guilty.

Not for a single second.

The violence done to you was not divine punishment, not the wages of some imagined sin, not a lesson carved into your flesh by a cruel God. It was cruelty, plain and merciless, enacted by a weak man who chose evil.

You carried no stain. You owed no penance. The blood and the breaking had never been yours to atone for.

And in that, you bloomed.

—🏷️ taglist

Qifrey takes the goblet from Olruggio—half-filled, but still heavy in his hand. The corner of his mouth lifts when he notices your eyes lingering on its contents, stirred by quiet curiosity. As far as he remembers, you've never had the opportunity to imbibe before.

"Apprentice, do you want to—"

Before Qifrey can finish, you're already leaning across the table to pick up a decanter. Both men fall silent as you begin to pour carefully into an empty goblet.

"Um." Olruggio starts, visibly alarmed when the level of liquid continues creeping higher and higher. "That might be a little too much..."

You ignore him. Only when the goblet is filled nearly to the brim do you set the decanter back down, deep red swishing dangerously close to the rim as you lift it to your lips.

You take a cautious mouthful. At first, there's no reaction from you at all. Qifrey's about to gently prompt you when your face scrunches up ever so minutely.

"Euh."

Without another word, you push your goblet into his empty hand before ambling off into the festival crowd—presumably in search of water to wash the taste from your mouth. Qifrey sighs softly through his nose and looks down at the two drinks he's now holding, though the fondness tugging at the corner of his mouth ruins any real attempt at exasperation. He raises your abandoned goblet to his lips instead.

Olruggio stares after you until you disappear amongst the throng, before glancing sideways at Qifrey. "You spoil them," he says, after a while. Qifrey smiles faintly into the rim of your—his now, he supposes—cup.

"It's hard not to."

Olruggio watches him for a moment longer. For a second, Qifrey thinks he might speak further, but whatever is on his mind ultimately goes unvoiced. The two of them drink silently side by side beneath the flickering lanternlight instead, arms brushing ever so often, and Qifrey is starting to feel the faintest hum of warmth unfurling in his fingertips when a passing villager suddenly recognises him.

It's not long before Qifrey finds himself pulled into conversation. He barely manages a glimpse of Olruggio—grinning, goblet lifted teasingly in farewell—before an over-eager farmer tugs him further from the table, insisting he hear about this year's harvest. Another villager he vaguely recognises comes up to thank him profusely for removing a boulder that'd been damming the river upstream. A young couple insists he share a toast with them, while an elderly woman presses yet another cup of wine into Qifrey's hands and refuses to let him leave without trying her granddaughter's honeycakes.

By the time he manages to extricate himself and circle back to the wine tables, the powdered sugar from the pastries still clinging faintly to his tongue, he finds Olruggio sprawled face-first across the wood, snoring faintly. Qifrey stares at the two empty decanters next to him before slowly reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

He's drooling.

"…Unbelievable." Qifrey unclasps his cloak with a quiet sigh. The heavy fabric slips from his shoulders, and he gathers it carefully in his hands before draping it over Olruggio's slumped back. The man barely stirs, mumbling something utterly incomprehensible into the tabletop.

Qifrey shakes his head and goes to find you instead.

 He spots you eventually, near one of the smaller fires scattered along the edges of the square. It's quieter here, far enough from the heart of the celebrations that the festival clamour softens into a distant hum. You don't notice his approach—seated cross-legged with your back to him, next to a girl roughly your age. The flickering firelight washes over you both, casting your silhouettes in shifting glow and flickering shadow, outlined against the dark.

And the two of you are alone.

His steps slow on instinct. Even from a distance, Qifrey recognises her as the baker's daughter. He cannot make out your face from this angle but hers is plainly visible—dark curls pulled back from a heart-shaped face, a smile designed to put people at ease. Her eyes shine bright as polished amber as she speaks, hands moving expressively while the fire crackles warmly between you.

It hasn't been long since you passed the Pentacle's second test—he needs to ensure you don't accidentally let slip the secret behind magic. Qifrey lingers a few paces away, remaining just close enough to stay within earshot.

She's asking about your spells. About the magic you've learned and yet to, the villages you've helped as a witch. Her fascination is written openly across her face, her smile bright at every answer you give. You're responding in your usual tone—brief, practical, somewhat curt—but she seems delighted to listen to them regardless. Even as Qifrey watches, she shifts closer gradually across the mat, until her shoulder bumps lightly against yours.

Quite suddenly, Qifrey realises what he's looking at. This girl isn't interested in magic. She's interested in you.

The thought lands strangely, oddly shaped and ill-fitting, a square cube shoved through a round hole. For a moment, Qifrey can only stand there half-hidden in the shadows, watching—and realising, with faint disbelief, that somewhere along the way, you've stopped being a child.

And he hadn't noticed. Not until now.

The baker's daughter is still talking animatedly beside you, chin propped in one hand as she rambles on about how exciting it must be to be a witch—learning magic, seeing things ordinary people never will. Every so often she laughs at one of your short replies, smiling as though your reticence only encourages her further. Eventually, her expression softens slightly.

"But it must get lonely sometimes, doesn't it?" she asks, tilting her head to look at you so that her dark hair spills over her shoulder. "Living all the way out there in the atelier?"

You shake your head. "I have Master," you say, plainly.

The words strike him with embarrassing force. Catch him off guard, soft and aching all at once, fingertips rolling over old bruises that have yet to fade. Qifrey still remembers what you'd said that day, by the fountain.

Master is the prettiest.

"No, I mean…" The girl blinks, then laughs softly under her breath, before nudging your shoulder lightly with hers. "Do you have someone you're interested in?"

You stare at her blankly. "What does that mean?"

Her smile widens. "It means someone you think about a lot," she explains patiently, leaning in with one hand cupped around her mouth, the ends of her hair tickling the curve of your shoulder. Qifrey can barely catch what she's saying from where he stands. "Someone whose smile makes your heart beat faster. Someone you want to kiss. Someone you like more than anyone else in the world."

Your brow furrows, before your gaze drops to your lap. From the shadows, Qifrey feels a faint frisson of guilt stab through him; perhaps, he has kept you too isolated all these years as his apprentice. You should not have to learn about these things from a village girl beside a bonfire while he lingers awkwardly in the dark, hiding from your sight. As your master, Qifrey should have explained such matters himself—or at the very least, asked someone more experienced in these conversations to guide you through them.

You are frighteningly skilled in the domain of magic. You are quick to learn and quicker to understand, your mind sharper than most young witches your age, and you can navigate spells even some adults would struggle to grasp. It is his failing, then, that this conversation is leaving you aflounde—

"Oh. Then yes."

Qifrey stills.

The baker's daughter brightens at first—only for disappointment to flicker almost immediately across her face a second later. It's subtle, but unmistakeable. She leans in closer, echoing the question hovering in Qifrey's thoughts.

"Who is it?"

Qifrey should leave. This is not a conversation he ought to be listening in on; he should have walked away minutes earlier instead of lurking like a thief, making flimsy excuses for himself. He's just about to make a hasty retreat when, for some unfathomable reason, you suddenly look up and glance over your shoulder—eyes landing directly on where he stands just beyond reach of the firelight.

"Master."

Qifrey's heart vaults into his throat. Caught. "Sorry," he finds himself saying before he can think better of it. "Olruggio passed out from drinking too much, so…"

So what? His explanation trails off uselessly. The words feel awkward and clumsy in his dry mouth, slipping from his tongue without direction or purpose. Under your gaze Qifrey feels painfully transparent—as though you are picking apart every half-formed thought behind his fumbling excuse with ease. It is a deeply unsettling feeling, considering you are simply looking at him the way you always do.

Before Qifrey can scramble for another excuse—or perhaps, to flee entirely—you rise to your feet, brushing the dust from your clothes.

"It's alright. I can go."

Behind you, the girl's expression deflates with poorly concealed disappointment. It's quickly smoothed over with a smile, however, when you offer her a polite nod in farewell. Manners obliged, you cross the short stretch between you, grass crunching softly beneath your feet and fall into step next to Qifrey, the motion as easy and natural as drawing breath. Qifrey tries his best to keep his gaze from wandering as he leads the way back to the village square.

By now, majority of the festivities have begun to wind down. The two of you retrieve Olruggio from the wine tables; his friend is too drunk to do anything beyond mumble incoherently, much less offer any assistance. Qifrey quickly inks a levitating spell onto a stretcher you assemble from spare canvas and poles, and Olruggio moans tragically when you roll him onto it together.

"I'm never drinking again," he mumbles.

Qifrey sighs, one hand pressed to his forehead. "You say that every time."

"This time I mean it."

You snort softly under your breath, reaching down to cajole the stretcher into the air. "Mr. Olruggio can tell himself that tomorrow morning."

In response, Olruggio only groans.

Despite the sorry state Olruggio is in, it's a leisurely walk back to the atelier. Normally, Qifrey wouldn't mind the trek—embedded glowstones illuminate the winding path with soft pools of warm light, and the autumn wind is pleasantly cool against his cheeks—but tonight, his thoughts eat away incessantly at the edges of his mind. The question circles endlessly, its grip unrelenting, no matter how hard he tries to dismiss it.

There is someone.

Qifrey thinks hard, as you walk through the dark fields with Olruggio's stretcher floating between you, his soft snores accompanying the steady crunch of your footsteps on gravel. Who? Who have you been watching when Qifrey wasn't paying attention, thinking about, wanting to kiss? A few faces come to mind, but none feel right. And worse still is the uncomfortable realisation that he hadn't noticed—anything at all.

"Master?"

He nearly stumbles over his own feet. Qifrey's arms flail for balance, windmilling wildly, before he manages to catch himself at the last second. Faintly mortified, he glances over—only to realise belatedly you've been observing him the entire time.

"Master seems deep in thought," you say, unhelpfully.

Qifrey feels like an insect pinned to a display card, positioned beneath a viewing glass, exposed to your wordless scrutiny—this feeling, again. He swallows and glances away, throat dry all of a sudden.

"Sorry." The admission slips out eventually, awkwardly. His own voice is oddly startling amidst the quiet rustling of wind in the fields. "I… overheard, earlier. What you and that girl were talking about."

You eye him for a moment before shrugging. "It's okay. I don't mind."

Now Qifrey just feels silly. The conversation lapses back into silence after that and Qifrey must bite his tongue to keep himself from prying further—your private life is your own, and if there are matters you've chosen not to bring to him, then he's no right to interfere. Yet on the other hand… as your master, is he not also responsible for your wellbeing beyond magic alone? For guiding you through all the fragile, complicated parts of adolescence no spellbook will prepare you for?

Unfortunately, Qifrey's own experience is painfully lacking—woefully inadequate for someone attempting to act as a proper mentor in this regard. He fights back the urge to scrunch his face up in frustration in front of you and drops his gaze to the path beneath his feet instead. Beldaruit had shoved a stack of books into his arms before he'd left the Argentgard—books about apprentice raising, books he hadn't so much as glanced through before abandoning them at the door. In hindsight, a mistake—because now, Qifrey hasn't the faintest idea how to broach this subject.

"Well," is how he ends up doing it, anyway. "The one you're interested in… what kind of person are they?"

You glance up and your eyes meet. Qifrey has to hope the faint light of the glowstones are too dim to illuminate the desperate curiosity on his face.

"Master wants to know?"

"Of course." Your matters are Qifrey's matters, and the thought of you miserable or hurt over some unworthy fool makes something unpleasant tighten low in Qifrey's stomach. But you hadn't told him, and remembering that leaves behind a faint, irrational sting that Qifrey immediately tries to strangulate with both hands. "But if you don't want to tell me, that's alright too. I promise not to pry."

Olruggio snuffles loudly between the two of you. He'd fallen asleep before you'd even stepped foot out of the village and hasn't stirred since. Without looking, you reach over for the loose edge of his cloak and yank it carelessly over Olruggio's face.

"They're kind," you begin, after a few contemplative paces. Your voice is barely audible beneath the night wind, and Qifrey has to lean in to catch your words. "Gentle. Everything I do, they're always encouraging me, no matter how I perform. And when I'm standing by their side…" You inhale quietly, then push out a soft breath before continuing. "It feels like being under the shelter of a big tree—as if nothing can touch me there."

Qifrey searches for something to say in response and finds himself strangely empty-handed in the face of your frank response. An emotion he can't quite put a finger on twists like gnarled roots beneath his ribs.

"They sound like an amazing person," is what he says, at last.

You smile—more to yourself than him, cradling a secret you're not quite willing to place in his hands. It's soft-edged, quiet, so achingly sincere that Qifrey finds himself caught somewhere between looking away and simply staring. Terrible as the thought is, he's never imagined you capable of looking at someone that way—so unbearably tender Qifrey feels as though he's intruding simply by witnessing it.

Yet, he's been proven wrong. Someone has managed. Who? Just who managed to put such an expression on your face?

"Yeah." You nod, completely oblivious to his inner turmoil, lacing both hands behind your back as you walk. "They are."

Something sour settles against the roof of Qifrey's mouth but he swallows it down before it can fester into something uglier. Qifrey should feel relieved that you've found someone who makes you feel safe—it's what he wants for you. What he needs to do is learn to trust your judgment.

"Do they know?"

You tilt your head at him like the answer should be obvious. "No."

"Oh. Well…" Qifrey coughs lightly, unsure. "If they're so important to you, then maybe you should tell them?" It seems like the next step in the natural order of things—or, at least Qifrey thinks it is. He doesn't know. His gaze flickers down to the snoring lump on the stretcher, one arm dangling limply over the side before he looks away again. You frown.

"How?"

Qifrey immediately regrets bringing up the subject at all. "Well, I…" He falters almost at once, floundering—fingers steepling together before he starts absently wringing both hands instead. It's an impossible struggle, scrambling desperately for words that don't make him sound completely inane while you stare. "I think it should… probably be somewhere private? With only the two of you?" Qifrey offers uncertainly, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth. "A good moment when the other person isn't busy or distracted… and all their attention is on you."

"Oh," you say, far too seriously. Qifrey can feel his face growing warmer by the second. Stars above, he wants to pluck off his hat and shove his head face-first into it until this conversation passes. But you are looking at him attentively, still awaiting your master's advice, and so Qifrey forces himself to continue.

"I don't think you need to prepare anything elaborate," he adds on, weakly. "The important thing is to be sincere when you do it."

"Sincere," you repeat.

"Yes. Even if they don't share the same feelings…" Qifrey clears his throat lightly. He desperately needs something to distract himself but has nothing. "If what you say is genuine, then I believe the other person will understand that."

You're silent for a moment. There's a thoughtful expression on your face that makes Qifrey wonder whether you are truly turning his disastrous advice over in your head.

"What about Master? Is there someone you're interested in?"

For the second time that night, Qifrey nearly trips over his own feet. He lurches dangerously for a second, gravel crunching sharply beneath the soles of his boots before he glances over with a light chastisement on his lips; certainly, you must be teasing him. But it doesn't seem so. You only regard Qifrey with those familiar, inquisitive eyes—and heat crawls slowly up his neck. It's moments like this that make him even more grateful for his collar.

"You…" Qifrey reaches out before he can think better of it. You startle, eyes darting up when his hand comes to settle atop your head.

"Master?"

"I don't have time for such things," Qifrey says, with a lightness he doesn't entirely feel. "My hands are already full with an apprentice like you."

"So Master is blaming me?"

Your disgruntled expression almost makes him laugh despite himself. "Perhaps." Qifrey doesn't elaborate, offering no further explanation before his hand begins ruffling through your hair instead. You let out a startled yelp and try to duck away, glaring up in poorly concealed offence while Qifrey smiles properly for the first time that night.

"Master!"

One day, you will leave the atelier behind. You will become a fine witch—far finer than Qifrey ever was—and perhaps you will travel farther than he's dared, to lands past the peninsula and beyond. Or perhaps you might follow in his footsteps, taking on apprentices of your own with kinder intentions than he did you, and maybe you will build a life with the person you spoke of so warmly tonight, your future unfolding slowly beside theirs instead of his. There are infinite prospects, such countless possibilities, yet the one thing Qifrey is certain of is this: that one day, inevitably, you will surpass him in every way, just as a sapling eventually outgrows the shade of the tree that shelters it. And that day…

Qifrey finds himself looking forward to it.

The spring weather here possesses a notoriously fickle mind; one moment the sun hangs bright and warm overhead, turning the hills of the Downs golden with its light—and the next there's rain scattering across the grassy slopes in glittering sheets. Olruggio's out today, on another job at some nearby lord's castle, and Qifrey is in the kitchen taking stock of the pantry staples when the first droplets begin pattering against the atelier windows. Frowning faintly, Qifrey glances up from baskets of legumes on the counter to peer out of the glass, just in time for the drizzle to abruptly thicken into heavy rain.

The laundry, Qifrey remembers suddenly, just as you exclaim, "The laundry!" from somewhere near the door.

"Apprentice—" he starts, intending to tell you to leave it and wait for the rain to pass, but you're already out before he can get the words out. Sighing softly through his nose, Qifrey crosses the atelier to where you've left the door hanging half-open instead and looks outside.

You've already made it to the clothing lines strung up beside Olruggio's workshop somehow. You're reaching up on your tiptoes, struggling to to tug down one of the larger bedsheets he'd hung earlier that morning, arms already laden with gathered laundry. Even as he watches the rain steadily soaks the darkening fabric of your robes, trickles down the strands of hair plastered to your cheeks.

Before he can think twice, Qifrey steps outside. The cold spring rain splashes across what little bare skin he has exposed, droplets scattering unrelentingly across his senses, but it's still enough to make him cringe. Qifrey ignores the discomfort, hurrying across the grass towards where you're wrestling with the sheets.

"Apprentice."

"Master?" you blurt, visibly shocked to find him standing beside you in the rain. "What are you—"

"Focus on getting the sheets down," Qifrey says, already reaching out to take the bundles of damp fabric from your arms while you tug the clothespins free. "I'll hold these."

You hurry obediently. Rainwater trickles unpleasantly down the back of Qifrey's neck in rivulets, but he exhales slowly through his mouth and keeps his attention of you instead. With your hands free, you dart quickly from line to line gathering the remaining laundry before shoving them into his arms. Qifrey is just about to take your wrist and make the mad dash back to the shelter of the atelier when—

"Wait!"

You tug at his robe before he can move. Qifrey blinks in confusion, droplets of rainwater catching on his lashes as you yank your palm quire from your inner sleeve, hunching protectively over the paper amidst the downpour. In your other hand, your wand. You set the nib against the page, sketching with quick, practiced strokes as the spell takes shape beneath your hand—sigils and keystones instantly familiar to Qifrey. Then you're rising onto your tiptoes again, leaning in close, and Qifrey's breath hitches when your fingertips brush over the bare column of his throat.

A slip of damp paper slides neatly into the folds of his collar. Qifrey glances up just as the rain parts above his head, as though held at bay by an invisible hand. Water continues pattering steadily against the grass, the atelier's shingles, your dripping sleeves—but not a single drop touches Qifrey.

"I've always wanted to do that," you say.

Qifrey looks down at you, frowning. "What about you?"

You shrug lightly. There's rainwater dripping from your wand, and your palm quire is soaked through. "I'm already wet. Doesn't matter."

Qifrey clicks his tongue softly at that, but before he has the chance to admonish you—or simply drag you beneath the shelter of his own arm instead—you're already turning on your heel. Qifrey huffs, fondness and faint exasperation mixed together, and follows after you, easily catching up with his longer stride.

"You've gotten good at that spell, haven't you?"

"It's my favourite."

Qifrey glances at you over his armful of laundry in mild surprise. You've always shown to be partial to water magic, but this is a simple spell—nothing more than practical utility, the sort of magic most witches learn early and rarely think about again. An odd choice, considering how much of your talent lies in far more complex magic. "Why that one?"

"It changed my life," you say, simply.

It's hard to keep the smile from his face when you slip past him and through the atelier's open doorway. It's a small thing, really, but the thought that you've kept that spell close all this time makes him absurdly happy. Qifrey shakes his head, warmth settling in his chest despite his damp clothes, before he follows you inside.

There is already a trail of water dripping across the flagstones. Qifrey pauses briefly to inspect the topmost sheet bundled in his arms, rubbing absently at the drenched fabric between his fingers. Despite your efforts, it looks like the whole lot will have to be rewashed—a pity. He'll toss them into the washing barrels later after he's drawn you a hot bath.

"Apprentice," Qifrey calls as he ruffles his damp hair roughly, glancing around the mess of the kitchen counter. He'd been sketching a moisture-extraction spell earlier before the rain interrupted things. The water on his glasses makes it difficult for Qifrey to spot his own quire and he tugs them from his face, but he can still hear your footsteps pattering about near the hearth. He swipes at the lenses with a sleeve before he finally finds what he's looking for. "Come here. I'll draw a heating spell to—"

His throat abruptly closes around the rest of that sentence.

You're standing by the hearth, back half-turned to him as you wring water from the hem of your robe. It's soaked through, rainwater falling in steady drips from the sleeves, pooling at your bare feet—you must have kicked off your boots in the doorway earlier—and the wet cotton clings to the shape of you. It is what allows Qifrey to see: the water beading at the ripe peach-flushed skin of your nape, every divot of your spine beneath sodden cloth, where fabric gathers at your thighs and pulls taut at the small of your back. More than he should have ever allowed himself to.

Heat roils low in his gut, a long-starved beast rearing its head—familiar in its shape but frightening in its intensity. Desire.

—but you haven't been for a while now, have you?

Qifrey wrenches his gaze back to the kitchen counter, heart suddenly hammering hard and fast in his chest. What is wrong with him?

You're his student. You're his apprentice. You are so young, still barely just a—

Dread, cold and tinged with something uglier Qifrey doesn't dare name, curls its claws viciously into his stomach. How can he be having these thoughts? Worse, how can he possibly still be lingering on them at all, instead of recoiling outright from shame?

"Master?"

Qifrey's head snaps up. You've turned toward him, brow furrowed faintly in concern. Your hair is still dripping, and the firelight catches maddeningly on the droplets clinging to the tip of your nose, your upper lashes. He tightens his grip until the quire's bronze edges sink like fangs into his skin.

"The spell—" Qifrey tries, his voice sounding strained, strange to his own ears. "I need to—I forgot the—"

"Master?" You're too close all of a sudden, frowning openly now. "Are you feeling alright? You're acting strange—"

He turns away before you can come any nearer. There's a faint rushing noise in Qifrey's ears, so shrill it's almost a scream, rising to a fever pitch—loud enough that he can barely hear the rain outside.

"I forgot I have something urgent," Qifrey says abruptly. "Dry yourself off. And put on something warm."

He leaves before you can respond. His footsteps ring sharply down the hallway, too quick and uneven against the floorboards to be anything but fleeing. When Qifrey reaches his room he shuts the door firmly behind him before slumping back against the wood, breathing hard.

Master?

Qifrey groans and squeezes his eyes shut, digging the heel of his palm harshly against his good eye as though he might somehow scour the image from his mind. What is wrong with him? He's washed your hair before, when you'd broken your arm chasing quadryphons down the hillside just outside the atelier. It was him who'd changed your bandages and tended to you after Kestrel's Maw, applying creams and salves gently to your wounds as you'd tried not to wince and hiss. He's even shared a bed with you on nights when bad dreams left you sleepless and in need of a warm presence. And not once—never once—had he looked at you the way he just did.

Qifrey lets his hands fall between his knees. His palm quire slips loose from his fingers, clatters to the floorboards. On the page where he'd started sketching the heating spell for you, conjuring ink smears wet and crooked across the paper, dark stains blooming through the unfinished spell. Ruined.

When did this happen? Qifrey thinks despairingly to himself. When did I—

Qifrey cannot bring himself to finish the thought. The very idea makes something twist violently in his chest. Qifrey cannot put a name to it, because naming it would make it real, and making it real would make him a monster—even more of a monster than Qifrey ever thought he could be.

Qifrey throws himself desperately into avoidance after that.

Dangerous thoughts thrive when left in stillness, and so Qifrey gives himself none. He starts taking on jobs he normally wouldn't—ones that take him far from the atelier, some of them for days at a time. It's easier to exhaust himself into numbness than risk thinking too deeply at all. And when he cannot escape the atelier outright, Qifrey buries you beneath increasingly difficult assignments under the guide of preparing you for the Pentacle's third test—research work, spell reconstruction, transcription—anything that will keep you occupied in your room while he locks himself away somewhere else.

But at night, alone in his bed, the thoughts come anyway. Memories twisted into sick, perverted fantasy—the way your spine would feel under the curve of his palm, the warm press of your body against his in the dark, bare legs tangled with his. The soft whisper of your breath against his throat. Master. Master. Times before he can catch his thoughts they slip from his grasp, and he wonders what it would sound like if you said it different—if the word would catch on a moan, if it would break apart with a sigh against his mouth.

Master.

It's a futile exercise. Qifrey runs all the much harder, anyway.

In a desperate attempt to curb his thoughts, Qifrey turns towards safer, uncomplicated things instead. Olruggio's visibly surprised the first time Qifrey asks to accompany him on a job, but welcomes him with the same thoughtless warmth he does most things. And it's easier—easier to sink into the familiar steadiness of Olruggio's presence and gentle eyes, to lose himself in the long evenings spent shoulder-to-shoulder beneath the stars, to share spells and wine and laughter that doesn't ask anything of him. Easier than thinking about you.

You notice, of course. It would have been an insult to assume otherwise. But you've never been particularly forthcoming about your own feelings, and so you still call him "master" and do the work he assigns and prepare for him tea in the mornings. Tea that Qifrey now drinks steaming hot instead of lingering at the kitchen table with you, before leaving the atelier on yet another week-long job. You're upset by this new arrangement, that much is obvious, but at least Qifrey is spared the small mercy of having to confront it directly.

You'll grow accustomed to it eventually. Qifrey tells himself this as you watch him tug on his cloak by the door, one hand already on the latch.

It'll pass.

You catch him one summer evening, vespertine insects chirping softly outside while the sun pulls and stretches at the atelier's shadows. Qifrey hears your approaching footsteps but does not turn around, busying himself instead with packing his satchel at the kitchen table, the light from the window staining his hands saffron-yellow.

You're quiet for a while, hovering silently behind him like a spectre. Eventually, you work up the courage to speak.

"Master, about dinner—"

"Hm? Ah, there's soup in the perpetual cookpot." Qifrey cuts you off before you can continue. He'd spent most of the afternoon preparing a fresh batch of shorecumber yoghurt soup while you were shut away in your room—as though feeding you properly could somehow compensate for everything else Qifrey's failed to do lately. "I also made some carapace and mountain apple salad, if you'd like."

"No, I'm not—" He catches the faintest edge of frustration creeping into your voice before you stop yourself. "I don't want perpetual soup."

Qifrey blows out a quiet breath between his teeth. The conversation is already slipping towards dangerous territory, toward questions he does not want to answer. He lowers his head to rummage through his satchel instead, pretending to check for an ink bottle he doesn't really need.

"Oh. Well then, there's some bread in the pantry that needs clearing, and—"

"Actually," you interrupt softly, "I was thinking I could cook for Master, tonight."

His fingers slip on the rounded glass. Qifrey barely catches the ink bottle before it can tumble from his hand and shatter across the table; the Qifrey of a few months ago would have accepted immediately, probably with an embarrassing amount of enthusiasm—but now the thought of sitting across from you at the dinner table feels almost terrifying. Your eyes are always watching, always observing; Qifrey is suddenly terrified you might somehow notice the ugliness festering behind his own.

The thought alone turns his stomach. No. No, he cannot.

"Sorry," Qifrey says, still refusing to turn around. "I'm helping Olruggio with a project tonight. I'll be late, so don't wait up for me." He gathers the loose papers scattered across the table, shoving them carelessly into his satchel as the pages crumple beneath his fingers.

"You're always late now."

Qifrey's thumb falls still against the clasp. Your words are quiet but the accusatory note in them pierces him cleanly, a bolting deer felled mid-flight. He turns slowly. You are standing behind him with your expression carefully blank, but Qifrey knows you too well by now not to recognise every little sign and tell—your shoulders held stiffly, hands clenched within the sleeves of your robe.

"Does…" You falter, voice lapsing briefly before you force out the words anyway. "Does Master not want me anymore? Because he has Mr. Olruggio now?"

All the air flees Qifrey's lungs at once like a rushing wind. What?

"Apprentice—" He hurriedly sets his satchel down on the table, but even with his hands freed Qifrey still does not dare reach out and touch you. You're not looking at him now, your gaze fixed stubbornly on the ground between his feet. His fingers curl helplessly into fists at his side, panic crawling up his throat like bile. "No. No, that's not—"

But it has been, hasn't it? Suddenly, horribly, Qifrey's reminded of the story you'd once told him—of the cliffs, of the sea. The way your parents had decided there were too many mouths to feed and chose yours to abandon because you'd been the smallest. And in his frantic attempt to bury his own shame, it dawns on Qifrey with terrible clarity that he has been doing the same thing to you all over again.

The realisation makes him sick all the way to his stomach.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I'm so sorry. I—I've been an idiot."

You look up at him then, and Qifrey's breath catches painfully in his throat. Your eyes are stubbornly dry but rimmed faint red, shadowed with exhaustion. Your cheeks seem thinner, too. Questions strike him one after another in sickening succession: Have you not been sleeping properly? Eating as you should? Questions Qifrey would have—should have—been able to answer easily, had he paid you more than a passing glance these past few weeks.

He takes a step closer, then another, before Qifrey fully realises what he's doing. "I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I was just—I was just being selfish. Caught up in my own things. I forgot—" Every word that passes his lips feels empty, and his explanations sound like nothing more than excuses even to his own ears. Qifrey reaches out and gently loosens your fists from their white-knuckled grip on your robe, one finger at a time. Your hands are stiff in the cradle of his own. "I forgot you needed me to be here. I'm sorry."

You don't respond; you only look at him with those quiet, uncertain eyes—like the ones that had stared up at him in Havso all those years, dulled and wary all at once—as though weighing whether you can still trust the things he says to you. Please, Qifrey wants to beg. Please tell me I haven't already broken something I can't fix.

"I'll make it up to you," the words tumble out of him now, wobbly kneed and hurried, tripping over each other on the way out. "I promise. No more late nights, no more disappearing for days. And—I'll cook dinner. And make any dessert you like." Qifrey squeezes your fingers gently, almost desperately, trying to make you believe him in ways he doesn't know how. "I'm not going anywhere. Understand?"

You stare at him for what feels like an eternity. Slowly, you nod.

"Okay," you say.

Relief hits Qifrey like a blow to the gut. He wants, all at once, to pull you into his arms—to feel your smaller frame against his chest and hold you there until that bright-eyed certainty returns to you, to reassure himself that he has not yet destroyed whatever fragile thing exists between you beyond repair. But he is weak and a coward, too aware of himself now in all the wrong ways, and so Qifrey settles for simply holding your hands, his thumb stroking carefully over the faint ink-blot stains along your knuckles.

"What do you want for dinner?" he finally asks.

Your brow pinches. "You're not going to Mr. Olruggio's?"

"Olly's smart—I'm sure he'll figure the problem out without me." Qifrey reluctantly releases your hands to undo the clasp of his cloak. He hangs it carefully on its hook by the doorway before turning back to you with the best smile he can muster. "I'll stay in tonight—it's been a while since we've had dinner together."

Finally, something flickers across your face. Then—

"Stew," you say. Qifrey blinks.

"Stew," he repeats. "You mean, the one with the squash vegetables?"

"Yeah."

A quiet laugh escapes him before he can stop it. It's such a painfully simple request that Qifrey cannot help the sudden rush of fondness that swells in his chest—he would have cooked anything you'd asked for after all this. But you asked, and so Qifrey turns toward the kitchen instead, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Stew it is, then.”

That night, a knock comes at his door again.

Qifrey knows who it is before he opens it. It's been a while since you've sought the comfort of his bed—you haven't since he started pulling away—but you've always had the habit of reaching for him on nights you are frightened or too troubled to sleep on your own. And after today, Qifrey supposes he should have expected this.

"Master," you say quietly, when he nudges the door wider with a tentative hand. Part of him knows he should tell you no—however innocently this ritual started, it is surely inappropriate now, especially with the way his thoughts have muddied as of late. But you don't ask, and by the time Qifrey opens his mouth you are already slipping past him and into his room.

His refusal lodges itself in the back of his throat as he watches you from the doorway. You're already seated on the edge of his bed, bare feet tucked under his blankets while you reach for the pillow he keeps for you. It's routine, now; you arrange his bed to your liking and lie down once satisfied, and eventually Qifrey settles beside you with deliberate distance kept between your bodies. Sometimes he reads compendiums aloud until your breathing evens out, others he talks about whatever spellwork occupied his day. But most nights end the same way: you, tucked against his side, one of his hands absently combing through your hair until sleep finally absconds with your consciousness.

His presence comforts you, Qifrey supposes. The same way a baby suckles on a pacifier, or a frightened child reaches for a familiar blanket. You are not thinking of anything improper—not of the way the dim lamplight catches against the bare slope of your shoulder, nor the way his eyes lingers on the exposed sliver of skin for a second too long before he tears them away.

He's the only terrible one here. Perhaps Qifrey should gouge out his other eye, too.

"Master." You're watching him from the bed, knees drawn up beneath the blankets, waiting. "Are you coming?"

Qifrey has already been terrible enough of a master to you these past few weeks. The thought of rejecting you yet again because he cannot control his own mind is unbearable.

You turn down the lamp as Qifrey climbs carefully into bed next to you. The mattress dips beneath his knee in the dark, and he lies stiffly atop the blankets with his hands folded over his chest, squeezing his eye tightly shut. Even with his poor sight this close proximity is too much; he cannot—will not—look at you.

"Go to sleep," Qifrey says quietly.

You remain still at first. He can hear your soft breathing beside him in the dark, and for a fleeting moment Qifrey thinks you might have already drifted off.

But suddenly, you move. The mattress creaks as you turn on your side, blankets rustling, and then your arm is sliding around the curve of his waist. Qifrey's breath shudders out, lips parting in a soundless gasp. You pull yourself close, the entire line of body pressing flush against his own, and bury your face against his throat—nose barely skimming the sensitive stretch of skin just beneath his jaw—and Qifrey can feel can feel your heartbeat, thrumming against his ribs like it belongs behind them instead. Every place your bodies meet burns as though his nerves themselves have been doused in oil and set alight.

Sparks race down the length of his spine, flint striking steel in his belly. A feeling slips down his throat, thick as honey, sharp as glass. Qifrey cannot do this. He can't, he can not—

"Don't leave," you murmur, breath curling against the naked hollow of his throat. "Master can't ever leave me."

Your words are small in a way Qifrey has never heard before, fingers trembling faintly where they're twisted tightly into the fabric of his sleep shirt as though he might disappear the moment you let go. You're afraid—truly afraid—and Qifrey loathes the fact that he was the one who made you feel that way. So despite the quiet part of him still insisting this is wrong, that the line between master and apprentice was never meant to blur like this, Qifrey carefully threads his fingers through your hair and pulls you closer against him.

"I'm not going anywhere." His voice is barely a whisper in the dark. "I promise."

"Really?"

"Yes."

His answer must have finally reached that quiet, terrified child inside you, because not too long after that your grip on his shirt loosens and your breathing begins to even out to soft, damp exhales against his skin. You must be exhausted from today—or perhaps you simply haven't been sleeping properly for a long while, now. It shames him that he doesn't know the answer.

The shadows stretch and settle against the far wall, pale moonlight washing silver across the blankets at the foot of the bed, the tangled line of your legs beneath them. And Qifrey holds you in the dark and lets himself pretend—just for a little while—that this quiet, aching hunger within him is not something so terrible after all.

It's a good morning when Qifrey's worst headache yet hits.

The morning starts off pleasantly enough. Sunlight unfolds slowly in a corner of his room, warm and sleepy in a way that demands nothing of him, and Qifrey wakes to the sound of you pattering carefully about the kitchen. You're likely on your tiptoes, a valiant attempt not to rouse him—but a futile one, unfortunately; his left eye has always left him a sensitive sleeper. Qifrey tarries in bed for a moment longer before finally pushing himself upright, and fumbles blearily across the nightstand for his screwtop tin of glueflower paste.

There's already a steaming cup of erbe tea waiting for him on the kitchen table when he steps outside. It sits beside a half-finished piece of buttered toast, whose owner seems to have become distracted; you're standing at the sink with your back to him, attempting to wrestle a particularly fat willowgrape from your brushbuddy's grasp before the greedy creature can choke on it. Qifrey very pointedly ignores the stirring behind his ribs as he slides himself into his usual chair.

Your eyes find his over your shoulder, regardless. "Morning, Master."

The brushbuddy chirps, emboldened by your momentary lapse in attention, and instantly makes a grab with its tiny paws. Despite himself, Qifrey finds it difficult not to smile. A good morning, he thinks quietly to himself as he reaches for his cup. A perfect one, actually.

The pain strikes without warning. It is sudden, blinding—as though someone has driven an iron spike through his head and is now deliberately twisting it, grinding its point deeper into the soft tissue of his brain. Qifrey's vision swims. The cup slips from his spasming fingers, and then he feels the scalding splash of tea across his fingers, blistering hot. He groans into the heel of his palm, the sound muffled strangely, ringing in his ears as if he's underwater.

"Master?"

Your hands are on him all of a sudden—his shoulder, his waist, and then his forehead, damp and clammy with cold sweat. Qifrey register your touch only in fragments, words reaching him as though from some distant shore; the next moment he's half-collapsed on the couch, worn cushions sagging beneath his weight as you lower him carefully. He catches a glimpse of your face for less than a second—pale, jaw tight, lips pressed in a thin line—before you're gone, footsteps hurried and shouting for Olruggio.

Qifrey barely manages to make out the hushed snippets of your exchange before Olruggio's rushing out of the door. He squeezes his eye shut against the pounding in his skull. Part of him wants to protest—that it will pass, that calling for the doctor is pointless, that there is nothing they can do for the ailment that plagues him—but the words barely make it past his lips.

Suddenly, your hands are on the sides of his face again, slapping his cheek lightly to rouse him when his head lolls. "Master. Master." Your voice is gentle, but even in this state Qifrey can pick up the undercurrent of worry bleeding through. "Drink up."

Something presses against his lips—the blunt edge of a wooden spoon. Qifrey parts his mouth obediently without thinking, swallowing whatever you offer him.

The tincture is sharp and metallic like cold moonlight on his tongue, slipping down his throat. But its effect is immediate. The pain does not vanish but loosens its grip with alarming speed; the muggy fog over his thoughts lifts, his nausea easing, and the pressure behind his eye recedes.

Too quickly.

Qifrey grabs you by the wrist before you can pull away. You startle in his grip. "Did you use forbidden magic?" His voice comes out hoarse. "Tell me."

"Master—"

"What did you use?"

His gaze drops instinctively to your hands, searching for the telltale traces of fresh spellwork. Qifrey has spent years wrestling with these pains—yet no physician, tincture or elixir has ever managed to cut through one with such frightening speed. How could you have—

"Tell me, Apprentice," Qifrey repeats, and this time the fear seeps through despite his efforts to hide it. "You didn't use healing magic, did you?"

You look at him, and for a second Qifrey feels dread warp, cold and heavy, in his stomach. Then, slowly, you shake your head.

"No."

Qifrey blinks. "No?" But how—

"I didn't use healing magic." You glance down at the wrist still caught in his hand, before continuing. "I used magic during the extraction process—the spineneedles are delicate, so I used a preservation spell to stabilise the active compounds while the toxins boiled off during heating." You hesitate. "I've been researching it for a while, now."

Spineneedles. Relief floods through Qifrey, so suddenly he nearly sags back into the couch. Not forbidden magic. Just careful study, patient experimentation, and far more thought than any apprentice should be devoting to a problem like this.

"Perhaps my apprentice shouldn't be a witch after all," Qifrey mutters tiredly, tipping his head against the cushions. It's like all the tension has gone out of him, leaving only fatigue in its place. The ache in the back of his skull has lessened to a distant throb. "With your talent, you should be a doctor instead."

"If it'll cure Master, I'll be anything."

Your words are spoken matter-of-factly, but Qifrey's breath lodges thickly in his throat. Something about it feels dangerous, precarious, like he's standing on a sheet of ice so thin he can hear it cracking beneath his feet. Qifrey is suddenly reminded of another conversation similar to this one—one that had drifted too close to unspoken territory for comfort. You'd not been particularly satisfied with his answer then, but he had not possessed a better one to give. "Apprentice, we already had this discussion about why healing magic is forbidden—"

"I love Master."

You say it so matter-of-factly that Qifrey barely registers what you've said at all, until he does. Everything inside him seems to go still at once. Slowly, disbelievingly, he lifts his head.

You are still watching him, wrist resting within the loose cradle of his fingers. Surely, he must have misheard. But there is no embarrassment in your expression, nor nervous laughter, no frantic attempts to retract your words. Only certainty.

"You—"

"Master said confessions should be done sincerely," you interrupt quietly. "When it's only the two people involved, and all their attention is on me." You hesitate, just for a moment, and then: "I just wanted to Master to know he'd be worth it. Master is everything to me."

It's as if time has lapsed into nonexistence for a second. Qifrey can hear the soft rustle of the morning breeze stirring the kitchen curtains, the faint squeak of your brushbuddy as it slinks about the rafters—but all of it feels impossibly far away. Because you are still looking at him with that earnest, unwavering gaze, admitting to the same feelings Qifrey has spent months convincing himself belonged to him alone, and yet—you are his apprentice.

You are his apprentice.

You'd been little more than a child when he'd picked you up in Havso; young and impressionable back then, his to protect and care for. And now a terrible thought reaches deep into his chest, a worm burrowing into the rotten core of an apple—had he done this? Mistaken possession for care somehow, shaped your innocent devotion into something it was never meant to become? Every lesson huddled over spellbooks, every time he'd reached across the cluttered kitchen table to guide your hand, every reassurance whispered into your hair in the dark—suddenly they rearrange themselves into something more disgusting, grotesque beneath his scrutiny.

The possibility that he might have been cultivating this unknowingly all along sickens Qifrey to his stomach. The only thing that frightens him more is this: how desperately he wants, anyway.

You are so painfully ignorant of it all—the warped thoughts he has harboured of you, the nights he's lain awake, hand fisted in his pillow to keep it from wandering someplace it shouldn't. You don't know about the ways he's been slowly driving himself mad in the dark. You have no idea what kind of monster you have just confessed your love to.

"Apprentice," he manages at last. "You can't—you don't—this is only infatuation, and—"

Your hand closes around Qifrey's before he can drop your wrist—gently, like you're approaching a spooked stag, poised to bolt. Nausea rolls unpleasantly through his stomach.

"I know my feelings. Master needn't try convince me otherwise."

Your certainty is what unspools the remainder of his repudiation. He's helpless, Qifrey thinks ashamedly, to stand before it. For one treacherous second he imagines what it would be like not to pull away; to turn his hand beneath yours and weave your fingers together, to close the distance he's spent months desperately maintaining. He imagines allowing himself the same foolish hope he'd once indulged in with Olruggio—before knowledge, before loss and guilt had hollowed him out and taught him the price of wanting something he could never have.

The fantasy dies almost immediately.

"I don't see you that way." The lie scrapes against his throat on the way out, self-mutiliation—if words could cut, they would leave his pharynx in ribbons, a bloodied mess. But this must end here and now. "You're my apprentice, and I care for you a great deal, but nothing beyond that."

Silence settles between you, quiet folding in on itself. Then, softly, you say, "That's alright with me. I just wish Master would be more honest with me."

Qifrey has heard those words before—not spoken in exactly the same way, but close enough. Close enough that for one dizzying moment he is in two places at once: here, your wrist still caught in his grasp, and somewhere years ago, watching someone else he loved—still does—offer up everything for a wretched, unworthy cause.

All I have left to say is… just go easy on me, okay?

For a strange, terrible moment, Qifrey thinks he would have preferred anger. Hatred he could have endured. Tears he would have tried to comfort. Instead you place something infinitely more fragile in his hands and ask for nothing in return—and Qifrey wants to weep from the absurdity of it all. Who is he to deserve such grace, such senseless devotion?

You deserve better, Qifrey thinks, despairingly. But still he cannot bring himself to speak those words aloud, in the same way he cannot seem to release your hand and so they remain, lingering like ghosts—everything he wants to confess but can't ensnared in the silence between you.

The smoke reaches them before any messenger does—a dark, greasy plume unfurling against the pale morning sky. It is visible even from the atelier's window, though Qifrey does not notice it until Olruggio bursts into the room without warning, already yanking on his cloak as you glance up from your books.

"Fire," is all Olruggio needs to say, breathless, for Qifrey to understand. His hand closes around Qifrey's upper arm, drawing his attention toward the horizon. "It's coming from the direction of Hearthglen Village."

Qifrey is on his feet even before Olruggio finishes speaking. Despite the dry spells of summer, Hearthglen is protected by enough fireproofing spells to withstand far worse than a stray spark or lightning strike—Qifrey has full trust in Olruggio's magic, in this regard. Small fires could happen. But infernos capable of producing a column of smoke like that—thick and black enough to stain the horizon from miles away—are impossible.

Should not be possible.

"Apprentice," Qifrey calls over his shoulder as he strides urgently towards the door, pulling his hat onto his head along the way. "Stay here."

He doesn't wait to see if you listen. He and Olruggio are out of the door in the next second, sylph shoes flaring with green light as they take to the air, hurtling straight towards the smoke billowing upwards into the morning sky.

Qifrey should have trusted his instincts.

The fire is not natural—Qifrey knows it the instant they crest the hill and the village comes into view, fire licking at the thatched roofs, dragging barns and homes alike into its insatiable maw. And there they stand amidst the carnage—their white hat and trailing veil a stark smear against the smoke-charred sky—a single painted eye staring back at Qifrey from where their face should be. For a heartbeat, the years collapse inward and hate rises in the back of his throat like bile, acrid. But answers can wait—and people cannot.

Olruggio doesn't hesitate. He banks sharply left, already racing toward the line of burning buildings, shouting for the villagers to flee. Qifrey launches himself at the Brimmed Hat, water surging from the village well in a roaring column in response to his spell.

The Brimmed Hat laughs. They're infuriatingly talkative—they make several attempts to strike up a conversation in the middle of the fight, chattering away as though this is some pleasant afternoon stroll rather than a village burning around them. Qifrey ignores every word. Water tears through the square at his command, rushing in great swells to smother flames and strike at his opponent, but the Brimmed Hat dances around each strike, veil fluttering in the heat haze, that ominous painted eye seemingly able to see Qifrey's every move before it happens.

Out of the corner of his eye, Qifrey glimpses Olruggio moving through the smoke and chaos. Olruggio disappears into a burning building and emerges with a wailing child tucked carefully in the cradle of his arms, depositing them into a frantic mother's embrace before he turns back to the flames. Again and again he does this—vanishing into the smoke and reappearing with another villager in tow. The fire continues to spread, racing from rooftop to rooftop with unnatural hunger.

And then Qifrey sees it. Olruggio runs into another house, already half-consumed by flames. But one of its support beams has already begun to bow beneath the strain and the building is tilting dangerously; already Qifrey can hear the groan of timber in his mind under the strain. But before Qifrey can say anything—so much as do anything—it gives way. The entire structure collapses onto itself with a roar, disappearing beneath a shower of firebrands and burning debris. For a single, terrible instant, it resembles a funeral pyre.

It's only a momentary lapse, but it is enough. The spell catches him squarely in the chest.

Qifrey is on his hands and knees even before he registers the fall. He hunches over, scorched ground hot beneath his palms, and tries to clear his throat, but the damage presses heavily up his windpipe—wet and viscous. Blood. Qifrey chokes. The taste of copper floods his tongue.

"Oh dear." The Brimmed Hat drifts closer. Their veil flutters lazily behind them as they hover just in the corner of Qifrey's periphery. "Not so threatening now, are we?"

They raise their hand again. Qifrey tries to move but his body will not obey him, his wand slipping from between his fingers, viscid with his own blood. The cobblestones beneath him spin into dizzying tesselations. And then—

A blade of water cuts through the air. It hits the square with enough force to split stone, carving a deep furrow into the ground where the Brimmed Hat had just been standing just a second ago. Both Qifrey and the Brimmed Hat look up at the same time.

Qifrey almost doesn't recognise you at first, hovering above the town square, framed against the smoke-darkened sky. The hem of your cloak flaps in the wind, your wand and quire just barely visible beneath it. The Brimmed Hat's visage is concealed behind that painted eye, but Qifrey can tell that they're surprised. They turn toward you, hands lifting as if in greeting or surrender.

"Now that's intere—"

Another spell hurtles down. The Brimmed Hat vaults backwards, vanishing into a cloud of smoke before reappearing atop the remains of a collapsed building several yards away. Your magic obliterates the ground they had been standing on, stone and dirt exploding outwards in a violent spray.

"You're serious!" They sound more delighted than alarmed, laughter echoing through the ruined square. "What terrifying killing intent, for a Pointed Hat so young!"

You ignore them. The moment your feet touch the ground you are already running to Qifrey's side, dropping to your knees next to him hard enough to tear the fabric of your trousers. Your hands are on him immediately, one bracing his shoulder while the other presses desperately against the wound in his chest. Qifrey struggles to lift his head to, pain lancing through his chest with each ragged breath he drags into his lungs. The edges of his vision blurs every time he inhales—his ribs are definitely broken.

"I thought…" He coughs, the words coming out rasping and wet. "I told you to stay… at the atelier…"

"Master can punish me all he likes later." Blood continues seeping stubbornly between your fingers despite the pressure, but that isn't the problem—it's the fluid slowly accumulating in his lungs, the way his breathing has gone thick and rattling. Qifrey can see the moment realisation dawns behind your eyes as you listen to each uneven breath, and with it comes panic. When you meet his eyes again you look frighteningly young, your fingers slick and red with his blood.

"Master." Your voice catches. "Master, what do I do?"

The answer is supposed to be there; behind his teeth, on the tip of his tongue. Qifrey is your teacher, your master—he should know what to say, how to fix this. But the only thing staining his mouth now is blood.

"Master," you say again, and this time you almost sound like you're begging. "Please. Tell me what to do."

"Oh, how touching." The Brimmed Hat drifts over, knees tucked loosely against their chest. Their painted eye is now fixed entirely on you, and when they speak again, their voice seems to have softened into something coaxing, almost kind. "Such devotion. I haven't seen such an adorable master-apprentice pair in years."

You don't react. Your attention remains fixed wholly on Qifrey—one bloodstained hand pressed against his chest as you desperately rifle through the contents of your satchel, searching for something, anything that might help. The Brimmed Hat laughs, a little pitying.

"It's admirable how hard you're fighting to save him, little Pointed Hat. A shame that even if you succeed today, he'll be dead soon enough, anyway—though I suppose dead isn't quite the right word for it."

Qifrey's stomach drops.

"No," he chokes out at once when your hands go completely still. Blood flecks his lips as he struggles for breath. "Don't listen to them—"

"What do you mean?"

At your question, the Brimmed Hat tilts their head—and though their face remains hidden behind their white veil, Qifrey is suddenly, horribly certain that they are smiling.

"You haven't told them?" They click their tongue softly, delighted, almost sympathetic. The gesture is mild, mockingly gentle. It makes hatred surge through Qifrey so fiercely that, for a moment, it eclipses even the pain. "You should be more honest with your apprentice."

"Shut up—" Qifrey tries to force himself upright and immediately regrets it. Agony carves a white-hot line through his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. A violent cough doubles him over, sends fresh blood bubbling between his lips and splattering across the cobblestones. "Apprentice, they're lying. Don't listen to—urgk—a word they say—"

But you are no longer looking at him. Qifrey feels a wave of panic surge through him, overwhelming, drowning him beneath it. He knows that look, is familiar with it—the expression you wear when confronted with a puzzle you cannot solve, when every thought narrows around a single question like a predator's jaws clamping around a prey animal's neck.

"Master," you say, very slowly. "What are they talking about?"

"I—"

The Brimmed Hat cuts across him with a low hum of amusement. "Little witch… did your master ever tell you about how the silverwood propagates before?"

Whatever remaining blood Qifrey has drains from his face.

"Unlike other plants, the silverwood spreads by lodging itself into animal hosts... even humans." They tilt their head at Qifrey, and he very briefly catches the flash of a sharp grin beneath their veil before they continue. "Gradually, it takes over the host's body bit by bit, until there is nothing left but a very beautiful silverwood tree." They spread their hands with a flourish, a theatrical gesture. "That is the fate awaiting your master, dear apprentice."

The words land like stones, sinking silently into still water. Qifrey dares not look at your face. He cannot. He is afraid of what he will see there—the dawning horror, the terrible understanding, the slow realisation of his deception.

Then the Brimmed Hat laughs.

"But do not despair!" They throw their arms wide, head cocking as they look at you. "We are witches, are we not? Magic exists to challenge the impossible, to overturn fate!" They hover just a little closer, voice lowering into something almost conspiratorial. "As long as you are willing, you can save your master. I'll even give you a nifty little spell to preserve his life until you can find a better solution." One hand, bare-skinned and terrifyingly human, slides up to curve around the shape of their mouth. "All you need to do is cast it yourself."

"Apprentice—" The word comes out mangled with fresh blood, thin and watery with his spit. "Apprentice—don't—you cannot—"

Qifrey tries to push himself up, to reach for you, to do anything to stop what he sees coming. His arms shake violently beneath him before they give way altogether, and he crashes back against the cobblestones hard enough to drive what little breath remains from his lungs. He needs to move. Why won't his body listen to him?

Slowly, you get to your feet. You move as though caught in a dream, entranced by some spell, hands hanging at your sides, stained with the drying streaks of his blood. And your face, your face—when he finally forces himself to look—is bloodless and set, and yet, so very terrifyingly calm.

"Apprentice," Qifrey begs, desperate. "Please."

Qifrey doesn't know how long he stands there in the hallway, a restless spectre in the dark. Only that by the time he manages to pull himself away his feet are aching, and his breathing has slowed to the same steady rhythm as your own. He lingers for only a moment longer, still reluctant, before turning and making his way back down the hall.

His feet carry him over to one of the windows without thinking. Outside, the sloping hills reach for the edges of night's canopy, unfurling like a rug of silver-sheened fox fur toward the distant coast. And if he squints, Qifrey can just make out the scattering of mountain apple shrubs in the dark; its fruit he'd picked with you this morning chartreuse-yellow and not quite ripe, still carrying a faint, tart edge on the tongue.

The bandages on your arms had been clean when he'd changed them after dinner. Whatever other wounds you'd earned from your little misadventure are healing as well, smaller scabs darkening and already flaking at the edges. You're still young, your body more forgiving in ways his is less so, and Qifrey is thankful for that. More than he can put into words.

But thankful isn't enough anymore.

He's been selfish. Qifrey had taken you in to save himself—to keep the silverwood repressed dormant, to give himself sufficient worry so that the parasite in him wouldn't kill him. Somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that this careful distance—that feeding you, teaching you, keeping a roof over your head—would be enough. And in doing so, he'd unintentionally made you the receptacle for all his fears, his neglect, for every single one of his cruel words.

He's a poor excuse of a master. You deserve better.

Qifrey tries to remember what he needed once, as an apprentice. The recollections emerge in faint remnants. The stone floors of the Great Hall, his master's breezy voice weaving between the columns—they blur together like the night fog, each memory dissolving into the next until none stands clearly apart from the rest.

None except Olruggio.

They had snuck out together once, after passing the Pentacle of Proving's third test. Qifrey can still remember the thrill of it: the night wind in his hair, the dark plains of the Naakiwan Downs stretching endlessly into the night. The hut had appeared abandoned—perhaps once a shepherd's shelter, left to the slow mercy of time—its stairs half-rotted from rain, sagging dangerously under their own weight.

They'd taken to the roof with their sylph shoes instead. There, Qifrey had looked properly at the night sky for the first time—impossibly clear, strewn thick with stars, as though some divine hand had cast a scatter of diamonds across the velvet dark. And with nothing else around for miles to hem them in, the heavens had felt so very close—close enough for Qifrey to believe he could reach out with his hand and pluck the stars from the sky himself.

In that moment, even his dreams had felt within reach. Qifrey had once believed that if he could recover the past he'd lost, his joy might become something real—something worthy of standing proud beside Olruggio's without feeling like a poor facsimile of it, a shoddy imitation. A foolish ambition, perhaps, but it was his.

A child can dream, after all.

Qifrey exhales, a sigh catching between his teeth as he pulls his gaze from the window. There's no point dwelling on what-ifs and has-beens. He slips a hand into the pocket of his robes, fingers pushing into the spelled space folded within. The envelope he withdraws is slightly crumpled, edges creased from the many times he's folded and unfolded it again.

It's an official summons to the Great Hall, a request for his presence to discuss the status of his atelier. The tone employed is courteous, but there's no mistaking it. This is not an invitation he can refuse.

Qifrey's thumb lingers at the corner of the page, letting the edge catch against his skin. The Great Hall. He's never been fond of it despite its grand resplendences and easy conveniences. There's a reason he came all the way out to the quiet edges of the Downs, to build something that belonged solely to him.

But you… you must be bored here. The atelier is so far removed from everything else, the quick, lively rhythm of other witches and apprentices. Even with the windowway, it is not the same. Here you only have him for company, the same brick and limestone walls day after day.

You've never complained, of course. You never do. Still, you should have others your age. Other witches. Friends.

Qifrey folds the letter one last time and makes up his mind.

The next morning, Qifrey takes you to the Great Hall with him. The windowway deposits the two of you somewhere at the edge of Deepwater Castle, the world within its rings shifting as stone and sky give way to sea. Qifrey steps out first, taking a moment to steady himself on the slick platform. The air here is different—heavier and wetter, saturated with salt and a faint tinge of magic, and sunlight filters down in pale, weaving ribbons, catching on fish whose scales flash like scattered coins. Beyond the boundary of sea-mist, the ocean presses in on all sides, held at bay by complex spells written long before Qifrey was even born.

Qifrey turns, one hand already lifting to help you from the windowway. Despite his feelings towards the Great Hall, the sight of Deepwater Castle never quite loses its ability to take his breath away. Some quiet part of him hopes see the same wonder on your face.

But you aren't looking. Not at the fish, the shimmering barrier, or even the mighty castle rising from the ocean floor. Instead your eyes are fixed on him, and your face is pale. Paler than he's ever seen it, even when he'd plucked you from the cliffside with serpentines coiling overhead, ready to tear you apart.

At some point you've grabbed hold of his sleeve. It's almost as if you're afraid he might vanish if you let go. Qifrey frowns, concerned.

"What's wrong?"

You shake your head. Qifrey waits, but nothing follows. You remain where you are—pale and wordless, knuckles stark against the dark fabric of his sleeve. Above, fish glide past with slow currents, a myriad of light and shadows shifting across your cheek, the flagstones. A bell tolls in the distance.

He doesn't want to push you. Not in this unfamiliar place, at least.

"Alright," Qifrey decides at last. "Come on."

The shopping gallery is a long corridor of shops, located somewhere within the lower levels of Deepwater Castle. It's just as Qifrey remembers it—crowded, lively, storefronts overflowing with eclectic wonders. Some hawk candied kelp and enlarged bunches of willowgrapes, others display glowing components in transparent jars, contraptions that whir and tick and occasionally emit small puffs of smoke. One roadside stall even offers miniature glass orbs no larger than a palm, each containing a captive, miniaturised sea creature—harmless, Qifrey knows, carefully calibrated spells etched into the glass to keep them comfortable and happy.

He walks slowly, careful to stay close by your side. You haven't let go of his sleeve, though your grip has loosened somewhat since entering the castle. Qifrey isn't sure if the gallery or countless unfamiliar sights is reason, but he's grateful, whichever it is.

"The baths are down this way," he says, gesturing down at a side corridor. "They have spells that mimic the ocean waves, and water sculptures enchanted to move like living creatures. Oh, and past that fountain—there—is the dining hall I used to eat at as an apprentice."

Qifrey glances at you as you walk. He'd brought you here to see the witches' stronghold with your own eyes, to experience its strange wonders the way he once had long ago. But watching you from the corner of his eye, he is unsure whether you are truly enjoying any of it.

"They served the best yam and horncap soup—filling and perfectly seasoned. I still dream about it till this day. Do you want to take a look?"

You don't answer immediately. Your eyes drift, a rudderless boat caught out at sea, though you meet his when Qifrey looks at you. Your gaze dips after a moment, however.

"If Master wants," you say.

Qifrey's frown deepens though he keeps it from his face. The last thing he wants is for you to think he's displeased with you. Qifrey likes to believe he knows you—not perfectly, of course, but enough to recognise the differences between your silences and your hesitations. This one, though, he cannot place. He doesn't know if your answer means you're unsure how to say no, or if you are uncertain about saying yes.

He considers pressing. But you've given him nothing, and Qifrey has learned—if a little slowly—that there are moments when that is all you're willing to offer.

"Perhaps later," Qifrey answers, keeping his voice light. "We'll see then."

You only nod.

The corridor eventually opens into a vast indoor courtyard. The high walls of the Argentgard rise steeply before you like the sides of a pale mountain, old sigils carved deep into stone. It's quieter here, removed from the bustle and chatter of the shopping gallery, as though even sound knows better than to linger. And for good reason: flanking the arched doors stand the Knights Moralis—their backs straight and rigid, clad in black and crimson ceremonial armour—holding on to banners that manage to look proud even when they're hanging still.

Qifrey stops at the threshold. He knows what awaits him on the other side of these doors. He's never much cared for these proceedings, the careful scrutiny dressed in civility. They unmoor him less than the grove of pale trees lying just behind these walls, anyway.

He slips a careful smile into place before turning back to you, bending slightly at the waist so that the two of you are eye to eye. "There is a courtyard just through that archway," he says, with a nod towards the columns on his left. It's outside one of the libraries he used to frequent as an apprentice—you might run into a few younger witches coming and going. "There are some benches for you to sit on, and a little fountain that sings. You can wait for me there. Or—" He reaches into his robes and draws out a small leather pouch. It clinks softly when he places it into your hand. "You can explore the shopping gallery. Spend this on whatever you want—food, books, even one of those glass orbs, if you like. Anything."

You glance down at the pouch, unblinking. After a while, Qifrey reaches for your hand and cups it in his own, gently folding your fingers over the worn leather.

"I won't be long," he says, softer this time. "It'll be an hour, two at most. You'll be fine on your own."

Your other hand tightens its grip on his sleeve. Then, slowly, you let go.

Qifrey hesitates. For a fleeting second he considers taking you with him—making you sit through the council's dry questions and pointed looks. He can already foresee it: their relentless probing into your past, the dogged interrogation about your origins as an unknowing. No, no. It is better to leave you here.

"Don't wander too far, alright?" Qifrey says gently as he straightens, glancing over his shoulder at the looming doors. "I'll be back soon."

He manages a few steps towards it before he looks back at you. You simply nod, like you always do.

"Okay."

The Argentgard is cold.

Not in terms of temperature, so to speak. The Great Hall is kept comfortably warm year-round—the same spells that generate sea-mist threaded carefully with seals to trap heat and prevent the place from feeling like a tomb. Perhaps the lingering chill comes from someplace else: the measuring and the weighing, the unshakeable sensation of being observed by eyes that see too much and miss very little.

Still, the gardens themselves are pleasant enough. Qifrey sits while the council members regard him across the table from their high-backed chairs, expressions unreadable as they scrutinize his files.

It isn't long before they begin their line of questioning. Have you been adhering to regulation? Of course. How many apprentices do you have? Just the one. Have you noticed any irregularities with the unknowing as of late? None. These interrogations are nothing new to Qifrey; he's learned to keep his voice steady and his answers brief, to offer nothing more than what is required.

When they've finally exhausted their endless list of questions, they move on to other matters. The council informs him of the Watchful Eyes—Pointed Hat witches tasked with overseeing ateliers too distant from the Great Hall, ensuring compliance and reporting any irregularities deemed worthy of concern. Qifrey doesn't like the idea of being monitored, but knows better than to push. The Council's decisions are never only suggestions, and resistance will only further invite the very scrutiny he'd prefer to avoid.

Yet, the meeting stretches on for longer than he'd expected. Questions are followed by more questions, which are in turn followed by discussions of revised protocols. By the time they start on the topic of procedural adjustments, Qifrey's mind is already beginning to drift—away from the council's murmurings and the silver trees of the Argentgard, back to the corridor where he'd left you.

Are you doing alright? he wonders. Did you find the courtyard? Did anyone approach you? Have you eaten anything?

The conversation drags. Each topic bleeds into the next, until Qifrey starts to think words themselves are beginning to lose all meaning. And then—

"One final matter," one council member says, pushing her glasses further up her nose to squint at the papers in her hand. "For your atelier's Watchful Eye—do you have anyone in mind?"

He's too tired to care, and eager to leave. "Choose whoever."

They exchange glances. A scribe sitting to his left jots down a few words, and then—thankfully, mercifully, finally—the meeting is adjourned. Qifrey is already halfway to the exit, perhaps a touch too quickly, when a familiar voice halts him.

"Qifrey. A moment, please."

He knows who it is even before he turns. Qifrey looks back, reluctantly, to see him—perched elegantly in his sealchair, hands clasped loosely in his lap, wearing that familiar half-smile of his. Briefly, Qifrey wonders whether it is truly him or merely another of his smoke clones, though the distinction stopped mattering years ago—sometime around the third occasion Qifrey spent twenty minutes arguing with one, before realising the real thing had never been there at all.

"I have other matters to attend to."

"Nonsense." The ram legs of Beldaruit's sealchair tread lightly through the grass, carrying him over to Qifrey's side. "You have time for tea. I insist."

"I really don't."

"Not even a few minutes to spare for your poor old master?"

At least the old man's fondness for theatrics hasn't changed. "No."

"That's so cruel, you know. I take you under my wing out of the kindness of my heart, raise you with all the care and devotion of a loving master, only to receive this kind of gratitude in my old age…"

He ends up following Beldaruit deeper into the Argentgard, albeit unwillingly. Here, in one of its more secluded groves, the silverwoods grow oldest and thickest—branches twisting towards the high, arched ceilings, their pale leaves gleaming softly like moonlight caught over the surface of a still lake. Qifrey sits across Beldaruit at a small table already set with a silver tea service, delicate porcelain cups and a plate of untouched pastries waiting neatly between them.

Qifrey pours, the same way he used to when he was an apprentice, and Beldaruit was still his master. They exchange the usual polite niceties: updates on mutual acquaintances (Qifrey hasn't kept in contact with some in years), comments on the weather (it never changes down here), and mild inquiries regarding the atelier. Qifrey answers in monosyllables, counting down the minutes until he can excuse himself without appearing discourteous.

"So," Beldaruit hums upon finishing his third pour. He sets down his teacup with a soft click. "Tell me about your new apprentice."

Qifrey's hand stills on his own. He should have known better than to think being confined to the ocean floor would keep anything from reaching Beldaruit's ears. "Word travels quickly."

"Can you blame us? There is very little to be excited about, under the sea." Beldaruit waves a hand vaguely through the air. "The fish are lovely, I suppose, but they make for dreadful conversationalists. One grows desperate for interesting news eventually."

Qifrey sighs. Suddenly the tea in his hand appears far less appetising than it did a moment ago.

"What do you want to know?"

"I want to know what they're like, of course. I'm curious as to what sort of student my apprentice is raising."

"Former apprentice."

Beldaruit dismisses the correction with an airy flick of his fingers. "Same thing. In my eyes, you're still the same old rascally apprentice." He leans back in his sealchair, ram legs dipping slightly, before he scratches thoughtfully at his chin. "Ah, I suppose that makes them my grand-apprentice, doesn't it?" Beldaruit's smile curls slightly at the edges. "I rather like the sound of that."

Qifrey fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. That, or do something equally childish—like pour the teapot directly into Beldaruit's lap, the way he might have done if he were still an apprentice.

"They're… clever," he begins slowly, if somewhat reluctantly. "They're exceptionally talented at complex spells—they can decipher the logic behind circles some fully fledged witches might struggle with. They learn quickly, too—they memorised every glyph in the foundational textbook by heart within a matter of weeks." Qifrey remembers the sight of you hunched over the kitchen table, tracing spells over and over until the bowl of water in front of you had run dry. "The only problem is that they work too hard. I have to remind them to eat, sometimes, and if there's a spell they can't master immediately, I know I'll find them awake in the middle of the night, still practicing it over and over—"

"B—o—ring." Beldaruit interrupts, dragging out the syllable out like a man enduring some unbearable inconvenience as he props his chin onto one hand. "Wow. That is all so terribly boring."

Qifrey stops talking to glare across the table. "Well, you asked."

"Spellwork this, textbook that." Beldaruit waves a disparaging hand, his sleeve rippling. "That's the sort of thing you put in an educational report to the Council. What I want to know is: what are they like to you?"

The question catches Qifrey off guard. And its answer drifts in, like incense smoke carried on the wind, without conscious thought or contemplation. He remembers the pale set of your mouth when you'd looked up at him from beneath his cloak for the first time. How wavering firelight reflects in your eyes when you're practicing spells late into the night. The dark, rust-coloured stain of your blood, drying slowly across his fingers.

The quiet cadence of your voice, and the faint upward lilt whenever you call, "Master".

Beldaruit is watching him differently now. The sharpness in those pale eyes has not faded—if anything, it has only grown keener, the edge of a blade freshly drawn across its whetstone. He appears to enjoying Qifrey's hesitation immensely. Qifrey isn't sure he prefers to know why—the inner workings of his former master's mind are a mystery to him.

"Let me make things simpler for you," Beldaruit says. He leans forward in his sealchair, fingers interlaced when he sets his hands on the table. "Do they surprise you?"

This time, his answer comes out without hesitation.

"Every day."

For a moment, Beldaruit looks almost surprised, himself. Then his expression slips into something softer, almost pleased, and for the briefest instant, Qifrey catches the faint shadow of the man he'd once called master—the man who'd sat beside his bed in the dark, distracting him from nightmares of suffocating darkness and unceasing rain with dancing figures shaped from smoke.

He doesn't push further. Beldaruit simply nods, and picks up his teacup once again.

"Good," he says. "That's what I wanted to hear."

The fountain is warbling a sweet, silver-bright melody when Qifrey finds you in the eastern courtyard. That's expected. What he wasn't expecting, however, is to find you amidst a handful of other witches your age.

He ducks behind a pillar before you can spot him. Qifrey should probably collect you, begin the journey home, but you look—well, not happy, exactly. You rarely ever look happy. But you look less solitary, at least, and that alone is something worth staying hidden for a few more minutes.

The young witches are talking about their own masters at the Great Hall. Qifrey catches fragments—familiar names he knows in passing, scattered mentions of the Three Wise. You wouldn't know any of these things—names and histories and hierarchies that carry weight and sway within the magical world—because Qifrey had never thought to teach them to you before. Now, he's wondering if he should have. Still, they speak with such easy enthusiasm it hardly seems to matter, their voices overlapping in excited bursts and trills.

"So, who's your master?" A girl with a tumble of chestnut curls asks you, eyes bright with curiosity. Qifrey stiffens suddenly before he can help it.

You answer simply, the same way you always do. "Master Qifrey."

The apprentice witches exchange glances. For a moment they look puzzled, until realisation ripples visibly throughout the small group.

"Oh," another pipes up. "You mean Beldaruit the Wise's apprentice?"

"Is he?"

"Yeah! What's he like?"

Qifrey's heart stumbles oddly in his chest, a brief, uncomfortable slip in rhythm. He should probably step out from behind the pillar, announce his presence before he overhears something not meant for his ears. But his feet refuse to move.

You seem to think about this for a while. Then—

"The prettiest."

Qifrey nearly chokes. The witches standing closest to you seem to echo his thoughts. "Huh?"

"Master Qifrey is the prettiest," you continue, matter-of-factly, as though clarifying something that ought to have been obvious to anyone with functioning eyes.

A ripple of laughter breaks through the group. "That's not usually a word people use to describe their masters," the girl who'd asked says between giggles, looking amused.

"Is that so?"

Qifrey's face burns so hot he fears he might combust like an overcast pyreball spell. He's suddenly grateful for the pillar concealing him from sight. Pretty. You could have said knowledgeable. Wise, kind, inspiring—any number of descriptive words more befitting of a teacher, a mentor, a master. Why would you…

He drags a hand down his face in an attempt to gather the scattered remains of his composure. It's painfully futile. When it becomes clear that the effort is hopeless, Qifrey steps out from behind the pillar, fixing what he hopes passes for a smile across his thoroughly frazzled expression.

"It's time to go," he says.

You look up at him. Your expression doesn't change in slightest—no flicker of embarrassment, no trace of awkwardness at the fact he might have overheard what you just said. You simply nod, offer the other witches a polite "goodbye", and cross the courtyard to stand at his side once more.

"Goodbye!" one of them calls, waving enthusiastically. "Hopefully we'll see you around again!"

You raise a hand in response, but nothing more.

"I'm sorry for taking so long," Qifrey says as the two of you walk away, leaving behind the chatter of the courtyard. His face still feels slightly warm. "But I think I needn't have worried—it looks like you made some friends."

You shrug. "They were nice."

It's not disagreement, though not quite agreement either—but Qifrey supposes that's simply how most first steps go; small, uncertain things, too fragile to name outright. He decides to count it as a victory all the same.

"I'll cook something nice for dinner." Qifrey glances sidelong at you. A carapace mash, perhaps, or the grilled vegetables he's noticed you favour. Judging from your empty hands, Qifrey doubts you've spent a single coin in the pouch he gave you. "You barely ate before we left this morning—you must be starving."

"Okay." You shift a step closer to his side. "Let's go home."

Your hand brushes his sleeve—not gripping, just touching—as though the proximity comes as naturally as breathing. Qifrey's breath catches softly in his chest.

After a while, he nods.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Let's go home."

It rains that night.

True storms are rare out on the Downs, but a few times each year the weather falls into moods unpleasant enough to shake even the inland hills. Qifrey lies awake, listening to the wind howl across the moors surrounding the atelier while rain lashes relentlessly against the windows. He'll be getting no sleep tonight, he knows—he abandoned the attempt hours ago, resigning himself to counting the cracks in his ceiling and waiting for morning to arrive.

Then—

A soft knock sounds at his door.

Qifrey startles slightly amidst his tangle of blankets. For a moment, he eyes the faint shape of his bedroom door in the dark, wondering if his ears are playing tricks on him in the storm. But then the knock comes again—quieter, more hesitant this time.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, hurriedly shrugging a loose robe over his shoulders. When he pulls open the door, Qifrey finds you standing outside in the hallway, absently smoothing over your nightclothes beneath the muted amber glow of the lamps.

There are only two people living in this atelier, yet Qifrey is still oddly surprised to find you standing at his door as you are now. You've never sought him out in the middle of the night before.

"Did something happen?"

You look faintly surprised to see him despite being the one who knocked. After a moment, you shake your head.

"I thought Master would be asleep."

Qifrey's lips twitch upwards slightly. He waits a little longer, expecting you to continue, but you say nothing more. You don't leave either. The two of you simply stand there, the door held ajar between you, rain clamouring noisily against the windows.

"It's, um," Qifrey coughs lightly, after an extended period of silence. "Rather late, isn't it."

 The observation hangs somewhat uselessly between the two of you. Still you nod solemnly, as though he's said something of grave importance.

"Mm."

"Do you need something?"

A shake of the head.

"Can't sleep?"

A pause. Then, slowly, you nod again.

"Oh."

His mind leapfrogs to a hundred possibilities at once. Is it the storm? The thunder, perhaps? Are the heating spells in your room inadequate? The questions crowd together faster than he can decide which to ask, but by the time he's settled on one, the silence has stretched long enough that interrupting it feels strange. The space between the two of you lapses into awkward quiet once again.

"…Can I stay here for a while?"

The request catches him off guard. This seems to be becoming a night of firsts—first the knock at his door, then this. You rarely ask anything of him at all. Qifrey steps aside quickly, holding the door wider for you.

"Of course. Come in."

You step over the threshold somewhat tentatively. Qifrey lets the door swing shut and ushers you towards the bed, where he carefully sits you at the foot of it. You're dressed only in your nightclothes, feet bare, so he quickly slips his robes from his shoulders to drape it around yours instead. It takes a few adjustments to ensure it sits properly—it's far too large on you—before Qifrey decides he's satisfied and settles next to you, mattress creaking softly beneath his weight.

The two of you sit in silence, accompanied by the steady patter of rain. When the quiet eventually begins to fray awkwardly at the edges, Qifrey clears his throat.

"Is there a reason you couldn't sleep?"

You don't respond immediately. Your fingers knit loosely in your lap, absently picking at a loose thread with your nails. Qifrey is beginning to suspect you don't actually want to answer it at all when you suddenly speak, your voice barely a murmur beneath the storm.

"…I had a bad dream."

Oh. "What about?"

"Drowning."

Qifrey goes very still.

"I think being in the Great Hall might have reminded me of it," you say. "Being surrounded by water—or maybe being so far beneath the surface."

Qifrey suddenly remembers the way you'd clung to his sleeve, when you'd first stepped out of the windowway. A quiet sense of dread coils unpleasantly in his stomach. "You've had a bad experience with the sea before?"

You nod.

"My parents tried to drown me when I was little." Qifrey's head snaps violently to look at you. The horror crashes through him with the force of a physical blow, the words a knife shoved viciously into his gut. "They had too many mouths to feed and I was the smallest, so they took me to the cliffs and threw me in. I guess they hoped it would look like an accident."

You say this with the same calm, thoughtful tone that you might use when explaining a conjecture about spell theory to him. Qifrey opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

Nothing will.

"I don't remember much," you continue, when he doesn't say anything. "Just that it was cold and dark and water would fill my mouth whenever I tried to scream. A fisherman found me eventually, so I survived."

"How old were you?"

"I'm not sure. Five, I think. Maybe six?"

You were just a child. The image his mind conjures is unbearable: small hands grasping helpless over dark water, frightened cries swallowed by the wind and waves. Your hands. Your cries.

Qifrey finds himself thinking, suddenly, of rain. Silver-fingered and relentless, falling in chilly sheets over Havso and you—crouched beneath that poor excuse of tarp, thin and soaked and frozen to the bone. They way you'd looked at him when he spelled away the rain above your head—not with wonder or gratitude, but the hollow-eyed stare of someone who'd learned never to expect anything from the world.

He can't stand it. Qifrey wants—needs—to say something. To find the right words to comfort you, or at least make it hurt less, or better yet, cast a counterclock spell and rewind time itself—back to that cliffside, years ago, so that Qifrey can pull you from the water long before the sea ever touches you. But there are no right words, no spell capable of undoing what has happened so long past, only this—you and him, now in this moment, everything Qifrey wants to say but can't snared in the silence between you.

Because what can he say in response to that? What words does he possess that could possibly be worth speaking?

"I'm afraid of water, too," Qifrey finds himself saying, eventually. "But not because of the sea. Rain."

His confession takes even him by surprise. You blink at the admission, glancing up from beneath your lashes, and Qifrey has to look away; instead, he fixes his gaze on his own feet, dangling over the bed next to yours.

"My old master found me in a box." The words trickle out slowly, like water leaking from a cracked vessel. "Buried in the ground and left for dead. I didn't have any memories—of my parents, where I came from—all I remembered was the rain. Pounding on the lid, seeping through the cracks…" He laughs once under his breath, though it's devoid of any humour. "I thought I was going to drown eventually. It felt like hell, waiting for death in the dark."

He hears you inhale softly.

"Beldaruit dug me up." Qifrey continues, more quietly now. "He took me in, taught me magic… but I never really got over my fear of water. It's why I worked so hard to master it." A faint smile touches the corners of his mouth. "Well, that, and to get out of the washing duty Beldaruit would assign me to whenever I mouthed off at him."

That doesn't make you laugh like he'd hoped it would. You kick out your feet idly, gaze lowered to where your hands are gathered in the too-long sleeves of his robe.

"I wonder if it would be better to forget," you say, finally. "All those unpleasant things."

Qifrey looks at you. Despite your words, there's no bitterness in your expression—an utter lack of anger or resentment Qifrey finds faintly unsettling. The question escapes him before he can turn it over in his head.

"Do you hate them?" he asks, more softly now. "Your parents, I mean. For doing that to you."

You barely hesitate.

"No." Your answer comes out certain. "If they hadn't, I would never have met Master."

In that brief moment Qifrey feels entirely stripped of words once again. The rain continues its persistent pummeling, thunder snarling overhead like some ancient beast, but all of it suddenly feels so very far away. He feels vaguely sick. There is no world in which Qifrey would ever consider what happened to you a fortune—no world in which a child should have been thrown into the sea simply that fate might orchestrate some so-called fortuitous encounter with him. None.

And yet—selfishly, horribly—the thought of never having met you at all leaves him painfully bereft.

"…That's not how that should work," Qifrey manages, at last. His fingers take an extended moment to release their death grip on the edge of the mattress. "Someone should have protected you long before you ever needed to meet me." Cared for you. Treasured you. Loved you.

"I have Master now," you shrug. "That's all that matters to me."

Qifrey wants to argue—to tell you that what your parents had done was unforgivable, that you deserved so much more than the scraps of kindness the world had handed you. But you seem so strangely at peace with it all the words die before they can leave his mouth. And who is he to condemn them, when he's been equally selfish in his own ways?

It's silent after that. The rain continues to pour, until Qifrey exhales through his nose, breaking the stillness.

"We should head to bed."

Your shoulders curl inward ever so slightly. "Oh."

"You can sleep here," he adds on hurriedly, before you can think he's urging you from his room. "In my bed, I mean. So you don't have to be alone."

The words come out stilted, somewhat awkwardly, in a tangled rush. You blink at him, visibly surprised—but not unpleasantly so. After a moment's hesitation you nod, and move slowly to crawl beneath the blankets. Qifrey rises to his feet and immediately busies himself with the covers and pillows, smoothing down a wrinkle in the blanket that's barely visible at all.

When there is nothing left for him to fuss over, Qifrey sits back down at the edge of the bed. You watch him from beneath the blankets where he'd tucked you in, quiet eyes following his movement amidst the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp. He can feel your gaze—warmth prickling along the side of his face like a thousand fine needles. He's about to fetch a book from one of the shelves to occupy his hands when he feels you tug lightly at the back of his shirt.

"I would feel better if Master were closer."

Every sensible instinct in him attempts to immediately object. You're tired, shaken from the nightmares, emotionally vulnerable from old memories dragged back to the surface. As your master, Qifrey is responsible for your wellbeing and safety above all else; it falls on him to maintain some semblance of proper distance, no matter the circumstance. And yet—

He cannot say no to you. He's never been able to say no to you.

Qifrey slips onto the bed beside you before he can think the better of it. He stretches himself out carefully atop the blankets, making sure to leave a respectable amount of space between your bodies. But after only a moment, you shift, body curling inward, until the crown of your head brushes lightly beneath his chin. He can feel the slow rhythm of your breath, each exhale whispering through the thin fabric of his nightshirt, where your face rests inches from the center of his chest.

Qifrey goes very still. This entire moment suddenly seems encased in thin glass—like one wrong movement, no matter how slight, might shatter it completely.

"Meeting Master was my greatest fortune," you whisper, so softly he almost misses it. "I'm the luckiest person in the world."

Qifrey's chest constricts. It's as if all the air has been squeezed from his lungs. His fingers flex once at his side, hesitant, suddenly aching. Slowly, he lifts a hand to your head. The angle is strange, the motion clumsy, but he threads his fingers carefully through your hair anyway, stroking as gently as he can.

"Sleep," he murmurs. "I'm here."

He cannot see your face, but he can tell the moment your eyes close when you curl a little more firmly against him, the way your entire body seems to soften. Your breathing gradually slows, and evens out into sleep. Qifrey remains awake. At some point, your hand shifts unconsciously beneath the blankets, drifting until your knuckles brush lightly against the center of his chest, directly over his heart.

Qifrey closes his eyes. You think that you are the luckiest person in the world. You are wrong.

It's him.

Time passes quietly after that.

The days flow past in their slow, gradual ways, likes ivy creeping over stone walls or sand grains slipping soundlessly through an hourglass. Summer deepens across the Downs, the hills surrounding the atelier growing thick with crocuses and millflowers before they fade gold beneath the heat. And somewhere, amidst it all, the shape of life revolving around the two of you changes once again.

Qifrey begins teaching you more advanced spells. Compound sigils, inverted glyphs, circles layered so delicately they resemble lacework more than magic. He half-expects you to struggle at first, but you take to it with astonishing ease. Some evenings end with the two of you still seated at the kitchen table long after dinner has gone cold, debating back and forth over spell theories while the heart burns low, and Qifrey finds himself sometimes deliberately taking opposing stances simply to watch you continue.

You speak more, now. You ask questions—small, ordinary things entirely unrelated to magic. When he is too absorbed in his work to notice you, you tug at his sleeve to get his attention rather than silently staring holes into the side of his face. And you laugh more often, too. It's still sporadic, rarely unrestrained, but the sound no longer catches Qifrey by surprise.

The headaches are worse, some days. The silverwood continues to grow in silence, patient as rot spreading beneath bark. And yet when Qifrey recalls the old myths—tales of men who cast aside kingdoms, futures, entire worlds, all for the taste of a single fruit beyond compare—he thinks he understands them now. Never has he been so glad to grow accustomed to something so sweet.

And if there is anywhere in this world, anywhere at all, that Qifrey would choose to put down his roots, it would be here—in this quiet atelier he calls home, beneath the open sky, and the sound of your laugh still ringing inside it.

Qifrey hears the pegasus carriage before he sees it.

He's in the kitchen preparing lunch when the rush of distant wings cuts across the quiet of the Downs. It's not a common sound out here; very little ever flies this far across the peninsula except for the occasional courier and migrating ash-mottled dragons. Qifrey pauses with his knife hovering over some vegetables, half-chopped, before setting it aside, wiping his hands absently on a dishcloth.

The sound grows louder then abruptly fades, followed by muffled whinnying. Qifrey frowns. He crosses the atelier and pulls open the front door, squinting against the late afternoon sun, only to see—

"Olruggio!? What are you doing here?"

The man in question looks exhausted. His travelling cloak hangs crookedly from one shoulder, wrinkled from travel and pinned askew. There are several overstuffed bags—crammed to the seams with all sorts of magical trinkets and inventions, no doubt—abandoned by his feet next to the carriage platform. He drags a hand through his already disastrous hair, one eye twitching faintly in a manner Qifrey is all too familiar with.

"'What are you doing here', he says," Olruggio grumbles with a shake of his head. The pegasi whinny impatiently behind him, stamping their hooves in the grass. "I pack my entire life into suitcases, fly halfway across the peninsula by pegasus carriage to get here and this is the kind of welcome I get—"

Qifrey sputters, scrambling for something resembling a coherent response. He still hasn't the faintest idea what Olruggio is doing on his doorstep. "I—I mean, how was I supposed to know you were coming—"

Olruggio raises a dark brow.

"I suppose you don't know that I've been assigned as Watchful Eye to your atelier either?"

This time, Qifrey can truly do nothing but stare. Surely he's misheard. But the pegasus carriage, the luggage piled beside it, Olruggio himself standing here on his doorstep, arms folded across his chest—all of it says otherwise.

"The Council assigned you as my Watchful Eye?"

"Yes, and you'd know that already if you actually took the time to go through your correspondence—"

"You know I don't read most of the Council's letters!"

"And whose fault is that, exactly—oomf!"

Qifrey throws his arms around Olruggio before he can finish the sentence. Olruggio staggers back a step—words cutting off abruptly as Qifrey buries his face in his shoulder, taken by surprise—but only for a moment. Then strong arms close around Qifrey in return, tightening instinctively, drawing him into the safety of their embrace.

Beneath the scent of wind and travel dust, Olruggio smells of pine and woodsmoke. It's strange—Qifrey had almost forgotten what it felt like to stand this close to him again; how easily Olruggio's warmth still manages to disarm him, like some long-held vice he'd nearly convinced himself he no longer carried.

He's happy. There are too many emotions within him, sharp and tangled and colliding and overwhelming, but Qifrey chooses to focus on only one in this moment. He's so happy it hurts.

Eventually they part; Qifrey forces himself to pull away first, though his fingertips linger for a moment against Olruggio's arm, reluctant to surrender this closeness so soon after just getting it back. He's just about to open his mouth again when Olruggio's attention suddenly shifts over his shoulder, and his entire posture seems to stiffen at once.

Qifrey frowns faintly. He traces Olruggio's line of sight with his own, only to see you—standing in the doorway, staring openly at Olruggio. The brushbuddy hanging from your shoulder lets out a small, curious "pweee", before it wriggles free and plops onto the floorboards next to your feet. It circles your ankles once and scampers off into the atelier a second later, apparently deciding this situation no longer concerns it.

"Apprentice." Suddenly, absurdly, for no reason at all, Qifrey feels as though he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. He pretends not to notice the faint heat still clinging to his cheeks, stepping aside slightly so you can see past him as he gestures you closer. "This is Olruggio, the new Watchful Eye for our atelier. He's a dear friend of mine—we were apprentices at the Great Hall together."

You make no move to shift from the doorway. Behind him, Olruggio coughs awkwardly into his fist.

"Uhm. Hello."

You continue to stare at him in complete silence.

Olruggio's hand lowers slowly. "…Right," he says, after a beat. "Tough crowd."

Qifrey lets out a quiet huff. Normally, he's accommodating of your reticence, fond of it, even, but this is beginning to border on plain unfriendliness. "Apprentice," he reminds you gently. "It's rude not to greet people when they introduce themselves. I taught you manners, didn't I?"

Your gaze flickers toward him before it returns, reluctantly, to Olruggio.

"…Mr. Olruggio," you say, after a long pause.

Olruggio looks painfully out of his depth, mouth twisting uncomfortably as though he's not sure which shape best to put it in. "That's too formal," he mutters, in that brusque tone he always seems to default to whenever he's feeling awkward. His hand rubs over the back of his neck. "Look, you can just call me Olruggio, y'know. I'm not really one for all that honorific stuff."

"Mr. Olruggio," you repeat.

Qifrey presses his lips together, trying his best not to laugh despite the situation. Olruggio points accusingly at him, clearly flustered.

"Don't encourage this!"

He holds up both hands. "I'm not encouraging anything."

You stare between them for another long moment, expression unreadable as ever, before your gaze settles back on Qifrey. "Then, if there's nothing else, I'll go back to my room and finish my readings on recursive spells, Master."

Before either of them can respond, you turn and disappear back into the atelier. They watch you in silence until you're out of sight, footsteps fading up the stairs before Olruggio sighs heavily.

"I think they dislike me."

"Nonsense," Qifrey responds half-heartedly, still staring at the bannister. "They're just… well, shy. Besides, you're the most kindhearted person I know. There's no reason for them to dislike you."

Olruggio chokes on air. Qifrey glances over, frowning. "What?"

"Nothing." Olruggio coughs roughly, dragging a hand over his face before he meets Qifrey's eyes again. There's a faint flush dusting his neck, just visible beneath the rumpled collar of his shirt. "I just—ya sure you're alright with this? Your apprentice clearly isn't thrilled about me showing up out of nowhere."

"They're wary of strangers." Qifrey looks back at the hallway. He wonders if you're struggling with the idea of suddenly having to share the atelier with someone new. "I'm sure they'll warm up to you eventually."

"You know what? I'm not sure I believe you." Olruggio grunts as he stoops to gather his bags. Qifrey just laughs, putting a hand on Olruggio's shoulder to steer him towards the atelier door.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get you settled in."

After showing Olruggio to the atelier's side wing—the rooms he'd cleared out weeks ago in anticipation of the Watchful Eye's arrival—Qifrey returns to the kitchen. The vegetables still sit halfway peeled and chopped on the counter, knife exactly where he abandoned it earlier, but he finds himself oddly distracted now. Part of him still can hardly believe it's Olruggio, of all people. Fate has always possessed a strange, if somewhat twisted, sense of humour.

It's too late for lunch and still too early for dinner, but Qifrey busies himself tidying the counter for the sake of occupying his hands. This won't be enough, not when there's three to cook for, now. He's halfway through setting the vegetables aside when he suddenly notices you lingering in the doorway like a ghost.

Qifrey fumbles and nearly drops the carrot in the sink. "Apprentice."

"I finished my readings." There's a brief pause before you step properly into the kitchen, bare feet nearly soundless on the flagstones as they pad across the room. You hover by the table first, fiddling absently with his half-finished teacup, then linger near the pantry shelves before finally drifting over to the far end of the counter. Qifrey keeps you in the corner of his eye as he retrieves two more carapace yams and some onions from under the sink, watching your eyes move cautiously around the room.

"Is he gone?"

Qifrey picks up the knife again. "Olruggio's unpacking his things in the side wing. He'll be staying with us for the foreseeable future, as the atelier's Watchful Eye."

Your eyes flick briefly to the side, shoulders tightening a fraction. The corner of your mouth dips ever so slightly—subtle enough that most would never have perceived the shift in your expression. Qifrey does.

"Olruggio's a good samaritan at heart," he says, deliberately keeping his voice light as he resumes cutting the vegetables. "I've known him for years. He's not going to do anything to you."

"I didn't think that."

"Then what's wrong?"

You're silent for a while.

"Nothing," you say, eventually. "I just don't know him."

"You'll get to," Qifrey promises. "He's not so bad, once you get past the grumbling."

"Master sounds fond of him."

Qifrey's hands falter. You are merely making an observation; yet for some reason your words leave him feeling uncomfortably exposed—as though they have reached into a locked box tucked away in some dark corner of his heart and dragged it into the light, intruded upon something even he rarely allows himself to examine. He tries to think of a suitable response but comes up empty; anything honest feels too stripping to confess aloud, yet anything less feels woefully inadequate—a disservice to all that Olruggio means to him.

"He's a very dear friend to me," is what he says, eventually.

The conversation lapses into quiet after that. Qifrey finishes chopping the carrots into rough cubes before moving on to peeling the yams. The knife works steadily beneath his hand, rising and falling to strip away their tough outer layers to reveal the pale tuber flesh within. Beside him, the weight of your gaze follows—every shift and movement of his hands as he works.

And then—

"Can I help?"

That catches Qifrey off guard. He has to pause to make certain he's heard you correctly. "You want to cook with me?"

You hesitate for a moment before nodding. Surprise, warm and pleasant, flickers through him like the afternoon sunlight spilling in from the window. He shifts aside to make room for you at the counter. In all the time you've been a student in his atelier, you've never shown even the slightest interest in cooking. And more often than not, you neglect your own meals entirely unless he places food directly into your hands—a poor habit that seems to have carried over from your early years of living on Havso's streets. It's something Qifrey has yet to successfully change.

He hands you the knife. You hold it awkwardly at first, grip uncertain as you lower the sharp edge to the yam. Qifrey hurries to stop you before you can nick your fingers.

"No, no. Like this." Qifrey steps in behind you, gently adjusting your hand around the handle. "Careful. Keep the fingers of your other hand tucked inward, always resting against the flat of the blade." He guides your knuckles into place over the yam. "Just like that. That way, you'll never cut yourself."

You remain still for a moment. Then your fingers curl slowly beneath his, obediently taking on the shape he guides them into.

"Very good." The praise comes naturally. It's as if he is simply teaching you another spell—you've always been a diligent student, and it is easy to praise you. For a second Qifrey is reminded of a moment much like this one, though far longer ago—of the first time he'd placed a wand into your grasp and held his hand, guiding you carefully through lines and circles. Your fingers had been almost entirely swallowed by his own, back then. But now, they curl easily against his palm, and when he leans over you like this, your shoulders brush closer to his chest than he remembers.

"Master?"

Qifrey startles. He hadn't realised he'd gone still. He looks down just as you look up—eyes bright and intelligent and touched with the faintest trace of concern, as though trying to decipher where his thoughts have wandered.

"I just—I was just thinking about something," Qifrey fumbles to say, quickly smoothing it over with a smile. He starts to pull away just as you bring the knife down hard against the cutting board, and the sound startles him into grabbing your hands again on instinct. "Not so hard! You'll cut a finger off."

"…Sorry."

"No, no, don't apologise." The fault is his—it's your first time using a knife, and just because you're good at drawing spells doesn't mean you will instinctively know how to cut and slice. He guides your hands through the motions again, patiently correcting the angle of the blade, and soon enough you pick it up with the same speed you seem to do everything else. Eventually Qifrey leaves you to slowly cube the yams on your own, while he moves on to peel the remaining vegetables in the sink.

For a short time, only the soft rhythm of chopping fills the kitchen. Then, Qifrey asks, idly. "Should we invite him over for dinner?"

You don't look up from the cutting board. "I think Master should give Mr. Olruggio some time to settle in."

Qifrey blinks once before deciding you're probably right.

"That's true," he concedes. I'll bring him some food later, then."

He does just that a few hours later, after you've helped with the dishes and retreated back to the solitude of your room—to further practice magic, no doubt. Qifrey ladles a portion of the leftover stew carefully onto a tray, alongside a fork and spoon—because he knows Olruggio well enough to suspect he's neglected to pack a single item required for actual daily living—and covers everything with a cloth to keep it warm. The bridge connecting to the side wing is only a short walk, and it isn't long before Qifrey is standing outside, knocking on Olruggio's door.

Olruggio answers looking mildly disastrous, soot smeared across one cheek. "One of my warming devices exploded while I was unpacking earlier," he mutters in explanation before Qifrey can even ask. Olruggio looks exhausted—he must be tired from the long travel, the unpacking—but his expression softens ever so slightly when he sees the tray in Qifrey's hands. "You cooked."

"Knew you wouldn't have remembered to eat, otherwise." Qifrey steps inside as Olruggio holds the door wider, setting the tray down on a stool—the small table near the window has almost vanished entirely beneath piles of oddly-shaped knick-knacks and loose papers. "Cream stew with roasted yams. My apprentice helped."

Olruggio raises an eyebrow. "They did?"

"Yeah."

"You sure it isn't poisoned?"

Qifrey snorts softly when his friend reaches for the spoon, anyway. He watches Olruggio scoop up a generous helping of stew, thick and creamy and dribbling over the side, only blowing over it once before he shoves it impatiently into his mouth. Olruggio practically moans.

"You shouldn't have become a witch," Olruggio mumbles around the spoon between his teeth. "You should have become a cook in some castle somewhere. You would've been loaded."

"Don't be ridiculous."

The two of them end up sitting on the floor while Olruggio decimates the stew with barely any pause between bites. The bowl's nearly empty by the time Qifrey notices the yam pieces gathered at the bottom—his neat cubes sitting amidst uneven, slightly misshapen chunks. His line of mouth softens, fond, even before he realises it.

When he looks up again, Qifrey finds Olruggio's eyes on him, over the rim of his spoon. "What are you looking at?"

"Nothing, just—" Olruggio huffs softly through his nose, expression gentling in the low light. "You really adore your apprentice, don't you?"

Qifrey's mouth parts. Of course I do, he wants to say. They're my apprentice. Any master would. The words ruminate, strangely defensive on his tongue all of a sudden, but in the end, all that comes out is only a simple, quiet:

"…Yeah."

Olruggio's face cracks into one of those rare smiles. The sight makes Qifrey's chest ache faintly.

"I'm glad."

Qifrey blinks. "Why?"

"I dunno." Olruggio leans back slightly, one hand braced against the floor while the other rolls the spoon, licked clean, between his fingers. "You just… you stopped contacting me for a while, after the Tower of Tomes. I thought it was because you were giving up on searching for your past, so—" He blows out a breath, dark hair on his brow stirring faintly. "So I tried to give you your space, but you never really reached out after. I was… I guess I was just worried about you, this entire time." He shrugs, cut-sapphire eyes softening to a summer-sky hue. "But seeing you like this—an atelier of your own, an apprentice who's clearly territorial over you, by the way—you're doing far better than I'd hoped. I'm happy for you."

Qifrey's throat closes. He glances down at the tray sitting between them, feels flayed open by Olruggio's gaze, his unbearable kindness. Olruggio is so coarse with his words and yet tenderness spills out of him regardless—his actions, his spells, in everything he does and considers.

Qifrey had run from it. After Olruggio had excised his own memories, Qifrey could no longer bear to look his friend in the eye—could not bear the constant reminder of what Olruggio had chosen to sacrifice in his stead, nor the agonising knowledge of knowing he would never be able to confess. The separation had brought him comfort, for a while—enough solace for the silverwood buried inside him to begin growing once more, forcing him to take on an apprentice.

But perhaps that brief period of selfish respite had been enough. It has to be. Qifrey cannot run forever, and at the very least, being near Olruggio once again means the silverwood in him will halt its growth once more.

Thank you, I'm sorry, Qifrey doesn't say. Instead, he swallows the words thick in his throat, and smiles.

He finds you one afternoon as ordinary as any other. It's raining when he reaches the port town of Havso—a steady patter that turns the cobblestones slick and darkens the wood of every dock and doorway. For all the precision Qifrey has honed over water, getting wet remains an irritation he's never quite outgrown, and the sound of rain prickles at his awareness like a thousand fine needles, impossible to ignore. He hurries through the narrow streets, searching the shops—for a new cast iron pot to replace the one that had cracked last week, some twine for binding dried herbs, other small sundries—when he sees you.

The canvas awning you're huddled beneath is doing almost nothing at all—not to protect you from the cold spring rain, or from the sharp, biting winds sweeping in from the coast. Water drips steadily from the hem of your smock, your hair plastered in wet strings to your narrow cheeks. Despite this, you don't move.

Qifrey doesn't mean to stop. But he does.

You look up when his shadow falls over you. He takes the edge of his cloak, the water dispelling spell inked discretely beneath its hem, and sweeps it in a gentle arc above your head. The rain above you curves away. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, your gaze tracing the water trickling off the air as though sliding off an invisible dome, before you look back at him again.

"I don't like getting wet," Qifrey says, in manner of explanation.

You simply stare. For a moment, Qifrey wonders if you speak the common tongue at all—it's not uncommon for sailors from foreign kingdoms to abandon unwanted children in port towns like this—or if you're simply mute.

"You're soaked," he tries again, more gently this time. "Do you have anywhere to go?"

Silence stretches in the space between each of his heartbeats. The rain patters, fingertips dancing along the boundary he's drawn. Then, you shake your head.

So you do understand him. Qifrey should have guessed—children like you are a dime a dozen here, orphans, strays, the overlooked and unclaimed. No one would notice if one or more vanished from the edges of the docks.

Convenient, a colder part of him supplies. You are old enough to comprehend, young enough to be malleable, and compared to an apprentice born into a family of witches, you won't know enough of magic—and by extension, the silverwood—to ask questions that he doesn't want or know how to explain.

He takes you in.

The first few weeks are easier than he expects. You come to him with no poor habits to unlearn—no stubborn rune-drawing tendencies, no theoretical 'shortcuts' circulated by some of the lazier professors in the Great Hall. Teaching you is like working on a blank sheet of parchment. You simply watch what he does and try to do the same. And when you fail—which is often—you do not seem to be affected or frustrated. You simply do it again.

The only real issue is that you have never learned to write. Qifrey watches your hand wobble across the parchment—leaving dark splotches in some places, lines breaking off in others. Your fingers wrap around the ink wand like a stick you've picked off the ground, all knuckles and no finesse.

Qifrey lets out a quiet sigh.

"Your grip is wrong."

You look up at him, uncomprehending. Qifrey sighs again and hesitates, just briefly, before he steps closer and leans down. His hand slides over your fingers, carefully adjusting each one until the wand rests properly between them, the tip hovering just above the parchment.

"Like that."

The moment he releases you, however, your grip tightens again reflexively. The wood of the ink wand creaks faintly in protest. He quickly takes your hand again.

"Gently," he murmurs. "Like holding a robin's egg."

Qifrey guides your hand across the parchment. A straight line. A square. A circle. Your hand relaxes under his, just a little.

"Just like that," he says, and lets go. You look at the ink wand in your hand. "Now, try again."

You practice until the sun goes down.

He teaches you the basics. The three basic components that make up every spell, the five elemental sigils for fire, wind, water, earth and light. The keystones that govern a spell's direction and strength and purpose, how the sizes of the rings can affect its range and potency. Everything he says, you memorise. And everything he teaches you, you practice until you can reproduce it by heart.

After only about a few months of training, Qifrey dares to say that you've reached the standard that most witches your age who've grown up around magic would be at. The rate at which you're learning is… unexpected, to say the least. He should be pleased. Any decent teacher would be.

Qifrey tells himself this as he watches you inscribe a heating spell along the belly of a copper kettle. It's a reasonably complex problem for a beginner—the spell must conjure heat but not fire, be stable enough to maintain an even boil, hot enough to warm but not so fierce as to warp or melt the metal. It's a careful balance of precision and power that tends to elude most newcomers to spellcasting.

You hand him the kettle when you finish. Qifrey pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and lifts it up to his good eye, turning it slightly in the flickering light coming from the fireplace. The dispersion keystones are neatly drawn, arranged around the central fire sigil in two concentric circles. The limiting keystones sit where they should, too—balanced on either side, ready to dampen the spell the moment the heat climbs too high.

"Good," Qifrey says at last. The word feels thinner than it should be. He lingers a moment longer than necessary, as if searching for some flaw to justify a correction, but finds none. "We'll be able to use this to brew tea in the mornings, now."

You nod once at his assessment from where you're watching him by the kitchen table, then ask, "What next?"

There is no flicker of pride. No satisfaction in your work, no pause to take in what you've done. Just a simple what next, as if each perfected spell is nothing more than a marker on a long road you don't care much to tread on.

The first thin root of worry pushes through the soil of his chest.

Qifrey tries to keep his distance at first. He really does. A master-apprentice relationship only needs to go so deep for one to learn and the other to worry, and too much closeness would be counterproductive in his attempts to keep the silverwood at bay. He buys you all sorts of magical books and supplies you with wands and ink when you need it. He cooks, too, warm and filling meals that nourish the body and are rich in nutrients, until the hollowness in your cheeks softens, replaced by a healthier, rounded plumpness. He corrects your glyphs when he spots mistakes and guides your hand when your lines falter. It barely assauges the guilt in his chest.

You don't make it easier for him. Through no fault of your own, he knows, and yet somehow, that only makes it worse. You don't seek him out for any needs outside of your magic studies, never ask for anything, and eat exactly what he puts in front of you without comment. You wake up at dawn to start the tea kettle, and from there you start practicing magic without ceasing until he has to firmly tell you to go to bed.

There are no tantrums, no complaints, no childish demands for attention or affection. Surely, even children must have their preferences. Trinkets they like, foods they refuse to eat. But you are quiet and serious and wrong in a way that he cannot name, and Qifrey finds himself watching you much the same way Beldaruit had once watched him.

"You don't have to keep doing that," he tells you one evening. You're hunched over the kitchen with a half-empty cup of water, the parchment in front of you crowded with dozens of identical glyphs. The fire sigil that you'd just traced over in water glistens for a moment, then fades as the parchment slowly dries. You must have drawn the same glyph at least a hundred times now.

You don't look up, dipping your wand in water again. "My circles aren't perfectly round yet."

"You don't have to master everything in a single day. You could take a break."

"Why?"

Qifrey doesn't have an answer for that. Or rather, it's perhaps that he has too many. Because you look tired but refuse to admit it. Because your hands will cramp if you keep going. Because watching you work yourself into the ground makes me feel something too similar to what I used to feel for Olruggio, and that scares me.

"It was only a suggestion."

You consider it for a moment, and then turn back to your parchment. Qifrey sighs, pushing aside his robes to lower himself into the chair across from you.

"Do you have any reason for learning magic?"

You rotate your wrist once in the air before setting the wand's nib to parchment. "You asked me to."

"That's my reason, not yours."

"It's the only one I have."

Qifrey watches your hand move across the paper, and something in his chest tightens. This arrangement is supposed to be simple—selfish, yes, but simple. You are supposed to ask things of him, to need him in small, manageable ways that keep him worried just enough about your progress and studies without causing him too much concern. You have done exactly just that.

And yet here he is, worrying about you constantly for a completely different reason.

He thinks of Beldaruit's gentle gaze, the soft curl of smoke illusions coaxed into being on nights when sleep proved treacherous, when the memories of darkness and rain pounding unceasingly against metal and claustrophobia set in. He remembers Olruggio's warm smile and even warmer eyes, the ribbon on his hat that Qifrey still touches sometimes in the dark, tracing the multiple preservation sigils he's inked onto the silk.

His reminder to never forget, to never grow complacent.

"Take a break," he says again, and this time, there's something in his voice that makes you stop.

You look at him for a long moment, head tilting slightly to the side. It reminds Qifrey vaguely of a sparrow. Finally, you speak.

"You're worried," you say, as though you're making an observation. Qifrey forces a smile.

"I'm your master. It's what I'm supposed to do."

You glance down at your parchment once more. For a moment he thinks you might refuse, ignore his words and go right back to practicing, but then you set your wand down next to the paper and push your chair back, legs scraping along the slate flagstones.

"I'll continue tomorrow," you announce, without looking at him.

"Good," he says in response, and the two of you sit in silence at the kitchen table, undisturbed except for the crackling of the fireplace, and Qifrey has to remember how to breathe without counting the spaces between each one.

Hearthglen Village is about a few furlongs from the atelier, more often than not in need of small, persistent fixes, and thusly, the ideal place for you to practice using magic after passing the Pentacle of Proving's second test. Qifrey walks beside you through the small handful of thatched cottages scattered through the patchwork quilt of farmfields, returning the villagers' greetings with easy familiarity. It's always good to maintain good relations with the unknowing, especially those living nearby.

Eventually, the two of you arrive in front of the client who'd requested Qifrey's services. The problem is simple: a farmer's irrigation ditch has gone haywire somehow, and now his turnips are drowning in mud. Qifrey could fix it alone in ten minutes, but that isn't the point. He nods towards the field, giving you an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Go on."

You hesitate only for a moment before you go, hovering tentatively over the knee deep muck with your sylph shoes as you float out to the irrigation ditch. Your expression is reminiscent of a wet cat's—vaguely displeased, faintly affronted, as though the world has committed a personal offense by being this unpleasant. Qifrey has to hold back a smile.

In the meantime, Qifrey chats with the farmer as you work—something about the summer heat this year, the stubbornness of the soil—but he makes sure to never let you slip from his sights. You're already at the ditch, hat bobbing as you hover over the mud. He can almost picture your hand beneath the shelter of your cloak: fingers wrapped around the wand, drawing those precise lines that you've practiced over and over again with unswerving confidence.

He's listening to a rundown of this year's cabbage harvest when a faint rumble echoes across the field. The earth shifts, groaning as though rousing from a long slumber, and then the water starts to move. Mud loosens and starts to drain from the fields, revealing the green leaves of the turnips peeking out through the soil once more. It's quickly replaced by a steady stream of clear water.

The farmer's face brightens with relief. He claps his hands together with a delighted laugh, already turning to call out his thanks as you drift back over to the solid ground of the path, the hem of your cloak splattered with drying mud. You don't smile back; instead you wipe the faint sheen of sweat from your brow and look to Qifrey for approval.

He pushes his glasses up and nods once. "Well done."

You accept his verdict the same way you accept everything else—quietly, without visible pride or disappointment. The farmer tries to press a basket overflowing with all variety of squash into your hands and your eyes find Qifrey's like you aren't sure what to do with gratitude. He takes it for you.

"They're a natural," the farmer nudges Qifrey as he moves to leave. "Where'd you find a talent like that?" Despite the surge of pride that races through him, he hesitates.

"They found me," Qifrey says, instead.

More villagers request your help over the course of the afternoon. A family's goat wandered into a small ravine, a child's kite got stuck in a tree. You lift the frantically bleating animal to safety with a levitating spell, and coax the wind into tugging the kite loose from an elm's tangled branches while the village children gather to watch you work with eyes full of wonder. The girl bounces on her heels as the toy finally drifts down into your waiting hand, and you hand it over without a smile.

She hugs your legs anyway. You stand there awkwardly, arms glued to your sides, and Qifrey has to look away before he laughs.

Hours later, after the last request has been fulfilled and the sun is low enough to turn the clouds a warm ombre-ochre, you and Qifrey decide to walk home, the path stretching before you like a pale ribbon through the fields. You walk next to him in silence, as you always do, fingers stained with smudges of black ink and clay soil.

"You did well today," he says.

"Thank you."

"But."

You glance at him then. Just a slight flicker of the eyes, darting sideways and upwards. You've learned, by now, that your master is far from straightforward around topics that are necessary but difficult to broach.

"But?"

"But magic doesn't seem to make you happy," he finishes.

You neither deny nor confirm it. Your steps just slow slightly against the gravel scattered on the path, stones crunching beneath the soles of your boots. For a while, there is only the sound of the wind moving through the wheat fields.

Eventually, you speak.

"Does it have to?"

Qifrey thinks about that. About the way you've perfected every spell he's taught you but never once asked to learn any out of your own desire. About how you can spend hours, days, drawing circles and lines over and over again simply because he tells you to. About how quickly you've become good at magic—and how little of it seems to belong to you.

"It doesn't have to," Qifrey says, at last. He's cast all sorts of magic in his life, spells that have burned and hollowed, ones that have scarred and pained him beyond what any physical wound can. Not all of it was joy. Not all of it was kind.

Yet.

"But you should find a reason. To desire magic, I mean."

You glance at him, eyes briefly searching, as though weighing the shape of his words, their meaning. He licks his lips, suddenly dry.

"Magic is meant to grant wishes of the people," he says, more gently now. "To bless them. That includes yourself." His lips press together, smile half-formed before faltering, and the wind moves through the fields, rustling restlessly through the long grass. "I—I hope you can learn magic not because I tell you to, but because you want to."

The last sentence escapes him in a rush, as though forced from his lungs with some sort of wind dispelling spell. The thought settles heavy in his chest again, the silverwood shuddering. For all his care—for all the effort he's poured into teaching you properly, responsibly—one truth remains unchanged: Qifrey had taken you in because he needed an apprentice. Not out of kindness. Not out of any noble intent he can comfortably name.

He doesn't know what he would say if you ever asked him why. Any lie would feel too great a disservice to the one person he'd thrust this fate upon, and the truth feels brittle, insufficient—something that would fracture the moment he speaks it aloud.

But you never have. Sometimes, he suspects that you already know.

The remainder of the walk back passes in silence. The sky fades from sienna to lavender before deepening to a dark indigo. One by one, the first stars emerge at the very top of the firmament, their light faint and trembling. You say nothing, and Qifrey tells himself to give you time—you need space to process things, and pressuring you would only make you retreat further into yourself, like a snail hiding in its own shell.

The atelier comes into view at the end of the lane, its windows dark. Qifrey steps ahead, undoing the sealing glyphs on the door. It swings open with a soft creak, and he pauses, holding it ajar for you to step through.

You don't.

He turns back to see you standing a step behind the threshold, gaze lowered to the path at your feet, as though something he cannot see there has snared your attention and taken it captive. Qifrey frowns, head tilting.

"Apprentice?"

You don't answer immediately, hands in your pockets, the tip of your boot scuffing the ground. Then, quietly—

"I want to cure Master."

For a moment, Qifrey forgets how to breathe. He can only stare at you, mouth slightly parted. The words fail to catch despite him having nothing to say. Your voice had been small, careful—like you'd been turning the words over in your mouth for miles, smoothing their edges so they wouldn't cut your tongue on the way out. Of all the things he'd imagined you might say, this had never even been within his considerations.

He grips the door handle a little more firmly for support. The brass carvings bite its patterns into his skin of his palm.

"Cure me," he repeats, dumbly.

"Yes." You nod, the movement slow, as if hesitant in your admission. "The headaches that you try to hide from me. And your right eye, too," you add, pointing at the side of his face covered by his hair, as if he might not know the one. "You touch it when you think I'm not watching, but it seems like it hurts."

Qifrey didn't realise you'd noticed. He thought he'd been careful.

"I thought I asked you," he says, more quietly, more unsteadily now, "to want something for yourself."

"I don't like seeing Master in pain."

Qifrey’s grip on the door falters. Something tightens in his chest—perhaps the silverwood, perhaps something else, so sharp it cuts him open like a blade, and yet he doesn't know whether he wants to let go. For so long, he's been waiting—for you to want something, to reach beyond instruction, to claim even the smallest piece of magic for your own.

And you have.

Qifrey exhales slowly, the sound thin against the quiet of the evening. For once, there is no ready answer waiting behind his teeth. He thinks of Olruggio's face, the path to salvation he'd offered Qifrey paved with the pieces of his own memory. He thinks of the tree growing inside of him, its roots tangled in his ribs, its branches seeking the sun through where his eye once used to be.

Healing magic is a direct alteration of the body, and every form of body alteration is forbidden—banned on the Day of the Pact, enforced by the Knights Moralis with iron and fire. And even if it wasn't, the silverwood is not merely an illness. There is no cure for what grows inside of him.

But you don't know any of that.

So Qifrey smiles softly. Releases his death grip on the door, pulling away to rest a hand on top of your head, the same way Beldaruit used to do for him.

"That's very kind of you," he says.

Your expression doesn't change, but the tautness in your shoulders loosens just a fraction, as if you'd been bracing for him to laugh at you, to dismiss your dream as a fool's flight and fancy. Instead, he pushes the door open wider and gestures you inside.

"Come on," Qifrey tells you, swallowing the sudden thickness lodged in his throat. "Wash up. I'll make squash stew for dinner."

You nod and disappear up the steps to the second floor. Your footsteps fade quickly, and soon Qifrey's ears pick up the sound of running water, of the bath being filled.

He remains in the doorway a moment longer, one hand braced against the frame, the other lifting—almost unconsciously—to brush over where his right eye used to be, featherlight. The motion is familiar, thoughtless. Almost habitual.

But he's been exposed, now. A deprecating laugh escapes him, the wisps of it slipping between his teeth. It's only now, Qifrey thinks, that he's beginning to realise just how foolish he'd been.

He's fallen into the pit that he'd dug with his own two hands.

Sleep eludes Qifrey that night.

He lies on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, the other resting on his chest. Beneath skin and bone, the cage of his ribs, the silverwood pulses its slow, patient rhythm, waiting. The ceiling above him is indistinguishable in the dark, but he's stared at it so many sleepless nights that he can recall to memory the grain of every plank, the small water stain in the corner that faintly resembles a bird in flight.

Just above him, in the room upstairs, you are sleeping soundly—or he hopes so, at least. Belly full of squash stew, dreaming of pleasant things. That you are warm and resting, and that, for once, you are not pushing yourself past the point of sense simply because he asked it of you.

I want to cure Master.

Qifrey turns onto his side, facing the wall. His pillowcase smells faintly of lavender—scented sachets you'd made last week, making use of some aromatics a village herbalist had given you for your help. He'd accepted one when you'd offered it, almost without thinking, assuming that it was thoughtful but practical gesture.

Now, the scent lingers like smoke.

Beldaruit used to say that the best apprentices were the ones who could surprise you. Qifrey always assumed he meant talent, insight, some brilliant intuition that no one else could replicate. Someone who could make teachers lean forward in their seats and think, that's the one.

But here, lying in his bed, your words from hours ago still sitting warm in his chest, he wonders if the old man had meant something else entirely.

Qifrey pushes out a breath, the tip of his tongue pressing behind his teeth. You will learn about the forbidden magic, eventually. Every witch does—and as your master, it will be his responsibility to teach you about it. Some things are too dangerous. Some lines cannot be crossed. All magic that is drawn on the human body or affects the human body is outlawed.

And that includes healing magic.

You will learn that, and then you will not ask too many questions about why his eye cannot be fixed. Eventually, you will move on and find another, better wish.

But for now, Qifrey takes your words and folds them carefully, tucking them away into the furthest corner of his heart where the silverwood cannot reach. He closes his one good eye and waits for the sun to rise once again. And when it does, Qifrey will greet you in the kitchen downstairs with a cup of hot tea and a smile, he will teach you combination sigils and binding spells, and he will never bring it up again.

Because some wishes are too heavy to be said aloud, and some teachers are too selfish to let them go.

Summer slips unnoticed into autumn, and autumn, in turn, yields to winter. Qifrey teaches you to crochet, then to knit—awkward at first, fingers too stiff around the slumbersheep yarn until Qifrey takes your hands and guides you through the movements, much in the same way he does when teaching you spells. He shows you how to tend to the heating spells that keep the house warm without burning it down, how to summon precise gusts of wind to blow snow off the atelier's sloping roofs. And the months pass just as the weather changes—gradual, inevitable, marked only in hindsight by the shift in the air, the thinning of light.

And as you grow older, Qifrey finds the distance he once tried so carefully to maintain eroded by the same unrelenting tide. Bit by bit, day by day—until one morning he wakes up and realises he cannot quite remember what it feels like to not have you there.

It's not something that changes overnight. Instead, it is a thousand small, mundane things—the way his hand moves without thinking to drop two cubes of sugar into your teacup, the copper kettle with your heating spell whistling behind him on the stove. You're at the basin with your sleeves rolled up to your elbows, washing a skillet faintly smelling of bacon while a brushbuddy dozes on your shoulder. Everything is good, and everything is warm.

This is dangerous, Qifrey thinks. And then he thinks it again, because the first time hadn't been enough to make him stop.

The morning he's forced to confront it comes without warning. Quietly, unassumingly, a thief in the night.

Qifrey notices that something is different the moment he steps into the quiet of the kitchen. The kettle is cold, and the matching cups that a travelling potter had made for you sit upturned on the counter, untouched from where you'd set them aside to dry last night. He stands in the doorway for a moment, listening. The atelier breathes around him like an extension of his own body—the soft creak of timber settling, the low whisper of wind along the eaves—but beneath it, nothing. No quiet patter of footsteps in the floor upstairs. No water running in the washroom.

Perhaps you're sleeping in, he tells himself. The idea is almost pleasant. You never do; you're always awake before him, tea already steeped, moving around the kitchen to prepare breakfast—presence slipped so easily into his morning routine that he'd stopped noticing it altogether.

Qifrey sets the kettle to heat, before rummaging for the battered tin of tea leaves in the overhead shelf. He prepares a cup for you, placing it at the chair that has become yours in all but name, and sits across it with his own. The brew's a little more astringent than he's used to—steeped a touch too long, perhaps—but he drinks it anyway, idly sorting through the neglected stack of mail from the council.

The sun climbs higher in the sky. Light spills through the kitchen window, between the gap in the curtains, inching slowly across the table to catch on the rim of your untouched cup. Qifrey looks through the latest spell you've been working on: an attempt at replicating his Palm Dragon Teacup. He makes small suggestions in the margins, noting down more efficient arrangements and combinations of keystones, ideas for refining its precision. Still, it's good work. Your work is always good.

More time passes. He finally completes drafting a letter to the Great Hall—something about independent ateliers and watchful eyes—and sends it off before picking up a book about complex fire spells. Qifrey thumbs through the pages slowly, more out of idleness than focus, pausing every now and then when something catches his eye. A variation making use of the stabilising keystone. A more efficient heat-dispersal glyph. He dog-ears about six different pages with the intention of showing them to you later, when he looks up and realises that your tea has long gone cold.

Qifrey closes his book, sets it aside, and heads for the stairs.

Your bedroom door is closed.

That isn't surprising to Qifrey. You've always been a private person by nature, and you're even moreso protective of your few possessions, your personal space. Qifrey learned early on not to intrude without invitation or cause.

But your diversion from routine is… odd. Surely you will forgive his worry.

Qifrey hesitates, knuckles hovering over the wood of your door, before he knocks. "Apprentice?"

No answer.

He knocks again, a little sharper this time. "It's past noon. If you want to sleep in, just let me know, alright? You deserve the rest."

Still no answer.

The thin thread of unease tightens around his chest.

"I'm coming in."

The door swings open easily beneath his hand. The room that he steps into is familiar and empty. Your blankets are carefully folded at the foot of the bed, your traveling cloak absent from its hook by the window. And your sylph shoes, the ones that he'd helped you mend just last week, are missing from their place next to the dresser.

Qifrey stands in the center of the room, the air suddenly going very, very still. The silverwood in his chest trembles.

Calm down, he tells himself firmly. Your bed is made—your absence must be deliberate. There must be some sort of explanation. Perhaps you wanted a taste of mischief, to act your age for once. Perhaps you snuck out to one of the nearby villagers, Hearthglen or Azmar, to meet people, make friends. Be normal. You mentioned the daughter of Azmar's baker last week. He recalls a girl your age with flour on her apron who'd been fascinated with your magic. Perhaps you've gone to pay her a visit.

He turns slowly, forcing his gaze to move along with him. Your ink wands are in a little cup on your table, textbooks sitting in rows on the shelf where they belong. Encyclopedias, histories, grimoires he'd deemed safe for for your learning. Nothing out of place. He's about to leave the room, fetch a guidance orb just to make sure that you're alright, when—

Something small and furtive shifts between a gap in the books. The brushbuddy's tail twitches into view before it darts back into the narrow space behind, as though caught somewhere it shouldn't be.

Qifrey frowns.

He reaches up and pulls the entire front row of volumes aside, setting them down on the table with a heavy thump. Dust stirs in the air. Behind them sits another, shorter stack of books, tucked neatly out of sight. Aside from him, there isn't another occupant in this atelier for you to hide things from. Which means you meant to conceal this deliberately. From him.

Why?

Qifrey ignores the cold uncertainty in his chest, picking up the first book. Medical journal. Second. Herbal remedies of the Southern Continent. Third, an encyclopedia on human anatomy, although only the section on ophthalmology is bookmarked, annotated so densely that barely any margin is left untouched. The rest of the books are of a similar vein.

Only the last one is different—a notebook, worn pages filled with a cramped but script that he would recognise anywhere. The rest are filled with sketches—plants that even he doesn't recognise at first glance, roots and leaves and bulbs rendered with careful attention to detail. Analgesic properties. Toxic in high doses. Antispasmodic. Causes hallucinations.

He flips through more rapidly, pulse quickening, but the later pages only get worse.

Burn, left forearm. Applied tincture from ground monoceros horn and milkwort. Moderate pain reduction, mild nausea. Bruise, right knee. Poultice from steeped elderwood and nightpoppy. Significant pain relief, but results in complete loss of sensation and movement in area. Lasts three hours. Burn—

Qifrey's vision blurs. His other hand grips the edge of your chair, knuckles white, breath coming out sharp and shallow as he forces himself to breathe. You've been hurting yourself. On purpose. Testing remedies for… for—

He doesn't dare to let that thought complete itself. He turns the pages quickly, skimming past entries until he reaches the last one. The ink is smudged where the parchment presses together, as if you'd jotted it down and closed it in a hurry. It's still faintly wet.

There is a rough sketch of silvery stems and thin, needle-like leaves. Spineneedles, you've labelled them. Your notes crowd the margins: potent pain-relieving properties. Possible long-term restorative effects. Grows only in steep valleys inhabited by winged serpentines, venom necessary for germination. And below it—

Kestrel's Maw, eight furlongs north of atelier. Serpentines least active at dusk and dawn.

Qifrey feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. Outside the window, the sun hangs high in the cold winter sky, almost at its zenith—long past dawn, past any reasonable margin of safety. It's far too late. You should have been back hours ago. No, worse—you should have never gone at all, risking your life for such foolish, pointless endeavours. You should have been in this very room, sleeping soundly beneath the blankets, unharmed and safe and under Qifrey's protective eye. Instead—

He'd flown over Kestrel's Maw once, years ago. He still remembers the way the cliffs drop away into nothing, wind screaming through the narrow ravines, strong enough to throw even an experienced witch off balance. And the serpentines there are especially aggressive—great, winged creatures with beaks like drawn swords—nesting in the crevices where the spineneedles grow.

And that's where you've gone.

I'm responsible for this, Qifrey thinks numbly, and the words are a realisation as much as an accusation aimed at himself. I did this. I made you this way. I wanted someone to worry about, and now—

The image comes to him, unbidden: your body, broken at the base of the ravine. Impaled by sharp spikes at the bottom, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Cloak ripped and dark with blood, flesh torn from your bones by monstrous beaks. And your face—that quiet, serious, earnest face—pale, chest still, eyes open yet blank and vacant and unseeing and—

No.

No.

Qifrey runs. He doesn't think. He doesn't allow himself to. The door is too far—he shoves your shutters open and throws himself out of the second floor window, into the harsh midday sunlight. For a second, wind rushes up to meet him, flailing, falling—before the sylph seal beneath his feet flares. And then he's airborne, rising too fast but not fast enough, the wind tearing at his hair, the fragile control he's forcing himself to hold together.

Please, not them, is all he can think as he hurtles through the sky. Not my apprentice. Not them. I'll do anything. Please, please, please—

He doesn't know who he's begging, only that he'll beg anything, bargain everything—if it means that you're still alive when he arrives.

Even from a distance, the ravine makes for an unnerving sight. The karst pinnacles spear upwards as though they seek to pierce the sky, like the vicious teeth of some enormous, long-dead beast. Qifrey had forgotten how sharp they were, every edge honed to a hostile point. Even the light falls strangely, splintered by stone so that shadows fall where they shouldn't, fractured into shifting planes that make depth and distance difficult to judge.

He clears the plains beneath him with unmatched speed, wind tearing past him—

—and then, he sees you.

You're clinging to a narrow outcropping perhaps fifty feet below the cliff's edge, body pressed close to the rock wall as though trying to become one with it yourself. Your sylph shoes are missing from one foot, and there's a long rend in your cloak. You aren't moving—only holding on, just barely—feet perilously close to the edge of a fatal, yawning drop below.

Above you, three winged serpentines circle patiently in the air. Their beaks hang slightly open, tongues flickering you as if tasting the air—your blood, your fear, the inevitability of what's next. The only mercy here is that they're not attacking. They are waiting, drawing it out. The same way a cat toys with a mouse it already knows cannot escape.

Qifrey doesn't stop or slow. He dives.

The wind screams past his ears, rising to a fever pitch as he plummets. His palm quire slips into his hand by instinct alone, wand flying over the paper in sharp, practiced strokes before he can even spare a thought as to who might be watching.

The spell takes shape in a single breath. Water wrenches itself from the air, the thin moisture caught in wind and stone, surging upwards into a coiling mass until it takes shape—a great, fluid dragon, its body twisting through the open air with a roar that echoes throughout the entire length of the gorge.

Two serpentines are caught in its jaws almost immediately, their cries cut short amidst the sound of snapping wing and bone. The third shrieks, veering sharply away before wheeling back, beak gaping in fury—but Qifrey is already moving, one arm wrapping around your waist and tearing you off the cliff face, hauling you bodily into the open air. You make a quiet sound in the back of your throat—the closest to afraid he's ever heard you—fingers gripping at the front of his shirt.

"Master—"

"Don't call me that right now."

The serpentines shriek behind him, rallying. Qifrey presses the sylph seal on his boots together, the weight of you unwieldy and palpable in his arms, and flies home.

You don't speak on the way back. Neither does he.

The atelier rises into view at the edge of the fields, its familiar shape cutting through the blur of wind and motion. He lands harder than he intends, knees buckling for a second before he forces himself forward—half-carrying, half-dragging you through the front door. Your cup remains where he left it, untouched on the kitchen table, and he sets you down onto the chair—the same one he'd been sitting in just an hour prior, drinking tea and so, so oblivious—more roughly than he intends.

You don't complain. You never do. The same way you never protest, never ask, never tell him anything—

Qifrey turns away. His hands are shaking. He wrenches open the drawers, rifling through them with none of his usual care, yanking out bandages, salves, clean gauzes. Something clenches in his chest like a fist, squeezing, tight, so tight.

"What were you thinking?" he snaps. He almost doesn't recognise his own voice—low and taut and cutting. "Going to such a dangerous place—alone—without telling anyone—without asking—"

He finds the antiseptic, shoved into the back of a drawer. His fingers slip on the stopper, trembling faintly.

"You could have died. Do you understand that? You could have died. Those creatures—they could have—" Sent you plummeting down the cliff. Eaten you. Torn you to pieces. He can't bring himself to finish the sentence. The images they conjure are too much to bear.

He whirls around again, still not quite looking at your face, and takes your left arm. The cuts are worse up close—long, ragged scratches that split skin, dried blood flaking at the edges. Your palms and fingers are raw and abraded from where you must have clung to the sharp rock.

Qifrey dabs at them with more force than necessary. You flinch just once, before going still again.

"Rash. Reckless. Stupid." The words spill out of him like water from a broken dam. They're sharp enough to wound, meant to hurt, and he knows this even as he says them but cannot bring himself to stop. "I didn't teach you that. I taught you to think, to assess, not throw yourself off cliffs for—for worthless plants—"

"Master—"

"I said don't." Hearing that title alone makes him want to scream. "Don't call me that now. You don't have any right to when you—"

"It's Master's fault."

The words land like a slap. Qifrey turns to look at you—one hand frozen over a roll of bandages, the echo of them stinging—only to find your mouth drawn taut in a stubborn line. And your eyes, those quiet, watchful eyes that have always followed him so carefully, are hard with something he's never seen in them before. Not guilt. Not shame. Something closer to accusation.

As though he is the one who has wronged you.

"Oh, it's my fault," he repeats, his voice rising sharply on its own, an unpleasant mixture of anger and incredulity. "I didn't tell you to sneak out without telling me. I didn't tell you to seek out winged beasts you have no experience fighting. I didn't tell you to—"

"Yes, because Master never tells me anything—"

"For good reason!" He throws his hands up, the dishcloth—stained with your blood—twisting taut between his white knuckled fingers. Qifrey wants to shake you. Maybe tear his hair out. Another part of him—a smaller, quieter part—wants to lock you in this atelier and throw away the key forever, just to make sure that you are safe. "There are things I don't tell you because they are dangerous, things that I am trying—I have been trying—to protect you from—"

"I don't need to be protected like a child—"

"Then stop acting like one!" Qifrey is shouting now. He knows that he's shouting. He can't stop. "Sneaking around behind my back, hiding books in your room, burning and cutting yourself, putting yourself in mortal danger for a cure that doesn't exist!"

Your obstinate expression only darkens further. "Master can't know for certain—"

"I do!" His hands come down hard on the tabletop, and you flinch. Your teacup jumps, porcelain clattering as it tips. Cold tea spills across the gingham patterns. "I know because—" Because he's already been to the Tower of Memories, and he knows that what ails him is no illness or curse. "—because I've already read every book, tried every remedy—I know that there is no cure! There is no cure, and there will never be, so stop trying to throw your life away for something so—"

"I won't!"

Something in Qifrey snaps.

"If you're so unwilling to listen to me," he says, his voice suddenly cold and flat in a way that doesn't belong to him, "then maybe you should no longer be my apprentice."

The moment those words leave his mouth, Qifrey knows at once that he would do anything to take them back—tear them out of the air, swallow them whole even if they cut his throat to ribbons—but the damage is already done.

You go very still. The anger doesn't leave you, not entirely, but something beneath it fractures—hairline cracks spiderwebbing across thin river ice. Your mouth works soundlessly, shaping around words that don't make it out, before pressing into a thin, bloodless line.

When he dares a glance up again, your lashes are wet. You're not crying—you never have, not in front of him, at least—but your eyes are bright, too bright now, in a way that feels dangerously close. Your lower lip wobbles only once before you sink your teeth into it and force it still.

Qifrey hates water. The sound of rain makes his chest tight, and the feeling of being wet makes his skin crawl. He hates the way it blurs the fading remnants of his vision, the way it soaks through his clothes and leeches the heat from his bones, the way it reminds him of things he's forgotten and things he wishes he could forget.

But this—this—is worse.

Qifrey's hands falter, then drop back to his sides. Why had they even been raised in the first place? The kitchen is too quiet now, empty except for the phantom ghosts of your anger and his, the steady drip of tea from the table's edge, forming a puddle on the flagstones beneath. He feels exhausted all of a sudden—wrung dry and scraped hollow.

It's only then that he notices the bag. Your hand—the other one, still dirty and bleeding—is curled around a small pouch of cloth, pressed so tightly against your chest that your knuckles have gone white. Even after everything, you are still clinging to it. Still trying, desperately, to keep it safe.

"Give me the bag," he says.

Your eyes jump to Qifrey's face. You glance down at the bag, as though just only remembering thtat it's there, before your fingers tighten around it again, spine curving over it protectively. Hesitation flickers across your expression for a brief second, before you give a small, stubborn shake of the head.

No.

Qifrey sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, patience fraying, before he reins himself in forcefully. He's done more than enough damage, today. "I won't—I'm not going to do anything to it," he says, trying to sound reassuring, more gentle. He doesn't know if he succeeds. "Just—please. Give me the bag."

You stare at him for a moment longer, as though wordlessly weighing whether you can trust his words. Then, slowly, reluctantly—you loosen your death grip on the pouch and hold it out.

It's surprisingly light in his hand, once he takes it. Almost as though it holds nothing inside at all. His fingers, still faintly numb and tacky with your blood, fumble with the drawstrings as he pulls them loose. He looks inside.

A handful of silver leaves lie scattered across the bottom of the pouch. Thin and gleaming, each one shaped like a sewing needle. Spineneedles. Carefully gathered, but so few of them—barely enough to brew a single thumb-sized vial of tincture.

Yet the mere sight of them is enough to strip all the anger from him in an instant. Qifrey stares down into the pouch, the thin scatter of silver leaves there glinting faintly like stars in the night sky, and feels something inside him give way.

He isn't angry with you. He's never been angry with you. The one whom Qifrey is so unbearably angry with, so deeply ashamed of—is himself. Because the only reason you did any of this—pushed yourself to such lengths, put yourself in harm's way—is because he let you believe he could be cured. He'd smiled and selfishly kept the words you'd uttered that day close to his heart, like a precious treasure, and in doing so, he'd unwittingly sent you hurtling straight into danger's embrace.

A slow, quiet breath escapes him. Qifrey slowly lets himself sink to his knees in front of your chair, suddenly weary in a way that he cannot quite name. You shift at the movement, glancing down at him with something uncertain in your expression, unsure of his moods.

"…Master?"

He sets the pouch on the table and carefully takes your hands in his. You try to tug them back to your chest on instinct but he holds on to your wrists, gentle but insistent. Qifrey turns them over, palms out, your fingers curling slightly, and looks at the small, round marks he's never looked close enough to notice before. Burn scars. Old and new, layered together, a wordless record of every time you had pressed pain into your own body in search of something that might help him.

His throat closes around the words he doesn't have.

"Thank you," is all he can say, in the end. Even then, it feels inadequate. "For trying to cure me. For going to such lengths to ease my pain." Qifrey pauses, his thumb brushing over a half-healed scab on your knuckle. "But it… it won't work."

You look at him, then. The defiance has receded from your eyes, leaving behind a thin, wavering uncertainty in its place. "How can Master be so sure it will not work?"

Because I've already tried everything. Because I read about it in the Tower, and I know the truth. Because the problem isn't my eye or the headaches—it is the tree growing inside of me, the parasite that will kill me if I stop worrying, if I stop hurting, if I let myself be happy for even a moment.

But Qifrey cannot say that. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. His fingers drift down unconsciously to brush the ribbon trailing from the top of his hat.

"Because, like I said, I've tried every remedy in existence." He shakes his head with a defeated smile, squeezing your hands. "Nothing works. And it only hurts me more—more than my eye or any headache—to see my beloved apprentice put themself in danger for my sake."

You go still, fingers curling loosely under his own.

"I should be the one protecting you," he continues. "Not the other way around. That—that's the whole point of having an apprentice." Qifrey almost laughs at that, the line of his mouth twisting into the shape of a half-formed, self-deprecating smile. Oh, he was so, so foolish. "I'm supposed to keep you safe. And yet, here you are, throwing yourself into danger for me."

His gaze drops back to your hands, the small scars scattered across your skin.

"I'm content," Qifrey says quietly. "With what I have now. The atelier. You." And as the words leave him, he realises that they are not merely for your sake—they are true, plain and simple. "The pain is small in comparison."

You don't speak for a moment. The afternoon light has shifted, turning golden and syrupy, pooling on the floor between you like liquid honey. Qifrey can hear the sound of his own heartbeat in the silence, a slow, steady march in his ears.

"But I don't like to see Master in pain."

Your voice is small, but matter-of-fact. You say it in the same way you might state an obvious truth, such as fire is hot and water is clear and the sun rises in the east. As if it's simply a fact of the universe that you dislike seeing him in pain—and therefore, you must do something about it.

Qifrey's heart clenches, a sharp and sudden thing. Before he can think better of it he's already leaning forward to gather you into his arms. It's the first time he's ever hugged you, he realises distantly. He's held you when you were learning to use sylph shoes for the first time, guided your hand and wand through careful strokes, rested a light hand on your head once or twice—but never anything like this. Never returned even a fraction of the quiet comfort you've given him simply by being there. Some master he's been.

You go stiff for a moment against his chest, caught off guard by the suddenness of the gesture. A few breaths pass before your shoulders loosen, ever so slightly, and then your forehead dips, coming to rest slowly against the line of his collarbone. And your hands, one half-bandaged and the other still dirty with smeared blood and dirt, come up to grip tentatively at the back of his shirt.

When had you become so precious to him?

He closes his one good eye and presses his face into the top of your head, ignoring the way his glasses push up on the bridge of his nose. Your hair smells faintly of lemon verbena and soap. "Don't do something so dangerous again, alright?" His voice comes out muffled, even to his own ears. "Promise me."

There's a long pause. Then: "I don't want to give up, Master."

Qifrey sighs, something between an amused sigh and weary acceptance. Clearly, it'd been wishful thinking at best to hope otherwise, and the fault for it lies squarely with him. He draws back just enough to look at you. Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

"If you have any ideas," he says at last, the words coming together with reluctant resignation, "tell me first. Before you do anything. We'll experiment together—here, in the atelier, where it's safe." His eye narrows slightly, a faint edge of sternness threading through the softness. "I won't stop you from trying. But I'm not going to lose you to a cliff face or anything else, and there will be no forbidden magic. Do you understand?"

You hold his gaze. For a moment your expression is unreadable—eyes too much like mirrors, reflecting too much of him back at himself, too clearly, too honestly. Then, slowly, you nod.

"Okay."

"Good." The word leaves him more easily than expected, as though some heavy weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. Qifrey pulls you in again, a brief but quieter second embrace, before he lets you go and leans back. Even with the space between you now, the residual warmth of you lingers, settling into the hollow places between his ribs like sunlight.

"I'll make dinner tonight," he announces, getting to his feet. "You should get some rest. But first—let me finish treating your arms."

"Okay."

You hold your arms out obediently. He takes them, careful as though he's handling some priceless, irreplaceable magical artifact, tutting softly under his breath at the state of you. The cuts, the burns, the bruising—he tends to each with attentive hands, and insists on drawing you a bath of milk and herbs as he works, all while you squirm and offer half-hearted rejections in protest.

Somewhere in his chest, the silverwood stirs.

The rush in the main hallway is always a headache. It's loud, suffocating, and smells faintly of cheap floor wax and too many different body sprays.

You’re just trying to focus on the lock combination beneath your fingers, tuning out the slamming lockers and chatter around you, trying to get through a day that already feels too long. You're completely in your own world when the sudden, sharp sting of a hand slaps your ass.

You gasp, the sound catching violently in your throat as you whirl around.

“Remember how much you liked that?"

"What the fuck Kai," you hiss. "I never liked it, you perv. And you lost my perfect ass the second you fucked Mina."

He doesn't even look guilty. He just leans against the locker grid, entirely too comfortable. "y/n, what did you expect? I’ve got needs."

"You’re right." you let out a cold, humorless laugh, tilting your head up to look him dead in the eye. "Honestly, it’s on me for expecting any form of critical thinking from a guy who’s nineteen and still struggling with his high school classes."

The smirk drops off his face. A flash of ugly anger crosses his features, the bruised ego of a boy who isn't used to being told no. "What did you say to me?"

Before you can pull away, his hand darts out, fingers snatching rough and tight around your wrist, ripping your bracelet straight off your skin.

You gasp, a genuine flash of shock hitting you. "Asshole."

"Ya want it back? Hm?" He steps closer, crowding your space, mocking you as he stuffs the jewelry deep into his pocket. "Okay. Come and get it."

You give him a look of pure disgust. You refuse to let him see the small tremor in your hands. "No. But maybe I’ll have you expelled for sexual harassment instead."

"Nah." He steps even closer, his shadow completely blocking the hallway light. The smell of his expensive cologne feels heavy, suffocating. "You know my dad funds the school too much to let that happen—" He leans in, lower, dropping his voice to a sickening murmur. "Come on, y/n, don’t play. I know you still want me."

James had been standing at his locker right next to yours for the last two minutes, quietly enduring the exchange. He looks like he always does—gritty, tired, the dark fabric of his jacket smelling faintly of the gym. And he’s completely fed up with Kai’s weird behavior.

Without a warning, James moves.

He shoves his hand straight out, aiming for the back of Kai’s head, and slams it hard into your open locker door. The sound of metal meeting bone echoes down the corridor.

"Fuck!" Kai hisses, his hands flying up to cup his nose. Blood is already leaking through his fingers. "I'm shooting an ad tomorrow, asshole!"

James doesn't even look at him as Kai runs off down the hall, cursing up a storm.

For a second, the hallway feels entirely empty. Your chest rises and falls, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your eyes meet James’s, they linger there for a second too long before you take a step closer to him.

"James," you say, a small, tentative smirk forcing its way onto your face to mask how badly your adrenaline is pumping. "Did you just save me?"

He doesn't look at you. He doesn't even look pleased. He reaches into his locker with a cold, uninterested shrug. "Your fuckboy was blocking my shit."

"Uhm, not my fuckboy," you clarify quickly, crossing your arms.

James doesn't say anything. The silence between you is heavy. He snaps his locker shut and just walks away, his long strides tearing down the hallway.

You blink, panic flaring in your throat, and follow him nervously. "Well... you know, you’re in a very good position to help me," you say, trying to sound happy, trying to sound like the girl who always gets what she wants.

Nothing. He keeps walking, his boots clicking against the floor. You have to jog a little to follow close behind his shoulder.

"Uhm, hello? I’m talking to you."

Suddenly, James stops.

Before you can even register the movement, he spins on his heel, his hand slamming into the locker right beside your head. The impact makes a boom against the metal, the sheer force of it pushing you backward until your spine hits the lockers.

You freeze. You are suddenly, dangerously aware of how close he actually is. You can taste the heat radiating off him. You can see the faint, dark bruise blooming under his eye.

"What do you want?" he asks, his voice low, scraping out of his throat like sandpaper. He looks like he just wants to get this whole thing over with.

There’s a long, agonizing pause. You two just stare at each other. Your eyes track the sharp line of his jaw, the irritation in his dark eyes, before you finally find your voice.

"Look," you say, looking up at him through your eyelashes. For a split second, that confident mask slips, and you look at him almost like you expect him to feel bad for you. "Kai hasn’t left me alone since we broke up. He follows me around school. He shows up at my house sometimes."

James’s eyes darken, a tiny shift in his posture, but his face stays a blank slate. "I got nothing to do with that though?"

"I know you don’t," you say, forcing a small smile back onto your face, trying to regain control of the room. "But I wanna change that. Maybe you could make him leave me alone."

"We don’t even talk."

"I know," you say, the smile growing a little wider, more confident. "It’s because he’s scared of you."

James lets out a dry, breathy sound that isn't quite a laugh. "How am I supposed to help you with a guy I don’t talk to?"

"Well, since you asked," you say, the excitement finally bleeding into your tone. Fully convinced he’ll say yes. "You’re gonna talk to me. Walk with me to my classes, sit with me at lunch... and just be with me all day!"

James tilts his head. The shadow of a smirk plays on his lips, dangerous and mocking as he looks down at you. "So you want me to be your fake boyfriend."

Your cheeks instantly flare hot. You look away and clear your throat. "N-no..." You scoff, trying to sound indifferent. "No one would even believe we were together. Less boyfriend... more guard dog." You nod your head, smiling again.

James leans in.

He goes so low, so deep into your space that your breath hitches in your throat. For one terrifying second, you actually think he’s going to kiss you, right here in the middle of the hallway. But he stops just inches away, looking dead into your eyes with a cold, unyielding finality.

"I’m not your bitch, y/n."

He pulls back and walks off, leaving you entirely breathless, words dying on your tongue as you watch his retreating back.

But three paces away, the sharp buzz of a phone cuts through the air. James stops. He pulls his phone from his pocket, his shoulders turning rigid.

Landlord: FINAL EVICTION NOTICE HAS BEEN EMAILED!!

Landlord: Locks changed, and belongings were moved.

James stares at the screen, the reality of the text sinking in, before he shoves the phone away and heads straight toward the exit.

"Hey! Where are you going? We still have classes!" you shout after him, watching him dismiss the school entirely.

And of course being you, and because you refuse to be left behind and unanswered, you follow him.

The air here is thick with the stench of sweat, and copper. It’s loud. The crowd presses in close around the makeshift ring, a suffocating wall of noise and flashing phone screens, screaming for blood.

In the center of it, James is fighting for his life.

He’s covered in dirt, his skin slick with a sickening mixture of sweat and deep crimson. His chest heaves violently. He has his opponent locked tight in a suffocating headlock, muscles straining, veins popping along his neck as he tries to end it, but the grip slips. The elder fighter drives a brutal, heavy punch straight into James’s side, right where a bruised rib was already screaming.

James loses it, the air exploding from his lungs as he stumbles back.

The crowd erupts into a feral roar.

"That’s what I’m talking about, baby! Take him down!"

"Finish him!"

The opponent goes crazy, pumping his fists, absorbing the chaos as he shouts back at the screaming crowd. "Yeah! Come on!"

James doesn't move. He watches him, one hand pressed hard against his ribs, breathing heavily through his nose, tasting dirt and iron. He doesn't have time to recover.

They collide again, and the violence is frantic. James takes a hard hit to the back, a blinding punch cracking straight across his face that sends spots dancing in his vision. As the guy lunges forward, aiming another devastating shot at his nose, James’s instincts finally kick in.

He darts his hands out, grabbing the man’s wrists to pin them, and hurls his own forehead forward, cracking a brutal headbutt straight between the guy's eyes.

The man staggers, and James instantly moves behind him, forcing him into a tight arm lock. He has him.

Then, the guy turns his head and spits a mouthful of warm, thick blood straight into James's face.

The sudden, disgusting distraction works. Before James can clear his eyes, a sharp blow drives straight into his throat. James chokes, stumbling backward, a raw, strangled sound tearing from his throat.

James straightens up, forcing his spine straight even as his vision blurs. He uses the back of his dirty forearm to wipe the slick blood off his eyes, his jaw setting into something demonic.

The opponent runs up, thinking he’s won, but James moves faster. He lunges, grabbing the man by the shoulders, and drives his knee straight up into his face.

The impact is sickening, the sound of cartilage cracking echoes over the shouting. The man collapses instantly, dropping heavily to his knees.

James stands over him, chest heaving so hard his bare shoulders shake, barely keeping himself upright. He reaches down, fisting a handful of the guy’s hair, and yanks his head back forcing him to look up.

The older man's face looks horrible, dark blood pouring out of his mouth, but he lets out a wet, twisted laugh.

And that’s when you walk in.

You step through the crowded, dim exit, the noise hitting you like a physical wall, and you freeze. You watch from far behind the crowd, your eyes widening in absolute disbelief as James brings his fist down. Once. Twice. Multiple times. He punches the guy's face in with a cold, rhythmic cruelty until the older man goes completely limp on the dirty concrete.

The crowd splits in half, a chaotic symphony of people cheering or booing because James won. James stands in the center of the madness, a dark, breathy smile crossing his bloody lips as he looks around, watching everyone go completely crazy for him.

Then, his eyes scan the back of the room. And he sees you.

The smile vanishes instantly. His face turns completely stone cold. He doesn't care about winning or the cheering, he shoves through the wall of bodies, a terrifying force of nature, and grips your arm tight, pulling you entirely out of the place and into the cold alleyway outside.

"What the fuck, y/n? Why’d you follow me?" he snaps, his grip tight enough to leave a mark as he drags you away from the door. "You need to leave now. It’s not safe for you here."

You try to catch your breath, your heart hammering against your ribs from the pure shock of what you just witnessed. "Well, you didn’t answer me at school, so I just—"

"For fuck's sake y/n, are you always like this? Hm?" he shouts, his voice echoing off the brick walls. He is visibly annoyed with how stuck-up you sound right now. "You need to stay out of my life. I got my own problems to handle, I don’t need some little rich girl following me around because she needs help with her drama."

"Illegal fighting problems?" you say, the adrenaline making you fire right back at him.

James steps closer, towering over you, the stench of blood and sweat radiating off his bare skin. "Lower your voice."

Your breathing slows a bit, the initial anger fading as you actually look at him. In the dim light, his dirtied up state looks even worse. There is blood everywhere, his and someone else's—and dark, ugly bruises are already forming over old ones that have been there for weeks.

"Mm, fine... i’ll stay quiet," you say, tilting your chin up, forcing your voice to stay confident as you take a step toward him. "Either you be my guard dog... or i’ll just turn you in."

James freezes.

"Which one sounds better, hm?" you say, your voice dripping with a teasing, dead serious malice. "Guard dog... or prison bitch?"

The silence that follows is thick. Both of your breaths are loud enough to hear in the quiet alley. James looks around, his dark eyes scanning the empty street, genuinely trying to calculate which option he’d rather take. For a moment, he actually considers letting you turn him in, he was that sure that being your little pet would be worse than anything else.

But then he thinks about the eviction notice. He thinks about having nowhere to go.

Finally, his jaw tightens. "Fine. I’ll do it."

A triumphant smile spreads across your face. You look up at him, entirely back in your element. "Good boy."

You turn to walk off, but before you can take a step, his bloody hand darts out, grabbing your wrist in a iron grip.

"But," he rasps, his voice dangerously low. "I need a place to stay."

You stop, staring at him, trying to read his expression, not knowing if he's being serious or not. "Why can’t you stay at your own place?"

"I need a place, or no deal," he says, his eyes unblinking, dead serious.

You hesitate. You almost think about changing your mind, the thought of him in your house is a lot. But then again, you think about Kai showing up at your house, lurking around your property. It wouldn’t be so bad having someone like James around to keep him away.

"Fine..." you say, rolling your eyes dramatically as you pull your wrist from his grip. "You can stay at my house."

You smooth down your clothes, fixing your purse over your shoulder, but your eyes can't help but slide over his bare, bruised torso one more time. The contrast between your clean life and his broken one is staggering.

You turn on your heel and walk off, leaving him in the alley.

When your car pulls up, James stops. He looks up at the house, his eyes tracking the massive columns and the sweeping architecture, taking it all in. It’s huge.

"Let’s go!" you say, rushing ahead, but when you look back, you watch as he hesitates to step any further onto the property. He stands at the edge of the driveway, looking around, almost like he’s calculating whether he’s even good enough to come inside.

“James…”

Your voice snaps him out of whatever mindset he was trapped in. He blinks, pulling his shoulders back, and you both continue to walk through your front yard, up the stone stairs until you reach the massive front door.

"Why do you seem so scared to come in?" you tease, jingling your keys to mask the sudden flutter in your chest. "Don’t worry, you’ll get your own room and everything."

He keeps his gaze fixed on the back of your head, following close behind you. "Nice."

"My walk-in closet."

James stops dead in his tracks. "You’re serious?"

"Mhm! Don’t worry, it’s really big," you say, tossing your purse onto the entryway table as you walk. "I just gotta hide you from my dad. But if we’re in my room by eleven, we should be good."

You keep walking, your voice echoing slightly in the high ceilinged hallway. "He’s always working, and before you say anything... no, it doesn’t bother me."

You flash a bright smile, turning around to face him just as you reach the inner doors.

James just stands there, watching you with an expression that reads you like an open book. He lets out a dry, quiet scoff. "Yeah, sure."

He doesn't press the issue, but his eyes linger on the empty, quiet house. "So, uhm... what does your dad do again?" he asks, taking one last look at the pristine walls.

"He’s a district attorney." You look back, smiling up at him.

James freezes completely. Every muscle in his jaw goes rigid. "Fuck."

"Don’t worry... I'm not a snitch, you can trust me," you say teasingly, stepping further into the warmth of the house.

"Do I even have a choice?" he asks. He’s still lingering by the threshold, his dirty jacket contrasting violently with your white molding, still hesitant to fully walk into your world.

"Nope!" you reply easily.

James finally takes the final step inside, closing the heavy door behind him with a soft click. "You’re very bossy, you know?"

"Yeah... that’s what people always say about a girl who knows what she wants," you say, tilting your chin up.

James looks around the house a bit more, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. Then, he turns his gaze back to you. You're already watching him. He takes a slow step closer, entirely too close, until the space between you disappears. You instantly look down, suddenly hyper aware of his breathing, trying to avoid the heavy, awkward tension of this whole thing.

For a moment, neither of you move. You just stay there, staring at each other, the silence thick enough to choke on.

"So, where’s the shower?" he asks, his voice dropping low.

"Come on," you say, turning on your heel and walking away a little too fast, desperate to escape the suffocating closeness you two were just trapped in.

You lead him upstairs to the bathroom, and he steps inside, the bright vanity lights catching the raw cuts on his knuckles. Without hesitation, he immediately takes off his dirty shirt, tossing it onto the tile floor somewhere. He walks around the marble bathroom, looking around like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

"Yoo, how does this thing work?" he asks, peering into the massive glass shower.

You walk in a moment later, leaning against the doorframe. "Never used a shower before?" you tease.

You step directly in front of him, your shoulder brushing his bare arm as you reach for the sleek shower handle. "On," you say, switching the water on. "Off," you say, turning it back.

But you aren't looking at the handle. You've had your eyes locked onto him the entire tim, and James hasn't looked away from you, not once. The awkwardness from the hallway slips away, replaced by something much heavier. It feels like a game you guys have been playing, eyeing each other down through your lashes, trying to see who will be the first one to break eye contact.

James breaks the silence first, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. "Are you gonna watch or something?" he teases.

"Nothing to see," you say dryly, keeping your gaze steady, refusing to back down.

"Mm, sure," he says, taking a half step closer, his bare chest nearly touching you, entirely trying to provoke a reaction.

Your heart takes a violent leap, and you decide to end the eye tag game before you lose your mind. You shove a clean towel into his chest. "Enjoy your shower."

You turn and leave, shutting the door behind you. Behind the wood, you can hear James letting out a low chuckle to himself. He runs a hand through his hair, genuinely not knowing what the fuck he’s got himself into.

You’re in your bedroom, organizing your vanity and trying to distract yourself, when the door clicks open. James steps in.

The towel you gave him is wrapped low around his waist, dripping water onto your hardwood floor. His skin is scrubbed clean, but the bruises across his ribs look even darker now, raw and exposed.

"Nice room," he says, his voice cutting through the quiet as he walks around, touching the delicate trinkets on your shelves with his rough hands.

"First girl's room you’ve been in?" you joke, trying to ignore how massive he looks standing in the middle of your space.

"Very funny," he mutters, stopping to look at a photo on your desk. "You’re just the first one who’s so... extra."

"Mm. So you must be pretty boring, hm?"

"Yea, and scary, remember?" He turns around, taking slow, deliberate steps toward you, using his height to crowd you against your bedpost.

You let out a laugh despite yourself, slipping past him. "Please. I remember you thumb sucking your way through kindergarten..."

You look back at him over your shoulder, your lips curling into a confident smile. "I’m not scared of you."

James drops his gaze, a sudden, unreadable shadow crossing his face before he looks back up. "Yeah, well... don't be so sure you know everything about me."

The words hang in the air. You both stare a little longer, the playful energy shifting into something deeply loaded.

"Your clothes were disgusting, so we’ll have to get you some new ones." you say, breaking the tension and offering him a small smile.

James’s posture goes rigid, his jaw tightening. "I don’t need your charity."

"It’s not charity," you counter smoothly, crossing your arms. "Just a makeover!"

"Okay," he says, stepping in close again, his eyes locked onto yours as he tilts his head down. "So... what are you gonna do to me?"

"You’ll see.”

Walking into the main hallway together, your arm is looped securely through his, and the contrast is loud enough to make people stop and stare.

"So what do I even have to do?" James asks, his voice low, barely cutting through the crowded halls as you two walk.

"Just stay with me," you say, a bright smile gracing your lips. It hasn’t left your face since you arrived at the front gates, fueled by the sheer thrill of the game.

You’re so focused on him that you don’t even notice Kai staring off to the side, leaning against the stairs, watching the two of you approach.

"Damn, y/n. I see you found a placeholder," He scoffs, his voice dripping with a bitter, bruised ego. "Are you really that desperate?"

You look over. He has some random girl clinging to his arm, but you don’t recognize her, and you genuinely don’t give a fuck. You don’t even give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. Instead, you just look up at James with a knowing smirk, silently sending him off toward Kai like a weapon you fully control.

Kai acts all confident when there’s a crowd watching, but deep down, he’s scared out of his ass. Especially in this exact moment.

"How about you fuck off, dickhead," James says, taking a heavy step directly into Kai’s space. They’re about the same height, but the difference is that James isn't afraid. The absolute lack of fear makes him tower over Kai completely.

Kai tries to laugh it off, stepping closer to seem less terrified than he actually is. "What, are you her fucking dog now, or what?"

"Just leave her alone, okay?" his voice dangerously quiet, dropping an octave. "Only time I’m gonna say this shit."

James starts to back up, turning his torso to face you again. But the second his back is turned, Kai snaps, letting his ego blind him as he hurls a messy punch right at the back of James's head.

"JAM—" you shout, the panic flaring hot in your throat.

But James is already moving. His reflexes are terrifyingly fast. Before the fist can even connect, he moves, catching Kai’s wrist mid air and violently pinning him back against the metal stairs he’d been leaning on. The sound of Kai’s spine hitting the railing is loud.

"Don’t fuck with me Kai," James hisses, his grip tightening until Kai’s face goes pale.

"I—I'm sorry man. Really," He stammers, the confidence draining out of him instantly.

James lets go, shoving him back slightly with a look of pure disgust. Kai immediately takes off running down the hall practically crying, the random girl scrambling to follow after him.

A breathy chuckle escapes your lips as you walk up to James, your chest humming with adrenaline. "That was so good. You have him running like a little pussy."

James doesn't laugh. He turns to you, his eyes dead serious, entirely unamused. "You’re gonna need to learn to protect yourself, y/n."

"But why when I have you?" you smile, completely missing the dark, protective hint in his tone.

James stares at you, his chest rising and falling. "Yeah. And when you don’t have me anymore?"

The words catch you off guard. A small pout forms on your lips, your voice shifting into a teasing, almost sad whine. "Wow. Are you trying to get rid of me already?"

"Just saying..." He looks down at you, his gaze heavy with a reality you haven't had to face yet. "There’s always gonna be more people like Kai."

You both stand there in the middle of the corridor, taking in the weight of his last words. The silence stretches between you for a second before James breaks it.

"Come on," he says, his rough fingers suddenly wrapping around your hand, pulling you along with him.

"Hey—I have forensics!" you protest, your heels clicking against the floor as you try to pull away from his grip. "Where are we going, asshole? And can you let go?"

"Shut up."

And you do—reluctantly, your heart doing a strange, stupid flip at the feeling of his hand entirely swallowing yours.

He drags you all the way to the school's old gym, pushing the heavy double doors open. When you're finally inside he lets go of your hand, a little too harshly.

"Ow," you mutter, rubbing your wrist.

"Fighting clean isn’t gonna work when you’re up against pervs like Kai," James says, entirely ignoring your complaint as he reaches down, pulling up his sleeves and roughly running a hand through his hair. "So you gotta fight dirty."

You slowly set your bag down on a bench, looking around the space, a nervous curiosity settling in your stomach.

"Come on, I’ll show you your first move," he says, gesturing with his chin for you to stand directly in front of him. You step into his space, the smell of his clean soap from this morning hitting you instantly.

"You be Kai. I’ll be you," he says dryly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "Try and kiss me."

You let out a loud giggle, completely unable to take him seriously. You just stand there, waiting for the punchline, but James doesn't blink. He just waits.

Playing along, you lean in, only moving the top half of your body in a joking, exaggerated way.

James instantly backs up, a flash of genuine irritation crossing his face. "What are you doing?" he asks, almost offended by the lack of effort.

"When are you gonna show me the move?" you fire back, crossing your arms.

"When you actually try and kiss me," he says, his voice snapping sharply through the quiet gym.

You freeze, staring up at him, the smile dying on your face as you realize he isn't joking. "Are you fucking with me?"

He doesn't answer. He just gives you a slow, provocative head tilt, an invitation.

Fine. You take a step closer, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. You raise your hand, your palm sliding against his sharp jawline, and you lean in for real. Your eyes flutter shut, your breath brushing against his lips—

And right before your mouth can touch his, James moves.

His hand darts out snatching your arm, twisting your body until you're forced into a tight, inescapable joint lock. You're forced face down, your breath exploding from your lungs, with James hovering dangerously close above you, his chest pressed against your back.

You let out a loud grunt, completely blindsided by how hard he went. "WATCH IT, JAMES! This sweater is expensive!"

"This is a joint lock!" he shouts back, his voice right next to your ear, mocking your high-pitched tone perfectly. "It’s about leverage." He applies more pressure, pinning you effortlessly.

"OW!"

"So even a little thing like you can defend yourself," he murmurs, his breath hot against the back of your neck. He still doesn't let go, holding you in place just to prove his point.

You start to frantically swat at his arm with your free hand, trying to get him off. "Okay, okay, I get it!"

James relents, starting to pull away, but you both try to move at the exact same time. Your foot slips. You stumble backward with a gasp, and James immediately lunges with you, his reflexes kicking in to keep you from crashing to the ground.

Your back hits one of the thick concrete pillars, and James is right there trapping you against it. His large hand is planted firmly on your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, while you’re holding onto his forearms for dear life, still shaking from almost falling.

Both of your breathings are heavy, ragged, echoing in the empty gym. You look up, your eyes wide, and find him staring down at your lips.

James is the first to snap out of it. He pushes himself off you, clearing his throat as he realizes the dangerous position you guys were just trapped in.

"Alright," he says, backing up a few paces to create space. "You’re gonna do it to me now."

He drops into a loose stance, his dark eyes tracking your movements. "Ready?"

"Alright," you say, trying to shake off the heat in your cheeks, still struggling to take the whole thing seriously.

James steps forward, his large hand coming up to gently cup your face. The second his palm touches your skin, you immediately grab his wrist, twisting your body just like he did to you, and hurl him forward into the exact same joint lock.

James lets out a low, surprised grunt. "There ya go."

"It’s about leverage," you mock in his exact deep tone, pulling his arm a little higher as a triumphant laugh bubbles up in your chest.

He wiggles out of your grip effortlessly, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Okay, okay," he says, a faint, breathless smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, you need to work on that."

You stay there together in the quiet gym for a while longer, classes completely forgotten. He helps you with more moves, teasing you every time you struggle badly, but beneath the grunting and the burning muscles, for the first time since this whole thing started, you find yourself somewhat enjoying each other’s presence.

Later that day, the massive dining room feels entirely too quiet. You and James sit at the dark wood table, eating Chinese takeout from cardboard containers.

Except you aren’t really eating. You’re just moving the food around with your chopsticks, your eyes tracking the quiet, efficient way James eats. The guilt from his confrontation with Kai earlier, the raw reminder of the violence he walked into for you creeps heavily into your chest.

"I'm sorry about Kai," you say, the sincerity catching in your throat.

James finally glances over at you, his dark eyes unreadable for a split second. "It’s whatever. I already know what you people think about me."

You look at him, instantly offended, your chest tightening. "What do you mean, 'you people'?" You already know exactly what he means, but the sharp reality of it stings too much to let him see it.

He looks back down at his food, entirely nonchalant as he takes another bite. "Rich kids."

You let out a sharp breath. "Okay, well... I don’t think I’m like him?"

You say it out loud, but it sounds more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him. James doesn't answer. He just stares back at you, a low, quiet chuckle escaping his lips as he watches you struggle with the realization.

Your shoulders drop. "Okay... maybe I am a little too privileged."

"A little?" he teases, his lips twitching upward.

"But Kai just acts like such a tough guy," you say mockingly, scrunching your face up as you lean over the table. "But really, he’s just this—"

"Insecure little bitch," James finishes for you.

The bluntness makes you stop your thought, a genuine laugh bubbling up as you look at him. "Yeah."

"I’d like to see Kai in a street fight," he says, his gaze locking onto yours, the amusement clear in his eyes.

You laugh, the tension completely breaking as you try to form words. "Can you imagine that? He’s like... the human embodiment of a porcelain vase. Someone would raise a fist and he’d probably shit himself" You wave your hands around, perfectly mimicking Kai’s frantic, spoiled gestures.

James chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Nah, he’d be like ‘yo, you mess with me, you gon be hearing from my lawyers.’" He throws his head back, doing his own mocking impression.

"And then his nose gets all fucked up and he can’t model anymore," you add, tears practically forming in your eyes from how hard you're laughing at how pathetic your ex truly is.

Then, the heavy sound of the front door clicking open echoes through the foyer.

"Y/N?"

Your dad's voice cuts through the air like a knife.

The laughter dies instantly. You gasp, standing up so fast your chair scrapes loudly against the hardwood. Panic floods your veins. You frantically grab the edge of the long tablecloth, lifting it up. "Get down!" you hiss to James.

James is already moving, but the command makes him snap his head up. "You know I’m not your actual dog, right?" he murmurs, half serious, half joking just to keep you from completely spiraling.

"Do you want to get caught?" you whisper sharply, entirely unamused by the joke.

"Alright... geez," he mutters, dropping to his knees. But before his head disappears beneath the heavy fabric, he looks up at you through his eyelashes, his dark eyes flashing with mischief. "Woof."

You smack his shoulder. "Ow," he huffs, finally disappearing under the table. You let out a quiet, stressed chuckle just as the nerves come rushing back, your dad’s heavy footsteps entering the dining room.

"Hey, papa! You're home early!" you say, forcing the brightest, most natural smile you can manage onto your face.

"Yeah, I had to uh—" Your dad walks into the room, but he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes falling directly on the second plate sitting next to yours. "Who’s this plate for?"

"It’s for you! Aren't you hungry?" you ask, your heart beating so violently against your ribs you’re sure he can hear it.

"I am," your dad says, chuckling softly as he steps closer. "But it looks like someone else has already been eating from it?"

"Oh! I was just... making sure it tasted good."

He nods slowly, taking a seat directly in front of the extra plate. "Is it good?

"Yes!!" you say, entirely too enthusiastic.

Underneath the table, James quietly shifts his weight, sliding his large frame further away so your dad's legs don't accidentally brush against him.

"So, how was school?" your dad asks, pulling the container closer.

Suddenly—thud. James moves too fast, his head striking the underside of the table, causing the entire surface to jump.

"Ow, ow!" you shout instantly, throwing your hands down to steady the dishes, trying to cover the sound.

Your dad blinks, completely startled. "Oh, I'm sorry... did I kick you?" He immediately reaches down, his fingers grasping the edge of the tablecloth to lift it and check.

"No, no! I’m fine, I just hit my leg!" you blurt out, gently pushing his hand away. "School was great, dad. Really great."

You take a sharp breath, trying to redirect his focus before he looks down. "So, uh... how’s work?"

Under the table, James is frozen. His head is trapped right between your thighs, the heat of his breath rising through the fabric of your skirt. To keep himself still, his rough fingers reach out, idly tracing the tied ribbon of your knee high socks. The touch sends an electric shock straight up your spine.

"Oh, yeah," your dad sighs, rubbing his temples. "We’re looking into this illegal street fighting thing. The attorney general wants us to crack down on it. It’s very—"

Hearing the words street fighting ring, James tenses. He flinches, his foot knocking into the table frame again.

"Oh... ow!" you shout, your voice high pitched. You plunge your hand beneath the cloth, your fingers grabbing a tight fistful of James's thick hair, pulling just enough to give him the hint to stop moving.

"Oh, my knee... it hurts so bad," you whine to your dad, finally letting go of James's hair and giving the back of his neck a warning smack.

"So..." you clear your throat, “What’s so bad about these street fights?"

"Well, people are dying, y/nnie," your dad replies heavily. "I mean, this is uncontrolled stuff. There’s no protection, no protocols... you know."

Beneath the darkness of the tablecloth, James slowly shakes his head, silently disagreeing with the clinical way your dad is describing his world.

"Not to mention there are illegal bets. It’s dangerous stuff," your dad continues, shaking his head. "But enough about that. You know, I haven't seen Kai around lately. You guys okay?"

James lets out a very soft, vibration of a chuckle against your leg, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Uh, no. We broke up," you say, keeping your tone completely uninterested as you try to steer the conversation back. "But... how often do the fighters actually die during those fights?!"

"Too often," your dad replies quickly, clearly not wanting to bring his brutal work talk home to his daughter. "I thought you and Kai were doing great. What happened? Want to talk about it?"

"No."

James smiles in the dark, his palm resting warm and heavy against your shin, listening to every word.

"Well," you say, the panic making you desperate to get your dad out of the room. "If those fights are so dangerous, maybe you should go back to your office and start working on your case!"

Your dad pauses, looking up at you. He knows you inside and out, and he can tell something is entirely off. "y/n... What’s up with you?"

You take a deep, shaky breath. "Nothing! I just... I’m trying to help. I want you to do good dad!"

The praise works. You feed his ego just enough to keep him from overthinking the situation. He buys it, his posture relaxing, but before he can question you further, the sharp ring of his cell phone cuts through the dining room.

He pulls it out. "Oh, it’s the attorney general."

"See!" you point at the phone.

"So, I gotta go," he says, sighing as he stands up from the table. He looks down at you one last time, adjusting his suit jacket. "You sure you’re gonna be okay here?"

"Yes!" you smile, nodding rapidly.

"Okay... I love you."

"I love you too! Be safe!!" you shout toward the hallway, listening intently until the heavy front door finally clicks shut and the alarm system arms itself.

The second the coast is clear, you drive your foot forward under the table, kicking James's back.

"OW!"

James scrambles out from beneath the tablecloth, you stand up and slam both hands onto your hips, trying to look as intimidating as possible.

"What was that for?" he snaps, standing up to his full height.

"People die in your fights," you say, your voice dropping, the weight of your dad's words finally crashing down on you.

James rolls his shoulders. "Yeah. So? Why do you care?"

"Tuh—I don’t!" you stammer, crossing your arms tightly. "I just..."

"What, you worried about me?" James asks. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, that dangerous, teasing smirk spreading across his lips.

"NO! Definitely not... I just—"

"Aww. The spoiled princess has a soft spot for her guard dog—“

"Shut up!" you snap, tearing your eyes away from his to avoid the sheer intensity of his gaze.

"Mm," James murmurs, looking around the room. "I thought you said your dad is never around?"

"He’s usually not," you say, the words tumbling out before you can think. “Normally, we could walk around naked and he wouldn’t even know..."

You regret it as soon as the words leave your mouth.

James freezes, a slow, incredibly wicked smile spreading across his face. You try your hardest not to smile back, your heart hammering against your ribs. Before he can utter a single word to tease you about it, you hurl your hands forward, pushing him out of the way, and run straight toward the safety of the stairs.

"Naked, hm?!" he shouts after you, his deep voice echoing up the stairwell.

"SHUT UP!" you scream back, slamming your bedroom door shut behind you.

Inside your massive walk-in closet, you can hear James shifting around. He’s walking around the racks, idly smelling the expensive perfumes, trying on random accessories, and picking up whatever shiny, ridiculous trinket that happens to stand out to him.

Meanwhile, you’re out in the bedroom, pacing in front of your vanity. You're supposedly getting ready for bed, but you find yourself lingering in front of the mirror, smoothing down your hair and adjusting your silk pajamas, making absolutely sure you look good for whatever stupid reason.

Eventually, the closet door clicks open. James wanders out to see what you’re up to, and you immediately scramble, finding a spot to sit on the edge of your mattress to look nonchalant.

He paces the floor, still taking in the sheer size of the room, looking around the high ceilings as he makes his way toward you. "So your dad's never really around," he starts, his voice low in the quiet room. "What about your mom, hm?"

You stiffen, your fingers gripping the silk of your sheets. "What about her?" you ask, your tone immediately dropping into something flat, entirely uninterested in continuing the conversation.

James stops pacing. He looks at you, picking up on the sudden shift in the air, and raises his hands defensively. "My bad. We don’t gotta talk about it," he says, exaggerating the apology. He really wasn’t trying to be an asshole, he was genuinely just curious.

You swallow the lump in your throat, looking away. "No, it’s fine..."

It doesn't sound convincing at all.

He noticed the look that crossed your face the exact second he mentioned your mother. He saw how fast you scrambled to pull that thick, untouchable guard right back up, the one you worked so hard to build.

You take a quiet breath, forcing your eyes back to his. "Yeah... uhm. She died giving birth to me."

The smirk drops completely from James’s lips. "I'm sorry," he says, his gaze never leaving yours.

He really hates this—all this emotional, heavy stuff just wasn’t something he was used to handling. He’d learned at a young age that the only way to survive was to keep your guard up and never let it fall.

Watching your armor slip right now, he feels entirely out of his depth. He doesn't know what to do with your sadness.

You don’t respond to the apology. Your eyes dart around the bedroom, desperately trying to avoid looking at him. You are fighting with everything you have to keep your mask intact, you definitely do not want James of all people to see you break.

But he notices anyway.

The mattress dips as James finally sits down on the edge of the bed beside you, his large frame grounding the quiet room. "You okay?" he asks. The roughness is gone from his voice, replaced by a quiet, genuine effort to show that he actually cares.

You look at him, the fragile smile returning to your face. "Yeah..."

You mean it—not completely, but you’ve grown up learning how to hide the ache better than anyone else.

"But it’s just..." You look down at your hands, your voice dropping to a whisper. "I don’t know if you saw, but when Kai was bothering me by my locker yesterday... he snatched my bracelet."

"Oh, yeah. I saw..." James murmurs, his brow furrowing slightly, not fully understanding the real reason you were bringing up a piece of jewelry right now.

"Well," you say, your throat tight as you stare at your bare wrist. "It belonged to my mother."

James freezes. The reality of the words hits him like a physical blow. He looks down at your lap, his jaw setting as a sudden, protective anger flares in his chest. "I’m sorry, y/n," he says, his voice rough. "Don’t worry. He won’t be bothering you anymore."

You let out a hollow, watery breath, trying to shrug it off. "It’s fine... I don’t need it anyways."

"Hey..."

Before you can pull away into your own head, James reaches out. His large hand extends, resting warm and remarkably heavy against your bare arm. The touch stops your thoughts entirely. "It’s okay," he says softly, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying amount of sincerity. "And if I can... I’ll get it back. Okay?"

You two just stare at each other. It’s the same intimate linger you always exchange, but this one feels entirely different. He isn't crowding your space or trying to provoke you like he usually does, but as you look at him, you realize you're starting to feel closer to him just in general.

Panicking at how fast your heart is beating, you abruptly break eye contact, clearing your throat. "Okay. Well... bye," you say, waving him off dramatically to break the tension.

James lets out a low huff, a familiar smirk crawling back onto his face as he gets up from the mattress, heading back toward the closet door.

"Night, princess," he says teasingly over his shoulder.

"Goodnight, puppy," you tease back.

The next morning, the kitchen is quiet. You’re standing by the counter, setting up breakfast for the two of you, slicing fruit and arranging the plates before he even comes downstairs.

You’re just placing the last bowl down when a low shadow falls over you.

James sneaks up behind you, his presence entirely too quiet for a guy his size. Before you can even turn around, his deep voice murmurs right against the shell of your ear. "Surprise practice session... three... two..."

He’s already moving, his large frame shifting to lock you into some new fighting position.

Startled, your brain scrambles, and you don’t even react immediately.

"One," he finishes.

With a practiced fluid motion, he grips your torso and hurls you completely around to face him. The sudden force sends you stumbling back until you're leaning hard against the kitchen wall behind you. James instantly crowds your space, hovering over you, his hands gripping your waist firmly to keep you pinned.

Your breath hooks in your throat. He’s standing so close you can feel the steady heat radiating off his chest.

"Remember what I told you to do when I try to kiss you?" he asks, his dark eyes dropping to your mouth, his own breathing heavy from the sudden exertion.

You swallow hard, nodding your head.

James immediately takes that nod as an invitation. He leans in closer, his large hand coming up to cup your face, tilting your head up.

You let him get entirely too close this time, so close your eyelashes practically brush his cheek before your instincts finally kick in. You hurl your weight forward, catching his wrist and twisting his arm back into the exact joint lock he taught you.

A triumphant smirk spreads across your face, pure pride flaring in your chest.

But the victory dies instantly. Before you can even celebrate, James lets out a low huff, shifts his body, and slips out of your grip effortlessly. He spins you around, pinning you chest first against the flat wall with your arm cranked tightly behind your back.

You can’t see his face anymore, but you feel him lean in close from behind you, completely taking control of the room again. One of his hands keeps your arm locked securely against your spine, while his other hand stays heavy, on your side.

You turn your head slightly against the drywall, catching your ragged breath. But the second you move, James grips your hip and turns you to face him again, pulling your stomach flush against his. His hands never leave your waist.

The kitchen is completely silent except for the loud, ragged sound of both of your breathings. The air feels thick. Neither of you move. Neither of you pull away. Instead, you both just start leaning in again, your eyes locking, getting entirely too close.

Panicking, you hurl your hands against his chest, pushing him off playfully. "Fuck off, James," you say, a breathless smile forcing its way onto your face.

James lets out a low laugh, stepping back a couple of paces, his chest still heaving.

"Okay, but seriously," he says, his voice dropping into that strict instructor tone. "Don’t let your guard down, even if you think you have the other person pinned."

You smooth down your shirt, your heart hammering against your ribs as you take a slow, deliberate step back into his space. "Okay, well... let’s try again," you say teasingly, tilting your head.

"Mm, can’t." James lets out a faint smirk, reaching past you to grab some of the grapes you put out, popping one into his mouth.

You blink, disappointed. "Why?”

"Gotta prep for this fight I have tonight," he says.

The playful energy drains out of you instantly. Your voice drops, getting incredibly soft, a sudden ache settling into your chest. "Can I come?"

James’s smile drops the exact second the words leave your mouth. He stops chewing, his entire demeanor shifting into something heavy.

You both just stand there in the middle of the kitchen, staring at each other, you looking up at him with genuine, unmasked concern, and him silently debating whether letting you come is a good idea or not.

Then, that dumb, frustrating grin returns to his face, masking whatever he’s feeling. "Hell no."

You roll your eyes, a sudden wave of hot, anxious anger making you snap. "Maybe you shouldn’t be going either then," you say, your voice rising.

"Well, I need the money," he says, turning on his heel and walking off toward the living room. "Can’t stay here forever y/n," he adds sarcastically over his shoulder.

You stomp to the edge of the kitchen, watching his retreating back, your throat tight. "Well, you better be back before eleven!" you shout out after him.

"Whatever!" he shouts back, the front door clicking shut moments later.

You stay there by the counter for a long time, the breakfast entirely forgotten. Your hands are trembling slightly against the marble counter as you take in the fact that he’s actually going back to that horrific place tonight.

Ever since your dad mentioned that people die during those fights, the reality of what James does has been clawing at your brain, stressing you out entirely more than you ever wanted to admit to yourself.

It’s late now. The television you left on for background noise is a low, unrecognizable murmur against the quiet of your bedroom, barely heard as you try to focus on finishing up your homework.

Then, the sudden, sharp scrape of metal cuts through the room.

Your window slides open. Your heart takes a violent leap into your throat, your mind immediately screaming that it’s Kai fucking around again, but the anger dies the second a heavy, shadow drenched figure stumbles over the sill.

It’s James. And he’s covered in blood.

He clearly lost his fight tonight, and every single inch of his body shows it. He’s leaning heavily against the window frame, his chest heaving.

"Your dad's home. I couldn’t go through the front door," he rasps, his voice thick and scraped raw, completely dismissing how entirely fucked up he looks and feels right now.

You hurl your textbooks aside, immediately scrambling out of bed and rushing over to him.

"Oh my god..." you whisper, the words catching painfully in your throat as your hands hover over him, terrified to touch him. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Dude had brass knuckles."

A cold dread settles into your stomach. Gently, you grip his uninjured shoulder, walking his trembling frame over to your bed and forcing him to sit down. James lets out a low, agonizing groan as his weight hits the mattress.

"Let me see," you breathe, stepping between his knees. Your fingers tremble as you gently tilt his chin up, forcing his head back to get a better look at the deep, ragged gash splitting the skin near his hairline.

"y/n, I'm fine. Chill," he mutters, his bloody hand coming up to push against your shoulder, trying to create distance.

But you don’t move. "James, you are bleeding from your head," you say, your voice cracking, sounding dangerously close to a cry.

You drop to your knees, pulling out the first aid kit that’s been sitting untouched under your bed. Your fingers fly through the plastic containers, desperately digging through the wraps and ointments to find something to clean the wound.

Above you, James sits heavily, his breathing ragged as he painfully peels his heavy jacket off his shoulders. When the fabric drops, you catch sight of a massive, deep purple bruise already blooming violently along the entire side of his ribs. You freeze, staring at the damage, swallowing hard as you try your absolute best not to panic.

You finally find an antiseptic wipe and stand back up, leaning into his space to press it against the cut. But James flinches, still trying to pull his head back, trying to push you away.

"I don’t need your—" He cuts himself off with a sharp, strangled groan. The slight movement of fighting back against you makes the pain in his ribs flare. He closes his eyes, his shoulders dropping in defeat. "Okay... okay," he mutters, taking slow, deep breaths to steady himself.

You gently press the wipe to the cut, your heart hammering against your ribs. "So, who won?" you ask softly, obviously already knowing the answer but desperately trying to keep a conversation going to distract him.

"Clearly the other guy, y/n," he says, his jaw tight as he finally relaxes his posture just a fraction.

"Yeah?" You look down into his eyes briefly, your voice dropping into a quiet, heavy murmur. "This is why I told you not to go."

Your hand loses focus for a split second, pressing a fraction too hard on a raw spot. James hisses through his teeth, his body tensing beneath your fingers. "Gentle bro."

"Sorry," you whisper quickly.

The bedroom goes completely, suffocatingly quiet. You continue to softly wipe the dark crimson from his forehead, your face only inches from his, while he looks up at you through his eyelashes, still trying to breathe properly. The room is so still you swear his respirations are getting louder, heavier, every single time your hand moves.

"Shh..." you murmur, as you try to get him to relax. "It’s okay.”

Your free hand reaches up, your palm resting warm and steady against the back of his neck, your fingers anchoring into his hair to keep him still. James freezes at the touch. His eyes don't leave your face, staring at you with an intensity that burns while you clean him up as much as you can.

You don’t even notice him staring, entirely too focused on the horrible state of his skin, completely consumed by the need to fix him.

Eventually, the bleeding stops, and James gets up from the bed, limping into the bathroom to shower the dirt and dried blood off his skin.

Left alone, you pace the length of your bedroom, the anxiety clawing at the inside of your chest. Your mind is racing, and your first immediate thought goes to the sleeping arrangements. You look at your large, plush bed, a sudden wave of guilt hitting you as you think about him having to sleep on that old, thin mattress in your walk-in closet.

When the bathroom door finally clicks open, you’re already in the middle of pulling back your heavy duvet, setting up the pillows so there's room for both of you.

James steps into the bedroom, his skin scrubbed clean, but he's still favoring his side, a visible limp slowing his stride.

"Hey..." you say softly, looking up at him with a gaze full of unshielded sorrow. "So... what’s got you off your game?"

James pulls a clean shirt over his head, his movements stiff. "I don’t know," he says, entirely dismissive.

"Maybe the old mattress?" you suggest, watching him closely, clearly already having that piece of the puzzle mapped out.

James pauses, his shoulders dropping a fraction as the reality sinks in. "Mm. Yeah. Probably," he mutters, realizing for the first time how much that thin closet floor had actually been draining him.

"You could sleep here tonight if you want," you say smoothly, your hand coming down to gently pat the empty spot next to you. "I’ll get you a better mattress tomorrow."

James stops dead in his tracks. He stares at your hand on the bed, his brow furrowing. "You want me to sleep with you?"

"No..." You let out a quiet, defensive chuckle, your cheeks flaring slightly. "No, I just... I feel bad. And plus, we’ll have our own sides."

James looks at the crisp, expensive white linen, then back at his own bruised, battered body. "You aren't worried about me messing up your sheets?" he asks, his voice low, genuinely unable to believe you're being entirely serious right now.

"It’s fine, James," you say softly, your voice leaving no room for argument. "Just lay down."

He hesitates for one more second before he finally gives in, crawling into the bed. You watch him closely as he moves with excruciating slowness, carefully lowering his torso onto the pillows, trying his hardest not to cause any more damage to his ribs.

You lie down beside him, the space between you small but loaded. For a long moment, you just watch his profile in the dim light, that heavy, unexplainable guilt still weighing on your chest.

"So... when are you gonna stop fighting?" you ask, the concern bleeding heavily into the quiet room.

James doesn't look at you. He keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the ceiling, staring at the plaster like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. "Most of us have to work for a living," he says, the biting sarcasm rushing back to protect him.

The words sting, a harsh reminder of the massive divide between your worlds. You shift a little closer to him on the mattress, your heart aching, completely not knowing what to say to that.

You swallow hard, staring at his jawline. "Well... what about your parents?"

James’s head snaps around. He looks at you, his eyes widening slightly, entirely unprepared for you to ask something so deeply personal.

He takes a long, ragged breath, his chest rising high before he finally answers. "Dad's not around," he says, his voice dropping into a rough, quiet register. "And my mom... she just... can’t."

He says the words like it’s a heavy, suffocating secret he’s been hiding his entire life. A deep frown settles on your lips.

For one, terrifying second, you can feel his thick wall completely collapsing, just a little bit, letting you see the raw, broken truth of what’s actually happening on the other side.

"It’s up to me to take care of myself," James murmurs, his eyes drifting away from yours. "And Lian."

Your brow furrows. "Who’s Lian?"

"She's my sister."

"What's wrong with her?" you ask, your gaze locked onto the side of his face. He’s actively avoiding eye contact now, his throat swallowing hard.

"It’s a lot to say," he mutters, his shoulder tensing as he tries to be completely done with the conversation.

But you don’t care. You'll listen to him for hours if he lets you. You keep your eyes fixed on him, entirely still, silently waiting for him to open up. James shifts, his eyes darting back to yours, and he notices the pure concern written across your face. He gives in. With a low, painful grunt, he shifts his entire body on the mattress, turning to face you fully now.

"She’s in the hospital," he says, his voice losing its sharp edge. "She used to follow me around all the time. When she found out I was fighting, she thought I was some kind of superhero." A tiny, faint smile touches his lips at the memory. "She looked up to me. So... I usually brought her around when I fought."

The smile fades, replaced by a sudden, sickening shadow. "And..." He stops, his jaw tight. You notice how uncomfortable he starts to look, the memory clawing at him.

"It’s okay," you interrupt gently, reaching out slightly. "You don’t have to explain anymore."

James looks dead into your eyes. He’s never opened up to anyone before, not like this. It’s just not who he is. But as he looks at you, something changes, and he continues anyway, even if the words are heavy and hard to drag out of his throat.

"This dude, Nicholas..." James rasps. "He, uhm... we don’t exactly get along. And so he caught Lian once, trying to get back at me... and he beat her up badly."

Your breath hitches, your hand flying to your mouth. "Oh my god... is she—"

"She’s fine. Well... she’s better now," he clarifies quickly, his eyes darkening. "But she’s gotta get a lot of surgeries to fully recover. And fighting is the only way I can pay for it."

The sheer weight of his reality hangs between you. James looks at your shocked expression, and a small chuckle escapes his lips, trying desperately to lighten the suffocating mood. "But... don’t you want me to fight anyway? With your whole guard dog thing?"

You don’t laugh. The profound concern doesn't leave your face, but you force a small, fragile smile onto your lips as you study the sharp lines of his face. "I just... I don’t want you ending up dead."

The words are entirely too honest.

James doesn't answer immediately. He searches your face, his dark eyes tracking the sincerity in yours, before a sudden, cold look flashes across his features. The guard snaps right back into place.

"Well... it’s not your problem anyway," he says coldly.

Before you can say a word, he abruptly turns his body the other way, presenting his broad back to you as he faces the wall.

"James..." you call out softly.

He doesn't answer. He’s completely still. He isn't used to people actually being there for him, but acting like they care when they really don't. He doesn't know what's real anymore, and he learned a long time ago to block out the entire world no matter what.

Slowly, you turn the other way too, facing your own side of the room. The mattress feels entirely too big now. You lie there in the dark, your heart aching with a profound sadness for him, knowing that even though he's lying right next to you, he’s obviously not there with you enough to let you comfort him.

Sometime during the night, the massive space you’d carefully kept between you and James had completely vanished. You are lying way too close to him, your head practically resting on his chest.

James woke up first.

He’s been awake for minutes, immediately noticing the heavy, warm weight of you sleeping against his side.

He thought he’d be weirded out by it, he thought his instincts would tell him to shove you away, but instead he’s just lying there. Quiet. He looks down, his eyes tracing your features in your sleepy state, studying the softness of your face. He finds himself leaning into the space, his head tilting down just enough to take in your scent.

Then, he notices the slight shift in your breathing. You're starting to wake up.

Instantly, his eyes drop shut. He pretends to still be asleep, his muscles going limp, just to troll you and see exactly how you’d react.

You blink open your eyes, confused at first as your brain tries to process the solid warmth beneath you. Then, you realize. You look up and see his eyes are closed, his sharp jaw relaxed in sleep. A small, helpless smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. Instead of scrambling away, you let out a quiet breath, sinking back down and shifting even closer into his chest.

"What are you doing?"

His deep voice cuts through the quiet room, a smug, low vibration against your cheek.

You jump up instantly, your face exploding in a violent blush. "Oh my god, I'm sorry!" you stammer, frantically trying to scramble out of the bed, but your knee drives straight into his bruised ribs.

James lets out a sharp, agonizing groan, his eyes snapping shut as his hand flies to his side. "Fuck..."

"I'm sorry!" you cry, finally tumbling out of the bed and fleeing the room before you can die of pure embarrassment.

Downstairs, the atmosphere is heavy. You’re sitting at the pristine dining table, your fingers flying across your phone screen, aggressively scrolling through your feed just to give yourself something to look at.

The heavy tread of footsteps echoes in the hall, and James finally joins you, carrying a bowl of cereal. He slides into the chair across from yours.

You don’t look up. You give him absolutely zero attention, keeping your eyes glued to your phone. James pauses, finding the sudden icy treatment weird. He eats a spoonful of cereal, stealing a glance. Then another. He’s finally fed up with the silence, setting his spoon down with a small click.

"You good?"

"Yep," you say, your tone clipping the end of the word. You finally lock eyes with him, your throat tight. "What about you? You look terrible."

It comes out sarcastic but underneath, it’s mostly just the hot, anxious anger from last night bleeding through. You're upset and terrified for him.

James stops eating entirely, taking in the backhanded joke as his jaw sets. "Yeah. Thanks," he replies, his voice dropping into a cold, flat tone.

"Seriously, James," you say, setting your phone face-down on the wood, leaning forward. "You have to stop doing these fights. You’re gonna get yourself killed."

James lets out a harsh, humorless scoff, leaning back in his chair. "Sure. That’s easy for you to say. Sitting up in your castle all day, swiping your daddy’s credit card." He looks dead into your eyes, his gaze dripping with a bitter, defensive finality. "You got no idea what it’s really like."

He pushes his chair back, standing up to leave, the walls snapping right back up around him.

But you’re already moving. The comment sparks something fierce in your chest, and you jump up from the table, throwing yourself into his path to stop him from walking out on you. "Look, James, I know you’re upset, but it’s not—"

"No y/n, you don’t understand shit," he shouts back, anger flashing in his eyes. "Stop acting like you care."

You look up at him, a sharp, physical ache hitting your chest. He thinks you’re performing. He thinks this is a game to you. The frustration boils over, and before you can think, your hand darts out, grabbing a tight fistful of his shirt and violently pulling him down into your space. "I’m not! I just—"

"WHAT?" James snaps, leaning directly into you, his face inches from yours, challenging you to finish the sentence—

Click. The heavy front door suddenly swings open. You both freeze, instantly backing up a step, detangling from each other just as your dad walks into the foyer.

"Forgot my glasses!" your dad calls out, stepping into the dining room. He stops dead, his eyes bouncing between you and the large, bruised teenager standing in his house. "Oh. Who are you?"

"Oh! Dad!" you blurt out, the fake, dazzling smile returning to your face so fast it makes your jaw ache. "This is James! My forensics partner!"

Your dad's eyes crinkle, his brow furrowing as he studies James’s face. "Oh... you look familiar. Have I seen you before?" He takes a step forward, extending a hand to shake.

"Dad, James has been in my class since kindergarten," you say, brushing it off with a casual laugh, gently guiding your dad toward the door. "You’ve definitely seen him a lot."

"Oh. Right," your dad says, checking his watch. He heads back toward the door, stealing one last glance over his shoulder. "Well, have fun with your project!"

"Bye, dad!" you shout.

You both stand completely still, watching through the window until his car pulls out of the driveway and the heavy silence of the house settles back over you.

The second the coast is clear, James spins on his heel, turning his full attention right back to you. The anger from before has shifted into something entirely different.

"So," he rasps, stepping into your space. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing," you say, your voice trembling slightly as you try to de-escalate, not wanting to start the fight back up.

But James clearly wants to start something. He takes another slow, deliberate step, crowding you. "So you weren’t just trying to kiss me?"

"What? No, I..." You look away, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It wasn’t intentional. I meant nothing by it."

"Mm..." James lets out a low, breathy sound, his eyes dark as they trace your face. "So... since it didn’t mean anything..."

He moves fast. Before you can even register the shift, he walks straight into you, his large hands reaching out and gripping your waist firmly. You stumble backward, trying to find space, until the hard edge of the dining table catches you right at the hips. You're trapped. James follows you down, resting his palms flat on the wood on both sides of your body, leaning his entire weight into you until you can taste the heat off his skin.

"Can I do this?" he whispers, staring directly into your eyes, his voice dripping with a deep, provocative challenge.

You straighten your spine, trying with everything you have to regain some form of control over your own body. You look at his lips, your breath hitching. "Yes..." you whisper.

You lean in, closing your eyes, expecting the contact—but James pulls his face away at the last second, teasing you, refusing to give in that easily.

"And this?" he murmurs.

He reaches down, taking your hand in his rough palm, and lifts it to his lips. He presses a slow, soft kiss to your knuckles, and then his lips start tracking upward, moving slowly up the sensitive skin of your arm, tracing a path until he reaches the curve of your neck. He pauses there for a fraction of a second. You can feel his breath, hot and ragged, vibrating against your pulse point.

You melt into his touch instantly. The last of your defense mechanisms crumble, and your hands fly to his shoulders, pulling his heavy body closer, desperate for the friction.

But James stops, his lips brushing your skin as he waits. He wants the words.

"Yes," you breathe softly, your voice breaking.

The approval triggers something in him. He drives his lips against your neck, a deep, bruising kiss that makes you lean back against the table, tilting your head to give him more space. Your breathing is heavy, echoing in the empty room. You shift, your hands sliding up to his jawline, pulling his face up just enough to meet his dark, blown out eyes, and you lean in to finally kiss him for real. Your lips are a millimeter apart, the heat of them touching.

The sharp, violent buzz of his cell phone explodes from his pocket, cutting through like a siren.

You pull back, your eyes snapping open as you roll them, an intense wave of pure irritation flooding your veins. "Fuck..." you hiss, your hands dropping from his shirt. "Why don’t you have on do not disturb?"

James doesn't answer. He lets out a low, frustrated groan, his forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder for a brief second, just absorbing the ruined moment. Finally, he pulls away, reaching into his pocket to check the screen.

The second his eyes hit the glass, his entire expression changes. The playful, dangerous smirk vanishes, his jaw setting into a tight, pale line.

"It’s my sister..." he rasps.

Hearing those words, you stiffen. The irritation evaporates instantly, replaced by a cold wave of guilt and worry. You look at his worried face and nod quickly, stepping back to give him space. "Go, answer it."

He doesn't waste a second, turning and rushing out of the room to take the call.

Left alone in the dining room, you sink back against the edge of the table. You’re still trembling, your skin still hot from where his hands had just been holding your waist, but the ruined moment doesn't matter anymore. All you can think about is the suffocating concern for Lian.

You and James hadn’t spoken properly since the breathless, interrupted moment against the dining table this morning. The tension had just simmered between you all day, thick and heavy, until the final bell.

And now, at the end of the day, you’re standing at your locker. James is right there, hovering completely over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the hallway as his dark eyes lock onto yours.

"We never talked about what happened this morning," he says, a lazy, teasing smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

You feel your cheeks instantly start to heat up, and you desperately try to dodge the memory. "Oh! Yes, your sister..how is—"

James lets out a low, deep chuckle, leaning a fraction closer until his shoulder brushes the metal locker door. "Come on, y/n. You know what I mean."

You bite your lip, a smile forcing its way onto your face. You definitely knew exactly what he meant, but you didn't want to get all flustered in the middle of a crowded hall, so you chose to bring up literally anything else that would let this talk go by.

"Okay, but seriously though..." you ask, your tone shifting as you look up at him, your eyes softening. "Is your sister okay?"

James lets out a quiet sigh, rolling his eyes back because he knows you aren't going to drop it until you get an answer. "Yes," he says, his voice dropping into a rough murmur. "Now back to the other thing."

Your smirk returns, and you meet his gaze fully, refusing to let him win the standoff. "What about it?"

"You wanted to kiss me so bad."

You roll your eyes dramatically, crossing your arms over your chest. "Shut up, you obviously wanted to kiss me too."

"Yeah, yeah..." James teases, his eyes glinting with pure mischief as he tilts his head down. "But you definitely wanted it more."

"Oh, please. You started it and provoked me," you counter, tilting your chin up to maintain your ground.

"And you let me," he fires back instantly.

You stare up at him through your lashes. The crowded hallway around you seems to fade into background noise. The only thing keeping you from reaching out, pulling him down by his collar, and kissing him right here is the simple fact that you’re in public. But honestly? Looking at him right now, you don’t even care anymore.

Before you can even finish the thought, a sudden, violent force crashes into the space.

Kai blindsides James, shoving him hard into the metal lockers. The sound of the impact echoes sharply down the hall.

"What the hell?!" you shout, instantly stepping directly in front of James. You glare at Kai, your blood boiling. "Kai, just leave him alone, jeez! I get that you’re obsessed with me, but—"

"NO!" Kai shouts, his face twisted in a desperate, ugly rage. The volume of his voice causes nearby students to stop and look over. "You’re the one obsessed with me! Doing all this just to make me jealous?!" He steps closer, his eyes wild as he spits out the words. "You fucking bitch."

The insult doesn't even have time to hang in the air.

James moves immediately. He storms forward, pushing past you and shoving Kai back so hard it completely breaks his balance, causing him to crash violently onto the floor.

"JAMES!" you scream, your heart leaping into your throat, completely startled.

James doesn't say a word to you. He stands over Kai, his entire frame rigid with a terrifying, protective fury. "She’s not a bitch. And she’s not trying to make you jealous," James says, his deep voice shaking the walls. "She doesn’t give a shit about you, so fuck off."

Before Kai can even scramble to his feet, James throws a heavy, brutal punch straight to his face.

"James, seriously, STOP!" you shout, your voice cracking.

James isn't listening though. He’s completely gone, tuned out to everything except the raw instinct to hurt the person who just insulted you. He continues to beat Kai down, his fists connecting with sickening, heavy thuds. Everyone is watching now. A thick circle of students forms around them, some people even pulling out their phones to record the chaos.

But James couldn't care less about the crowd. His entire focus is pinned to the single fact that Kai seriously wouldn’t leave you alone. He told you that he’d make sure the guy never bothered you again, and he was going to do exactly that.

"JAMES!" you scream one last time, the sheer violence of it turning your stomach.

Still nothing. You can't bear to watch it anymore, the blood, the crowd, the horror of it all. You turn on your heel and run, sprinting down the hallway toward the exit, desperately wanting to escape the noise.

Behind you, James lands one final, devastating blow before he notices Kai is barely conscious beneath him, his face a swollen mess. "Don’t fuck with her again," James growls, faking one last punch. Kai’s hands instinctively fly up in a trembling, pathetic motion to try and block his face.

As James’s hand hovers, his eyes catch on something shiny wrapped around Kai's wrist. It’s a delicate, silver bracelet way too much to belong to him.

James recognizes it instantly. It's definitely your mother's.

Without hesitation, he reaches down and snatches it off Kai's wrist, tucking it securely into his pocket. He finally pulls back, his breathing ragged as he looks around the crowd for you, but you’re gone.

He sees the sea of shocked faces standing around watching him, but he doesn't give them a second glance. He turns and takes off down the hall, already knowing exactly where you went.

By the time he catches up to you, you've already sprinted all the way home.

"Y/N!" James shouts, his shoes slamming against the stairs as he follows you straight up to your bedroom.

You don’t answer him. You hurl your bedroom door open, your chest heaving with a mixture of terror and furious adrenaline.

The second you cross the threshold, you turn around and try to violently slam the heavy wood shut right in his face, but James is too fast. His hand catches the edge of the door, forcing it back open as he steps inside, shutting it behind him.

You turn around, the hot anger finally creeping up your throat, masking the trembling in your hands. "Never do that again!"

"What?!" James huffs, his chest rising and falling violently as he stares at you. "I told you I was gonna make sure he didn’t fuck with you again y/n!"

"No, I’m done with this!" you shout back, the tears finally burning the backs of your eyes. "I’m telling you now seriously, James. This is the last time I want to see you fighting. Ever!"

"What are you even saying?" James shouts back, his hands gesturing wildly between you, his voice thick with frustration. "You asked me to protect you, and that’s exactly what I did!"

"Yeah! By intimidating him! Not by beating him half to death!" you shout. The words rip out of your chest, and it doesn't sound angry anymore, it comes out sounding like you’re completely terrified.

James jaw sets, his dark eyes fierce. "Yeah, well, he deserved it."

"Yeah, but I just keep thinking about how that could be you in that ring!" you cry out.

All the suffocating anxiety from your dad's words, the blood on his face from last night, it all comes pouring out. "And I know that you said you fight for the money, but I will pay for your sister’s surgeries! I will pay for a new apartment, okay?! But I will not pay for your funeral, you asshole!"

James freezes. He stares at you, his chest heaving, his eyes widening as the weight of what you just screamed sinks into his skin. Slowly, he takes a heavy step forward, closing the distance between you until he’s looming right over you.

You don’t back up this time. You tilt your chin up, glaring at him through your tears. "Why?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, dangerously quiet whisper.

"You know why," you say fiercely, your voice trembling but resolute.

"Say it,"

"Because I fucking care about y—"

He doesn't let you finish. James completely closes the remaining distance, his mouth slamming down onto yours in a desperate, bruising kiss. His large hands come up, framing your jawline and cupping your face with an intense grip.

A gasp escapes your lips, and you immediately bring your arms up, your fingers tangling deep into his hair, pulling him closer. It isn't a slow kiss. It isn't soft. It’s rough, chaotic, and desperately hungry, both of you chasing each other’s mouths like it’s the only thing you’ve been wanting for your entire lives.

His hands slide down the smooth line of your neck, tracking down your sides until they rest heavy and possessive over your hips, crushing your body against his.

The room spins. You finally break the kiss for a fraction of a second, your foreheads leaning together, your breathing ragged. "So..." you whisper against his lips, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. "No more fighting?"

James lets out a shallow, breathless exhale, his eyes dark. "I can’t just take all your dad’s money."

"It can be a loan," you plead, your lips chasing his even as you speak, the friction intoxicating. "But no more illegal fighting. Please."

Before he can argue, your mouth finds his again, diving right back into the heat of it. The kiss deepens, shifting into something so intensely heavy and real that James suddenly gets completely overwhelmed.

The gravity of how much he wants you, combined with the sudden collapse of his lifelong walls, makes his brain short circuit.

He abruptly breaks the kiss, stepping back and sinking heavily into the desk chair right behind him. "OKAY. OKAY!" he pants, throwing his hands out in front of him to keep some form of distance between you.

He’s completely out of breath, his cheeks flushed, unable to even think straight. "Just... lemme think about this first."

That confident dominance you always have rushes through you. You smirk, stepping forward without hesitation, inviting yourself right back into his space.

You slide your legs between his knees, reaching down to take his trembling hands and deliberately placing them right back on your waist.

Then, you lean down, your fingers sliding up the smooth skin of his throat, tilting his head back so he has to look up at you. "No more fighting?” you say, your voice dropping into that beautiful, bossy tone he can never resist.

James tries to catch his breath, his hands tightening on your hips as he stares up at you, completely defeated by the sight of you commanding his space.

"No more fighting," he rasps.

"You promise?" you say, a radiant, triumphant smile spreading across your lips.

"Jeez, you’re relentless," James mutters, a faint, breathless grin finally breaking through his exhaustion as he leans back against the chair. "You think you own me or something, hm?"

"Oh, I do," you say smoothly, leaning down until your breath brushes his nose. "But I think you own me a little now, too."

You lean in and kiss him again, soft and lingering this time.

James groans into the kiss, the last of his restraint snapping. He grips your hips and pulls you down completely, hoisting you up until you're straddling his lap.

His hands find their way down to your ass, squeezing firmly before his palms track back up, feeling the curves of your body through your clothes, memorizing every single inch of you.

Your arms stay wrapped securely around his neck, your fingers anchoring tight into his hair as the kiss turns deep and dizzying.

Suddenly, you pull back, your fingers tightening in his hair to force his head back just enough to meet his blown-out eyes.

"Bed," you say, a sharp, knowing smirk curling your lips.

James stares up at you, a low, dark growl vibrating in his chest as his hands grip your thighs.

He stands up effortlessly, lifting your entire weight with him. You immediately wrap your legs securely around his waist, your arms locked around his shoulders, as he carries you across the quiet room toward the bed.

When your back finally hits the mattress, the impact is soft. James follows you down instantly, his frame crowding out the rest of the room as he settles between your thighs.

"Still want to play the boss princess?" he murmurs, his voice low, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

You let out a faint smirk, your fingers tightening into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down until his lips brush yours. "Always," you whisper.

James lets out a dark, low growl, and the last shred of his restraint violently snaps.

He drives his mouth down onto yours, claiming your lips in a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like pure hunger. His tongue slides against yours in lazy, heavy strokes, claiming every single inch of your mouth while his weight presses you firmly down into the pillows.

He kisses down your neck, his lips pressing soft marks into your sensitive skin, making a shiver race straight down your spine.

Slowly, he takes off his shirt, exposing the heavy bruising on his ribs, then helps you out of your own clothes until there is nothing left between you.

He splits your knees with his thighs, crowding you completely, he leans down, his mouth tracing a path of burning kisses down your jawline to your throat, while his hand slides between your legs.

His fingers dive straight into your soaking wetness, finding your sensitive clit and frictioning it in deep, heavy circles.

A sharp, broken gasp rips from your throat, your fingers clawing into the sheets.

He doesn't edge you or pull away, he drives you higher and higher, his fingers moving in a relentless, punishing rhythm that has your hips blindly chasing his hand.

“Look at me y/n."

You force your eyes open, your vision hazy with tears of sheer overstimulation as you look up at him.

"James... please—" you choke out, arching your back against his hand.

"Not yet," he murmurs, a slow smirk touching his lips as he deliberately slows the pace down, playing with your leverage.

Only when you are completely breathless does he pull back murmuring low, possessive praises that make your heart ache.

He leans over the edge of the bed to pull his bag closer, unzipping it to retrieve a condom.

After rolling it onto his length with ease, he positions himself between your thighs again. His eyes never leave yours as he finally pushes inside.

"Fuck, y/n..." he groans, his jaw tensing as he pauses for a second, letting you adjust to the size of him before he starts to move.

He moves inside you with slow, deep thrusts that shake the entire frame of the bed. He keeps you entirely pinned, one hand wrapped possessively over your hip to keep you in place while his other hand stays loose around your neck.

You're a sobbing, trembling mess beneath him, completely undone by the sheer power of his movements. Every time you get close to the edge, your voice crying out into the quiet room, he slows his rhythm down, prolonging the sweet torture.

He watches every single expression on your face, consuming your reactions with a dark, heavy satisfaction.

"I've got you," he growls, his chest rising and falling heavily as he delivers three more deep, devastating thrusts. "Come for me princess."

The approval triggers the final cascade. Your orgasm hits hard like a physical shockwave, your walls clenching and spasming violently around his thick cock. Tears spill down your cheeks as the pleasure crashes through your entire body, your arousal soaking the condom.

James groans deeply, his jaw clenching as he comes hard, thick pulses filling the condom as his hips stutter and grind deeply against your crashing waves.. "Fuck—you did so good."

He collapses heavily against you, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his ragged breathing the only sound left in the room.

For a long time, neither of you move. The sweat cools on your skin as the high slowly fades, leaving a heavy, profound quiet in its place. Slowly, James pulls out, carefully disposing of the condom before sliding right back under the duvet next to you.

He reaches out, his large arm sliding under your neck to pull you securely against his side. You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart. His fingers gently trace the skin of your bare shoulder, his touch light, comforting, and entirely real.

The air in the bedroom is warm. You and James lay entangled in the sheets, both of your bodies hugging tight against each other as the high from earlier finally settles into something comfortable.

Your fingers move lazily, gently stroking through his thick hair while his large hand moves in a slow, soothing rhythm up and down your bare side.

"Mm... we took way too long to do this," James murmurs, his voice low and raspy against your shoulder.

"Yeah?" You let out a soft, breathless laugh. "It’s your fault, by the way."

"Mine?" He shifts slightly, a smile breaking across his sharp features. "How?"

"Mm, I don’t know... maybe because you kept trying to get yourself killed!" You exaggerate the words, your voice pitching up playfully, but the bright, radiant smile on your face doesn't leave for a second.

You both laugh, the sound quiet and intimate in the dark room.

"Yeah," James breathes, his eyes softening as he stares down at you. Suddenly, he shifts his weight, his large frame effortlessly moving until he’s hovering completely above you, trapping you beneath his chest.

He leans down, catching your lips in a deep, lingering kiss that melts whatever air you had left in your lungs.

You break the kiss after a while, panting slightly as you try to catch your breath against his mouth. "Wait... I’ll be right back."

You press one last, quick peck to his lips, playfully rolling him off your body.

James doesn't question you. He just sinks back into your pillows, his eyes tracking your every move as you slide out of bed and walk toward the door.

You steal one last glance at him over your shoulder before you fully step out into the hallway, and the look on his face makes your heart swell. He looks like he’s ready to stand up and follow you with absolutely zero hesitation, not even knowing where you're going.

Left alone, James sits back against the headboard, deciding just to wait for you, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

BZZZZ.

The sharp, violent vibration of his phone cuts through the quiet. James blinks, looking around the mattress for the device, not entirely sure where he’d tossed it earlier.

He leans over the edge of the bed, finally spotting it face up on the hardwood floor where it had fallen out of his jeans. He reaches down, picking it up.

Nicholas: let’s fight tomorrow night

Nicholas: winner takes 20k

James stares at the screen, his jaw tightening. He types out a response instantly, not even wanting to entertain the thought.

James: nah im out

He tosses the phone onto the nightstand, leaning back carefully against the pillows with a low groan. His ribs are still incredibly sore from the last fight.

BZZZZ.

Another text. James lets out a heavy sigh, staring at the ceiling. He debates just leaving it alone, he doesn't want to get sucked back in, and he definitely doesn't want you to find out.

But a strange knot forms in his stomach. He glances toward the bedroom door to make sure you aren't coming back yet, before reluctantly picking the phone back up.

Nicholas: damn why?

Nicholas: still taking care of ur sister?

Nicholas: what abt ur new girlfriend? u think she’d wanna fight

James reads the words, his face completely blank, his breathing freezing in his chest. Then, the final text pops up.

Nicholas: maybe i should just find out for myself, yea?

James sits up instantly. The blood in his veins turns to pure ice as he reads the last line over and over again. Nicholas knows about you.

The sickening image of the same monster who put his little sister in the hospital coming after you, hunting you down just to get to him, is something James would not let happen.

His fingers fly across the screen, his jaw locked in a lethal line.

James: i’ll be there.

He throws the blankets off his legs, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Panic and adrenaline flood his system as he frantically gathers his scattered clothes from the floor, trying to hurry, desperately needing to get out of the house before you find him leaving.

But the door clicks open.

You walk back into the bedroom, a soft smile on your face. "Hey, I—"

The words die in your throat. You freeze in the doorway, your eyes dropping to see James aggressively pulling his shirt over his head, gathering his things.

"Uhm?" you whisper, the warmth completely draining from your face as you look at his hurried movements. "You going somewhere?"

James doesn't answer. He can't look you in the eye.

The heavy silence tells you everything you need to know. "James..." you walk up to him, your hands trembling, your voice already shaking violently. "I said no more fighting. You promised."

"I know," he rasps, keeping his back to you as he continues to shove his things into his bag. He forces his voice to stay steady, though his chest is screaming. "after this... I promise."

"No! Don't say you promise if you don't mean it!"

James finally turns around, his eyes wild, desperate for you to understand without him having to say the words out loud. "I really am done after I finish this."

“So what?" You take a sharp step forward, a bitter, agonizing sob escaping your lips as the worst possible thought takes root in your brain. "You lied... just to get in my pants, hm?"

"No! No, it’s not like that!" James snaps, stepping into your space, his hands reaching out as if he wants to grab you but forcing himself to drop them. "It's not like that at all. I just... I have to do this one more time."

"I told you I’d give you the money!" you cry out, the tears finally streaming down your face, your hands clenching into fists. "Why are you still doing this?!"

"It’s not about the money, y/n!" James shouts back, the frustration finally ripping through his throat.

The room goes completely dead silent. James takes a ragged breath, trying with everything he has to calm down because the last thing he wants is to get angry with you. He looks at your tear stained face, his voice dropping into a raw, hollow whisper.

"It’s him. Nicholas... he’s the one that put my sister in the hospital." He swallows the lump in his throat. "And he’s not gonna stop fucking with us until I finish it."

You stare up at him, your chest heaving. The name echoes in your mind, but the terror of losing James is too loud, too suffocating to let you think rationally. You're hurt, you're terrified, and you feel completely abandoned just moments after giving him everything.

"Okay. Fine," you say, your voice dropping into a cold, trembling whisper as you fight back the rest of your tears. "If you wanna leave, then leave."

James blinks, his shoulders tensing.

"But don’t come back here," you spit out. "I don’t ever wanna see you again."

"Y/N..." James steps forward, his voice cracking, completely blindsided by the venom in your tone. "Come on, don’t be like this."

You don’t say another word. You just shake your head, turning on your heel and walking straight out of your room, refusing to stand there and watch him walk away from you.

He stands alone in the center of your room, the quiet pressing heavily against his ears. He hesitates, his fist clenching as he stares at the empty doorway, a massive part of him screaming to run after you.

But he looks down at his phone, reminded of the threat against your life, and he knows he has to do this. He has to protect you, even if it means you’ll hate him forever.

Just as he’s about to leave, he stops. He remembers the heavy piece of metal tucked safely inside his front jeans pocket from earlier today.

Slowly, James digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out the delicate, silver bracelet.

He looks at it for a brief second, his thumb tracing the metal that belonged to your mother, before carefully placing it on the dark wood of the nightstand right next to your pillow.

Without looking back, he walks out and disappears into the cold night.

Later that night, the house is completely quiet, and you’re sitting in the middle of your bed crying your absolute ass off. The tears won't stop. You didn’t think it would affect you so deeply, telling him to leave and never to come back.

A part of you wanted so desperately to understand, to just let him do this one last fight and come right back to you. But the imagery of him covered in blood, the memory of his ragged breathing and his bruised ribs... it was something you simply could not continue to see. You couldn't bear the thought of watching him destroy himself.

The door quietly clicks open. Your dad steps in, checking up on you.

"Hey, y/nnie," he says softly, his face falling, already feeling terrible for you before he even knows any of the details.

"Hey, dad," you whisper, quickly wiping your face with the back of your hand, trying to hide the tears.

"What’s wrong, babygirl?" he asks, walking over and sitting on the edge of your mattress, his hand reaching out to gently stroke your hair.

You sniffle, looking down at your lap. "It’s nothing. I’m fine, I just..."

He studies your face for a moment. "Is it that kid from forensics?"

You hesitate, then give a small, miserable nod.

"Wanna talk about it?"

You shake your head, your throat too tight to drag the words out.

"Can I help in any way?" he asks, shifting his position towards you more. "I can help, you know. I can have that kid arrested with one phone call," he teases.

A small laugh escapes your lips despite yourself, the heavy atmosphere breaking for a split second.

"Alright, well... I ordered some thai food," your dad says, his tone softening as he pushes himself up from the bed. "Wanna come down? We can watch your favorite anime?"

You nod your head frantically, finally finding enough voice to force the words out, even if it isn’t much. "Yeah."

Your dad smiles warmly. But as he turns toward the door, his eyes catch on something catching the light on the dark wood of your nightstand.

"Hey... did this break?"

You sit up instantly, your heart stopping in your chest. You hadn't even noticed it being there before. You look over, and your breath hitches violently.

It's your mother's silver bracelet.

"Oh! No, I... uhm," you stammer, your brain scrambling for an excuse as you reach out, your fingers trembling as you snatch it up and press the cold metal tightly into your palm. "I took it off when I was finishing up homework. It was getting in the way."

"Oh, okay," your dad says, completely buying the lie. He gives you one last smile from the doorway. "Well, come down when you're ready, okay?"

"Yeah," you nod, the sadness from before completely evaporating from your veins.

The second the door shuts, you stare down at the silver chain in your hand. James. You remember him resting his hand on your arm and telling you so sincerely that he’d get your bracelet back if he could. And he really did.

The anger disappears. You had to see him, no matter how mad you were, no matter how bad you didn’t want him doing this. You couldn’t just give up on him all because of a stupid fight.

The next day, you get up immediately, your mind entirely set on finding James and bringing him back home with you.

You don't know the exact streets, but you force yourself to remember the twists and turns from a while ago—the grimy, industrial grid that led to the abandoned warehouse James fought in. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you navigate the empty gravel roads, praying that he’ll be there.

When you finally pull up and step into the damp, echoing structure, the space is mostly empty, only a few people around getting ready for their fights. You walk around the perimeter, your eyes frantically scanning the corners for his familiar, broad shoulders.

Suddenly, a heavy shadow cuts across the concrete. A tall, heavily built man notices you instantly, dropping his duffel bag and walking straight up to you.

"Well, hello," he says, a slow, predatory grin stretching across his face.

"Fuck off," you snap, entirely uninterested in dealing with a stranger.

The man lets out a low chuckle, raising his hands but stepping directly into your path anyway. "Chill. Are you lost or something?" he asks, his tone dripping with a smug, mocking smirk.

"No," you say, tilting your chin up. "I'm looking for James."

The second that name leaves your lips, something shifts violently in the man’s expression.

His smirk tightens, his dark eyes instantly sharpening as he becomes entirely more interested in you than he was a second ago. He studies your face, realizing exactly who you are to James.

"Well, as you can see," the man says, gesturing around the space behind him, "he’s not here."

You swallow the lump of disappointment in your throat, keeping your posture stiff. "Yeah... I see."

"But uhm..." The man steps closer, his voice dropping. "He’ll be here tonight. We got a fight... so you should come."

Your spine straightens immediately. The anxiety in your chest morphs into a cold, sharp focus.

You look at the man's arrogant stance, the realization hitting, this has to be him. This is the guy James is so violently eager to fight.

"I’ll let him know you stopped by, though," Nicholas says, a dark, sickening glint in his eyes as he turns to walk away. "Me and James were, uh... good friends."

A deep shudder runs down your spine, but you turn on your heel and leave the warehouse.

As you step out into the sunlight, your fist tightens around your mother's bracelet.

You would be back there tonight, because you were going to bring James back with you, no matter what it took.

Inside the dimly lit gym, the air smells thick of sweat, old leather, and dust. James is by the heavy bag.

He isn't paying attention to his surroundings at all, entirely consumed by the memory of the way you looked at him when you told him to leave—until the sharp, echoing sound of slow clapping cuts through the empty room from behind him.

He turns around, his muscles instantly locking up, startled.

"Woah, look at you!" Nicholas teases, stepping out of the shadows with a mocking grin plastered across his face.

James’s face drops into a lethal stare. He takes a heavy step forward, closing the distance. "Why are you here?"

Nicholas doesn't care about the hostility. He just shrugs, casually leaning his shoulder against the brick wall, entirely ready to start fucking with James's head.

"Ya girl came by the warehouse earlier," he smirks, tilting his head up. "She was looking for you, but... she got me instead."

James freezes. The blood in his veins instantly turns to pure fire. "Leave her out of this..." he says, his voice shaking with a terrifying, protective rage. The veins in his neck are already popping out, thick and taut, as he storms closer to Nicholas’s face.

Nicholas just raises his hands, laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. "Chill, buddy. I didn’t do anything... yet."

James keeps his heated expression locked onto him, clearly not amused by Nicholas's twisted humor at all.

"Seriously, relax. Look, she wanted to see you, so... I invited her to the fight tonight," Nicholas says, shrugging his shoulders like it’s absolutely no big deal.

James rolls his head back, an incredibly irritated groan escaping his lips. "Why’d you have to bring her into this?"

"Just wanted her to see how much of a monster her boy toy really is.”

The words hit James like a physical blow. Instantly, his mind flashes back to your bedroom, the tears streaming down your face, the broken sound of your voice screaming that you didn't want to pay for his funeral.

He remembers how much you absolutely hate seeing him get hurt. He can't let you see him like that.

"Nah..." James rasps, his eyes hardening into cold stone. "Fight's off."

"Well.. fuck man," Nicholas says, his face twisting into a mask of genuine, exaggerated disappointment. He sighs, shaking his head as he pulls his back away from the wall. "Well, now I have to find another way to get to her."

James’s breath hooks in his throat.

"I’ll have to find out where she lives," Nicholas muses aloud, tapping his chin mockingly. "Get her number—"

"FUCK OFF!" he yells taking one final step forward until he is completely crowding Nicholas’s space, his fists clenched hard. "Leave her alone. Seriously."

"Ouuu," Nicholas murmurs, completely impressed with how hostile he’s actually getting him. He loves the leverage. He loves knowing exactly which wire to pull to piss James off.

"You know what?" He starts, a sickening grin spreading across his lips. "Fine. I’ll leave her alone."

James doesn't calm down, he stands there, his chest heaving, fully expecting something else to come with a statement like that.

"As long as you come to the fight tonight... and win," Nicholas adds, his voice getting louder at the end. "I stay out of your life. And hers! For good."

James stares dead into his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic, lethal rhythm against his ribs.

"But if not..." He drags out the words, slowly clicking his tongue against his teeth as his voice drops into a low whisper.

"Then I got something real special. Just for her."

The rage coursing through James's body right now is loud enough to deafen him, but he forces himself to stay entirely still. He shuts his eyes for a split second, knowing that starting something right now will only make things worse.

"I’ll see ya tonight, kid," Nicholas says, patting James’s shoulder mockingly before turning on his heel and walking off.

The second the door clicks shut, the composure completely drains from James's face. Visibly pissed off, his eyes wild with adrenaline, he runs straight across the gym floor to where his duffel bag is sitting.

He rips his phone out of the pocket, his fingers aggressively punching in a number.

He presses the phone to his ear, his breathing heavy as he waits for the line to connect.

"Hello?” he says into the phone the second someone picks up, his voice tight and dripping with a cold, desperate finality.

You walk into the warehouse again later that night, already fully prepared to watch James get himself hurt.

But honestly? You didn’t care anymore. You were entirely set on leaving with him tonight.

You walk further into the building, scared out of your ass from all the screaming and chanting echoing off the iron walls.

The air is thick with the stench of cheap beer, sweat, and smoke. You push your way through the rowdy crowd, your eyes frantically scanning the room for James, until you find him.

He’s already inside the chain link ring, standing face to face with Nicholas.

You don’t hesitate for a single second. You sprint straight through the sea of bodies, rushing right up to his side of the ring.

"James!" you shout, your voice piercing through the noise.

He turns the second he hears your voice, his eyes widening as his heart completely drops into his stomach. He handles the fence, leaning down toward you.

"You need to leave now!" he commands, his tone stripped of any rudeness, sounding completely protective.

"I’m not leaving!" you cry back, your hands gripping the cold metal of the fence.

"Y/N!"

"Not without you!"

James looks down at you from behind the wire mesh, staring into your tear filled, stubborn eyes, and he instantly realizes there is absolutely no changing your mind.

He let out a heavy, defeated sigh. "Alright. As soon as I win... run."

You nod frantically, your breathing heavy, your heart hammering against your ribs. "We run."

He gives you a firm nod, taking one final, deep look at your face before turning back around to face the center of the ring.

A woman steps between the two fighters, holding them back by their chests. "Alright, y’know what’s up," she announces loudly to the roaring crowd. "No rules. No rounds. And don’t expect anyone to save you."

The second she backs out of the center, the fight begins.

James doesn't even wait for a signal. He lunges forward, aggressively pushing Nicholas back the exact second she moves.

Nicholas stumbles, but he just lets out a loud, mocking laugh, ready to start the show, especially now that he knows you're standing at the edge of the cage to watch.

"Ohh, you're not fucking around today, huh?" he teases, hopping on his toes as he begins to circle the ring. "You ready to lose in front of our girl?"

James doesn't take the bait. He stays as calm as he can, entirely relying on his anger to carry him through this whole thing.

Suddenly, Nicholas rushes in. But James is faster, he throws a devastating punch straight to Nicholas’s eye. He yells out in pain, stumbling back, but the rage blinds him and he rushes right back in, throwing a wild flurry of punches, James dodging every single strike and returning them with brutal, bone-snapping precision.

He’s doing so well. Watching his form, a sudden spark of genuine hope flares in your chest.

James rushes in this time, landing a heavy punch across Nicholas’s face. But as he tries to follow it up with a second strike, Nicholas anticipates the move. He shifts his weight, grabbing James’s arm, violently pulling him forward into a tight headlock, and drives his knee straight into James’s face.

James hits the canvas hard. Your heart leaps into your throat, a gasp escaping your lips. But James scrambles, getting up quickly, only to find Nicholas already charging at him.

James moves out of the way just enough to catch him, spinning Nicholas around and violently pinning his broad back against the fence.

Nicholas groans under the pressure, twisting his body to slip out of the position. He swings a wild punch, but he misses entirely, and James seizes the opening, driving his forehead forward in a headbutt.

Nicholas loses his balance for a split second, his vision swimming, but as James throws another fist to finish him, Nicholas catches it in his palm, using his sheer body weight to push James down onto the mat.

You hate this so much you can barely breathe. Your fingers are dug so tightly into the wire fence your knuckles are white.

James is struggling on the ground, trying desperately to push his weight up, and Nicholas takes the sudden opportunity to walk right over to your section of the fence.

"Hey," Nicholas smirks down at you, leaning against the wire, completely unfazed by the chaos. "Don’t be scared. It’s gonna be okay... I’ll be able to comfort you soon." He winks, blowing you a sickening kiss.

You barely even register what the hell he’s saying, your eyes completely locked onto James on the floor.

Nicholas turns his attention back to James, his face darkening. "Get up," he mutters.

James tries to move, but the exhaustion is heavy.

“I SAID GET UP!"

The crowd grows deafening, screaming and stomping their feet for both fighters.

James is still struggling to find his footing, and Nicholas steps in, delivering a heavy, punishing kick straight to his bruised ribs, knocking him back down onto the floor.

James groans, trying to pull himself up again, but Nicholas reaches down, grabbing him by his leg to drag him backward, stopping his momentum.

But James uses his free leg and kicks back with everything he has, his foot connecting heavily with Nicholas's leg, knocking the older guy down onto his back.

"Come on, get up!" you cry out, violently banging your fists against the metal fence.

James forces his body up as fast as he can, marching straight over to Nicholas, who is also scrambling to his feet.

They are both back up now, settling right back into their fighting stances. Nicholas rushes in first, but James anticipates the movement perfectly, he blocks the oncoming strike and drives a punch straight into Nicholas’s stomach.

James traps his arm, locking him in place as he drives punch after punch into his ribs.

Nicholas tries to punch back, but James catches his wrist, pulls him close, and delivers one final, crushing headbutt.

Nicholas stumbles backward immediately, his legs turning to jelly. James rushes in, throwing a heavy kick that sends him crashing down onto the floor.

A triumphant smile breaks across your face, the hope rushing back into your veins as you see James back in control.

James drops down on top of him, straddling Nicholas's chest, and begins punching him continuously.

He isn't holding back anymore. Every single ounce of his strength, every single punch he delivers, is fueled by years of absolute torment.

All he can think about is how horrible this guy had made his life, so every punch went to that. For his little sister, for you, and for himself.

Nicholas’s head lolls back. He’s completely out.

The crowd erupts into a violent cheer, seeing the undisputed king of the warehouse knocked out cold on the ground.

You cheer too, letting out a loud, breathless scream of pure relief, so incredibly glad this horrific nightmare is finally over.

James doesn't even think about celebrating. The second the referee woman steps in to acknowledge his win, he ignores the crowd, sprinting straight over to your side of the cage and throwing the door open. "GO!"

"Not without you!" you shout back over the roaring noise of the arena.

Suddenly, a loud, mechanical crash echoes from the front of the building. The heavy warehouse doors are violently thrown open, and blue and red lights flash against the dirty windows.

“POLICE! DON'T MOVE!"

The crowd instantly descends into chaos. Everyone takes off sprinting toward the back exits.

James doesn't waste any time, he hurls himself out of the ring, grabs your hand and runs out into the dark night with you.

You guys run the entire way back to your neighborhood, your lungs burning, the high-voltage adrenaline never leaving your systems.

The moment you finally cross into the safety of your porch, you turn around and immediately pull him into a desperate hug.

“You won, oh my god!" you say, a breathless laugh escaping you, though your voice is still a little anxious from the madness of the raid.

James wraps his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, hugging you back with everything he has.

You pull back just enough to look into his dark eyes, and before he can say a word, you lean in and kiss him.

"I'm so proud of you," you murmur against his mouth, breaking the kiss for a short second.

James manages to pull back, his chest heaving as he looks down at you. "I told you to go."

"And I told you I wasn't leaving without you," you counter, tilting your chin up and leaning right back in to kiss him again.

"You're so... fucking... stubborn," James murmurs against your mouth, the words broken up by the heavy kisses he’s returning.

You pull back completely to look up at him, both of you just staring into each other's eyes for a quiet, profound moment, before leaning back in for a much softer kiss.

James's lips slowly track down your jawline, moving down to press a warm kiss to your neck.

Your breath hitches violently at the sudden sensation, but as his bloody shoulder brushes your collarbone, you playfully push him back a bit, suddenly very aware of the state he’s in.

“You're getting blood all over me," you laugh, looking up at his messy face.

James smiles down at you, his eyes glinting with a soft warmth you’ve never seen in them before. "It’s okay. I’ll clean you up when we get inside."

You lean in, kissing him one more time, a low, quiet moan escaping your throat as his hands grip your waist—

“Ahem.”

You both pull apart immediately, your hearts taking a violent leap into your throats.

Standing on the porch, your dad steps out of the house, crossing his arms as he eyes the two of you mid-kiss.

"Oh! Dad!" you blurt out, your brain short-circuiting as you instantly smooth down your hoodie, putting on your best sweet, innocent daughter act. "You know James."

Your dad doesn't look angry. Instead, a calm, knowing expression settles over his face. "Yeah. I just got off the phone with the sheriff. He said the cops were a little late."

He looks directly at James, his brow furrowing slightly. "I thought you said the fight started at midnight?" he asks, his tone confused.

You blink, your head bouncing between the two of them. "You must’ve heard me wrong sir," James says smoothly, his voice rough as he still tries to catch his breath.

"Hm..." Your dad takes a step forward, eyeing the dark crimson staining James's knuckles. "And, uh... the blood? That from the dude they found laying in the warehouse?"

You watch the intense exchange between the two of them, completely confused. Your hands drop to your sides. "Uhm? Hello? What the hell are you two talking about?" you ask, looking at them both.

Your dad looks down at you, a soft smile touching his lips. "Your friend here had a hot tip for me."

James looks at you, his jaw relaxing. "In exchange for immunity."

Your dad nods in confirmation.

"And... paying for my little sister's hospital bills," James adds softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

He didn't just go to fight, he went to set a trap with the only person who had the legal power to protect you both. Your dad.

Your dad nods again, smiling proudly at the both of you.

Your face lights up completely, a massive wave of pure joy washing over you. You sprint over to your dad, throwing your arms around his neck in a tight hug. "Thank you," you say calmly, the words bursting with a deep, genuine gratitude. He hugs you back warmly, patting your shoulder.

The second he lets go, you run right back over to James wrapping your arm around his waist and hugging him tightly.

"Well, I gotta go down to the station," your dad says, pulling his car keys out of his pocket with a heavy sigh. "It’s a lot of paperwork to process a raid like that."

You and James both nod quickly.

"There’s food in the house. Don’t wait up for me," your dad says, giving you a final wink before walking off the porch toward his sedan.

The moment his car pulls out of the driveway and disappears down the street, you turn fully into James's space.

You pull him down by his shirt, diving straight back into a deep, giggly kiss.

James lets out a low, breathless laugh against your mouth, his large arms wrapping completely around you to pull you impossibly closer against him, chasing your lips with an intense, happy desperation.

You finally break the kiss, your fingers looping through his, and pull him eagerly into the warm, quiet house.

Later that night, the chaos from the fight feels like a distant memory. You’re sitting on the fluffy rug of your bedroom floor, the bright plastic first-aid kit popped open between your knees, carefully cleaning the raw, split knuckles on James's hand.

James sits closely beside you, his long legs folded on the floor, watching your face with a quiet, heavy intensity as you press an alcohol wipe to his skin.

He suddenly lets out a sharp hiss, violently pulling his hand back when you accidentally hit a raw, tender spot. "Ow!"

"Come on," you scold softly, a gentle command in your voice as you reach right back out for his wrist.

A small, knowing smile breaks across your face at his dramatic reaction, and James catches it.

His tough exterior melts instantly, a smile breaking across his features as he willingly gives you his hand again, letting his arm go completely lax in your grip.

You dab a fresh piece of gauze against his knuckles, tilting your chin up. "So... when did you tip off my dad, you little snitch?" you tease.

James lets out a low, breathy chuckle, his eyes tracking the movement of your fingers.

"I knew Nicholas was never gonna leave us alone." He pauses, his voice dropping into a quiet, rough murmur that vibrates straight through your chest. "Well... mainly you."

Your heart does a small, happy flip. "Oh?" you press, leaning closer into his space, your tone dripping with playful arrogance.

"And since when do you care, hm?"

"Since you marched into that warehouse and made me your bitch," he says. The words come out sounding aggressive, rough around the edges, but the deep, teasing smirk on his face completely gives him away.

"Yeah?" You let out a loud, melodic laugh.

Before he can even answer, you shift your weight, you climb straight into his lap, straddling his thighs.

The second your weight settles on him, James doesn't even hesitate. His large hands instinctively move straight to your waist, his grip firm and possessive as he locks you securely on top of him, anchoring you to his chest.

You tilt your head down, your hands coming up to gently tangle your fingers deep into his messy hair, forcing him to keep his blown-out eyes locked on yours.

"Yeah..." James rasps, his breathing instantly hitching as he stares up at you, completely defeated and loving every second of it.

“What can I say? I like 'em bossy."

A triumphant smirk curls the corners of your lips as you lean down, your breath brushing his lips.

"Mm. Good boy," you whisper.

And then you close the distance, catching his mouth in a deep, lingering kiss.

“hey outside clothes!” you hissed at him.

he groans, lifting his head briefly to shoot you an exhausted glare before slowly peeling himself off the bed to remove his jacket and untuck his shirt. he leaves them in a messy pile by your desk before flopping back onto the bed, this time pulling your pillow over his face. “happy now?”

you nagged him just to lift up the mood, but it turns out he’s really tired. your face frowns a bit as you gaze at his tired form upon realizing it. “do you want me to cook you something?” 

“you don’t have to... i don’t want to trouble you.” he runs a hand through his disheveled hair, looking at you with tired but grateful eyes. but his stomach chooses that moment to growl loudly, giving him away.

“let me cook you some hmm?” you chuckle softly. as you stand up from the bed. you had the urge to pat his hair, you always had because he really had soft hair. you decide to act on it as your hands card through his now golden brown spiky hair. “what do you want to eat, hmm? there might be stores that are still open for ingredients,” you mumble with such warmth in your tone, while playing with his hair as he rested like a tired puppy on your sheets.

his shoulders immediately relax under your touch, the familiar gesture from the old times instantly soothing his frayed nerves. he leans slightly into your hand, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he catches himself and straightens up. “anything’s fine... something warm. i’m so tired i could fall asleep standing up.”

you laughed at his statement. “no cravings? okay, i’ll just make something with what i have.”

“your food always tastes best anyway... don’t work too hard. wake me up when it’s done…” james hums in agreement. 

you walk out of your bedroom to go to the kitchen to cook, as you hear a soft thud as he likely collapses back onto your bed, already half-asleep. you decide to cook seaweed soup, fresh steamed rice, and some banchan already prepared. just a simple meal. and when you’re finished, you gently knock on your own bedroom door. 

“james...?”

james shuffles from the bed slowly, finally registering the smell of warm food, and instantly drops the pillow back onto the bed. rubbing his eyes cutely with the back of his hand, he walks toward you, looking like an overgrown sleepy child rather than a globally famous idol. he had such adorable bed head.

"smells heavenly..." he mumbles, practically gravitating toward the kitchen. "you're the best, wifey.”

and just like that, there it is again. that dangerously casual little word that makes your entire brain short-circuit.

because seriously... what are you two?

it’s the question that haunts you at the worst possible times, replaying in your mind over and over whenever he says things like this so naturally, like calling you that is second nature. because what exactly are you supposed to do with a man who throws around words that sound suspiciously domestic, acts like your space is his safe haven, and somehow keeps blurring the line between best friend and something that feels a little too close to be just that?

with practiced ease, james plants the softest kiss on your forehead before gravitating toward the kitchen, making you blush. your gaze lingers on his form as he disappears down the hallway. james is always unguarded around you, always has been. you've seen him at his worst; whether sick, tired, stressed, and he's never cared if you see him like that.

“how did the redred promotions go? you guys made a lot of guests and show visits this time.” you ask before joining him at the table.

james sighs. “it was exhausting. we did like a gazillion guest appearances this month alone.”

"yeah i watched every single video." you chuckled, "the GQ interview was funny, especially when you read about why your visuals always go viral. yet, you didn't answer.”

it made him snort, a small smile tugging at his lips as he remembers the interview. "yeah, i couldn't exactly say 'because I'm ridiculously handsome' without sounding like an arrogant jerk." he says, rolling his eyes. 

“and you’re so different in real life,” you comment with a smile.

"that's because you see the real me," he says between mouthfuls of seaweed soup, looking completely at home. "the polished idol version is just a performance. you get the exhausted, messy, annoying version." he taps his spoon against his bowl lightly. "you're literally the only person who treats me like normal james.”

"yeah sometimes i'd like the polished idol james too." you tease, while subtly adding more vegetables to his soup. into which, his eyes catches your hand moving to add vegetables, knowing exactly what you're doing without needing to look. he doesn't protest, just letting you pamper him like you always have.

"you can have the polished version anytime you want," he chuckles, tapping his spoon against yours lightly. "just turn on tv or look at our instagram. the messy version is exclusive for you.” he answers at you proudly.

james raises an eyebrow, a teasing smirk playing on his lips as he leans back in his chair. "you want me to be charming and perfect for you right now?" he straightens up dramatically, smoothing back his messy hair and switching his expression to his signature 'idol face' all bright smiles and attentive eyes. you were kind of glad that they took off his veneers and returned his gummy smile that you loved so much.

you laughed softly, "it's not working.”

his perfect mask instantly cracks, collapsing into a sleepy, unbothered grin. james drops the act immediately, slumping back over his soup like a ragdoll. "harsh. the literal world falls for that face and you just laugh at me." he pouts slightly, spooning more vegetables into his mouth.

"hehe i was just playing with ya, don't worry, you can be anything you want with me.”

james instantly melts at your words, the famous idol persona completely forgotten as he leans his chin on his hand, looking at you with soft, affectionate eyes. "that's exactly why i come here," he murmurs, "you're literally my favorite person in the entire world. i can be messy, annoying, dramatic, and you just accept it.”

somewhere between teasing remarks, james notices something he’s quietly picked up on for years, you rarely talk about yourself. somehow, the conversation always circles back to him: his promotions, his schedules, his idol life. and while he knows you never complain, never interrupt, and always listen like his thoughts actually matter... he’s starting to realize how often you carefully sidestep your own.

so this time, he decides not to let you.

“hey,” he calls softly, noticing the subtle shift in your demeanor. he tilts his head slightly, studying you with a gentler expression. “you always listen to me ramble about my idol stuff, but you never really talk about yourself much. what’s going on in your life lately?”

“everything’s good in uni. are you doing your schoolworks too?”

james nods reluctantly, appreciating the gentle redirection of the topic back to him. He knows you well enough to understand that you're not one to open up easily about your personal life. “yeah, i’m managing.”

“that’s good.” you replied.

his brow furrowing slightly as he senses your reluctance to share, james watches you for a moment. “your uni friends treating you okay?”

“yeah... but my club committee members aren’t.” you sigh, a small pout tugging at your lips as you try to brush it off like it’s nothing: like the late nights, mounting pressure, and quiet frustration haven’t been slowly wearing you down. you say it casually, almost teasingly, as if downplaying it enough might make your uni stress sound smaller than it actually feels.

his expression immediately shifts to concern, his idol mask completely disappearing. “club members giving you a hard time?” he knows how dedicated you are to your university club, how much it means to you. the fact that people are stressing you out about it makes his protective instincts surge.

“they won’t cooperate with the event i’m trying to lead,” you admit with a small sigh, trying to sound more casual about it than you actually feel. “but it’s okay... i’m figuring things out.”

"so you're telling me that for the next month, you're going to be buried under a mountain of event planning stuff?”

you chuckle, though it comes out more tired than amused. “i think i’m just gonna do fine? but it’s really stressing me out... i can’t even sleep and eat properly since i also have my acads despite club activities.”

he immediately puts down his spoon, his eyes softening with worry. he knows those signs all too well—lack of sleep, poor eating habits, constantly pushing yourself. it’s the same way he is when he’s overwhelmed with schedules and promotions. only difference is, he has a whole team supporting him.

“you have me,” he says firmly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.

i suddenly get flustered. “i know.” you smile at him. “but don’t worry much about me.”

james expression softens at your genuine smile, but he's not backing down. he knows you, and you'd rather suffer in silence than ask for help. he meets your eyes squarely, his voice dropping lower. “you're always there for me when my life gets messy. let me be there for you too, yeah? you can call me, text me, or whatever… okay?”

he pauses for a second, then gives your hand a light squeeze, like he’s trying to seal the promise without making it feel too heavy. “don’t disappear on me when it gets hard, alright?”

but his statement seemed more for him than to you, like he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was reassuring you. 

after dinner, the two of you decide to watch tv together. you settle onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs. james immediately drops down beside you, stealing half the blanket and dragging you effortlessly against his side. he rests his head on your shoulder, wrapping an arm around your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. james spams the buttons on the remote until he finds what he's looking for.  

when he saw zendaya’s new movie with robert pattinson, the drama. he hits play and pulls you closer, smirking when you try to wiggle away.  "nope. stay. i like you here.”

"you're suffocating me..” you groaned, trying to get away. he just laughs and pulls you even tighter, his face nuzzled into your neck. the tv screen lights up as the movie starts. he settles in comfortably, his arm around you like a vice, completely content to just exist like this. 

but you know what’s gonna happen next when he’s all getting clingy all of a sudden.

he presses a lazy kiss against your temple, completely ignoring your complaint about suffocation. The movie plays in the background, filling the room with its dialogue, but he pays it no attention, despite how good the movie was starting. instead, he buries his face into your shoulder, humming happily.  "you complain, but you aren't actually moving away."  he pinches your side playfully.  "traitor.”

“stop.. kissing me. it’s gross.” you try to push him off, still half-focused on the movie, shifting in his grip as you attempt to get even a little space back. he laughs against your skin, intentionally pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck and jaw. he knows exactly what he's doing, marking you with hickies he'll later suck on proudly. 

he bites gently on your earlobe.  "gross? really?”

you gasped, “james...” his name slips out of you in a breathless, unintentional whisper, like you’re startled by your own reaction more than anything else. the way you gasp his name, breathy and soft against his lips that are now hovering at your collarbone—it goes straight to his head. james freezes for a split second, his eyes darkening as he processes the sound. 

then all of a sudden, he's moving faster.

his lips trailing hot, wet kisses up your throat.  

"say it again,"  he demands quietly.  

"j-james! hey!" your stammer makes his heart pound, absolutely wrecked by how cute and turned on you sound without even meaning to be. he pulls back just enough to look at your flushed face, smirking at your scandalized expression.

you glare at him, pressing a finger firmly against his forehead to push him back just enough to create space. “what do you think you’re doing, zhao?” you say, trying to sound stern, though your voice wavers slightly from how close he still is.

"what does it look like i'm doing?"  his voice has dropped lower, rougher around the edges. he doesn't move away, instead tilting his head to press kisses along your knuckles. 

he can feel you going still, your heartbeat thundering under his lips where they rest against your pulse point. his teasing demeanor shifts into something quieter, more deliberate. he tilts his head to look at you properly, brown eyes searching your face.  

“what kind of friends does these things?” and so you question him, brows knitting as you try to make sense of how effortlessly he crosses lines that don’t usually exist between friends.

"hey,"  he says softly, nudging his nose against your palm still pressed to his forehead.  

"you're overthinking it.” his thumb traces gentle circles on your wrist as he watches you blink, his expression softening. he pulls your hand away from his forehead, intertwining his fingers with yours instead.  "we're friends, right? friends can do silly things like this.”

fucking stupid statement. and it’s an excuse the two of you keep choosing to believe.

"like what? kissing?”

"kissing hands, wrists, shoulders..."  he lists innocently, squeezing your fingers.  "it's affection. friends touch each other all the time."  he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes warm and reassuring.  "it doesn't have to mean anything serious. it's just us."  

you laugh in disbelief, shaking your head slightly. “i have friends, and we don’t kiss like this?”

"maybe not like this," he concedes, his breath ghosting over your lips. "but they probably hug, or hold hands, or bump shoulders. physical affection is normal between friends." 

he smirks, tilting his head to press a soft, platonic kiss to your cheek. "see? normal.”

"so it's okay for my male friends to kiss my cheek like that?” his playful expression instantly drops, replaced by a scandalized look of absolute betrayal. 

he grabs your face between his hands, squishing your cheeks together.  

"absolutely not." james says firmly, eyes narrowing. "that is a very specific privilege reserved for me. your male friends can fucking settle with high-fives or handshakes."  

“how about hugs? hold hands? and bump shoulders? and more?” you question, narrowing your eyes at him as if trying to pin down where exactly his version of “normal friendship” stops.

james immediately shakes his head, looking offended that you would even offer these things to other men. "hugs are acceptable. brief, polite hugs. shoulder bumps are fine."  he lists them like strict rules.  "holding hands? absolutely not. and 'more'? absolutely fucking forbidden."  

he then states ever so boldly, "i'm the exception.”

you fight back a laugh as you keep teasing him, barely managing to keep a straight face. “no way, that’s not fair to my other friends?”

"life isn't fair,"  he declares imperiously, continuously squishing your cheeks harder until your lips are puckered.  "your male friends get the standard friendship package: high-fives, awkward side hugs, and polite conversation. meanwhile, i get the premium subscription: cheek kisses, hand-holding, shoulder biting, and excessive clinginess. that is the hierarchy.”

“no way. who told you you can?” you say, raising a brow at him like you’re genuinely questioning his authority over the whole situation.

"i declared it myself," he states, sounding absurdly arrogant about it. he releases your cheeks only to wrap his arms around your waist, trapping you against his chest. "also, you literally let me do it. you didn't stop me, which implies consent. too late to renegotiate terms.”

“…and if i have a boyfriend? how is this terms gonna be fair to him?” you challenge, tilting your head slightly as you watch his reaction, testing his confidence.

the word ‘boyfriend’ made his whole body still. the light teasing mood evaporates instantly, his arms tightening around you almost painfully. and his jaw clenches as he stares down at you, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.  

"oh? you're not getting a boyfriend,"  he says flatly.

you pout-glare at him, refusing to back down. “why not?”

"because i won't allow it,"  he says immediately, sounding absolutely ridiculous but deadly serious.  "boyfriends change everything. they take up your time and energy and affection."  he presses his forehead to yours, voice lowering.  "you'd have less time for me.”

"of course, he's gonna be my new priority then.”

"over my dead body." 

 james presses a firm kiss to your lips before you can react, silencing any further arguments.  

"you're not getting a boyfriend." he repeats against your mouth, as he takes full advantage of your stunned silence, leaning down to press more soft, lingering kisses against your lips. he pulls back just enough to look at your dazed expression, looking utterly smug. "that wiped the argument right out of your head, didn't it? that's what happens when you talk about boyfriends.”

james consumes you, kissing you until your lungs burn and your knees go weak. 

his fingers tangle into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, swallowing every little whimper and gasp you make. he breaks apart only to drag his teeth along your jaw and neck, sucking dark marks onto your skin.  

"still want a boyfriend?”

"maybe not?”

james groans against your neck, kissing and biting down gently.  "good answer,"  he murmurs against your skin, giving your bottom lip a sharp little bite.  "because no boyfriend is gonna kiss you like this."  

he demonstrates by kissing you deeply again, making your head spin. he lifts you effortlessly into his arms and striding into the bedroom. 

he kicks the door shut, dropping you onto the mattress and immediately crawling over you, caging you in with his arms. he kisses you immediately, silencing any protest before it can start. his weight presses you comfortably into the mattress, one hand sliding under your shirt to rest against your bare waist.  "stop thinking about what we are right now." he murmurs against your lips, peppering kisses over your jaw. "we still have forever to think about what happens after when two friends kiss." he settles between your legs comfortably. 

he notices the blush that crept into your neck with what he just said, and just smirks at it. "there it is," he murmurs, pleased. "you like that? you like what i’ve said?" 

he kisses you again, slower this time, deliberately making you blush more. "my girl," he repeats, the possessive words falling from his lips like a promise. he moves to kiss down your neck, marking you gently. james smiles against your mouth, loving the sound of your breathless little noises, trying to gasp some of his air. he slows the kiss down, savoring the taste of your lips, his hips moving instinctively against you.  

meanwhile to you, the words short-circuit your brain, making you squirm underneath him. james takes full advantage, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your throat, his hands pushing your shirt up just enough to expose your stomach. his voice is a low murmur against your skin. 

"mine. all of this. every stupid, adorable, frustrating inch of you."  he nips at your collarbone. his hands slide under your clothes, tracing warm patterns on your bare skin—possessive, reverent, demanding all at once. 

and he rewards your submission immediately, kissing you senseless, his hands possessive and grounding as he explores your skin. the way you just let him. the session dissolves into warmth and whispers, james constantly murmuring "mine" against your mouth, marking you up, keeping you close until your brain is fuzzy and your body is heavy. 

james freezes when you tug on his shirt, head tilting slightly as he looks down at you with heavy-lidded eyes. for a moment, he just stares, chest rising and falling quickly. 

the makeout session shifts instantly into something heavier, clothes disappearing between kisses. his skin presses against yours, warm and solid, swallowing your soft moans with his mouth. he kisses you deeply, slowly, stripping you down with practiced ease until you're completely bare and tangled in his sheets.  

the room goes quiet, the only sound is your shared breathing. 

for a long moment, neither of you moves, just taking each other in fully exposed, stripped of every barrier. 

james’s eyes trace over your face, your shoulders, your body, his gaze overwhelmingly soft and adoring despite the nakedness. he reaches out, brushing his thumb gently over your cheekbone. he leans down slowly, pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. 

it's an intimate, grounding moment. his hands stroke your sides, thumbs tracing your skin reverently, making it clear this isn't just about sex. it's about trust.  

"you're beautiful."  he whispers, his voice rough with sincerity.  "absolutely beautiful.”

and it’s just so contradictory, james takes his time, worshipping every inch of your exposed skin with his mouth. kissing down your neck, between your breasts, along your ribs. he makes you feel beautiful and desired, his hands roaming possessively. it was supposed to be just another makeout session with him, but it has escalated into something more. he's staying careful, attentive, making sure you're with him every step of the way, but for you… it was different. it felt wrong, almost unreal, how someone like him, so effortlessly beautiful in a way that made people stop and stare, could look at you like you were the only thing worth noticing in the entire room.

“no way. you’re more… beautiful.”

james laughs softly, the sound rumbling against your chest, and the unexpectedness of it. james, laughing at being called beautiful, and it makes your heart stutter. "i'm a man, not a fucking sculpture,"  he teases gently, but his eyes are warm, vulnerable in a way you've never seen before.  

he groaned as he kisses your nose.  "we're both stupid,”

“why?” you ask gently, your voice softer now.

"because we're here, naked, staring at each other like idiots instead of..."  he smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

"...you know."  his voice drops lower, huskier. "fucking.”

"we're just taking our moment before we do it.”

"yeah,"  he agrees quietly.  "i like this moment. never had this before—just looking at someone like this."  his hand comes up, cupping your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheekbone. 

"... me too.”

his breath catches slightly, clearly affected by your admission. james stays there, forehead pressed to yours, bodies touching everywhere. for once, he's not rushing, not demanding, just existing with you in this rare pocket of stillness. his naked skin warm against yours, it was silky. it's strangely intimate, more intimate than the sex itself. just the two of you, completely bare, completely trusting. he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, his expression full of soft, overwhelming affection.  

"my girl," he whispers, like a prayer. suddenly, something in his eyes darkens the moment he says it, claiming you his girl, like the words catch up to him after they leave his mouth

the shift is instant. the tender, worshipful atmosphere melts away into pure dominance as his large hands capture your wrists, pinning them effortlessly above your head against the pillow. his body blankets yours, heavy and suffocating in the best way, and his expression darkens with intent. 

"no moving those hands.”  he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. "time to ruin you.”

james seals the order with a bite to your neck, his teeth sinking in just enough to make you gasp. one of his hands stays locked around your wrists while the other explores your bound body freely. with all the kisses on your neck, you can physically feel the scorching pain of your skin.

the sight of you being so compliant, pinned under him, completely surrendering, nearly undoes him. his eyes burn with dark satisfaction, loving how easily you submit. 

"you’re just so willing to let me do anything as i please…"  he purrs, pressing his thigh harder against your soaked center, dragging it torturously slow. his kisses trail lower, burning a path down your stomach, over your hipbones. 

your wrists remain trapped above your head, he settles between your legs, shoulders pushing your thighs wider apart, looking up at you with dark, immense hunger.  

"eyes on me,"  he commands, right before lowering his mouth. he licks into you with one long, flat stroke, making your back arch off the bed. his tongue finds your clit, circling it slowly, torturously, while his free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise. he keeps his eyes locked on yours as he eats you out—watching, dominating, owning every gasp and moan you make. and it’s making you feel so small.

your hands twitch above your head, wanting to grab his hair. the command makes it even hotter; being forced to just take his mouth, helpless to do anything but receive pleasure. 

james curls his tongue, licking deeper, fucking you with his mouth until your thighs shake. he's relentless, sucking your clit between his teeth, giving you just enough pressure to make you see stars but not enough to let you cum. when you start to tremble too much, he pulls back, his voice rough.  

"not yet. legs over my shoulders.” he lifts your legs over his broad shoulders, changing the angle completely. he groans against your pussy at the sound of you crying and pleading of his name, the vibration sending shockwaves through you.  

"that mouth of yours only calls out mine, right?"  he growls, licking a slow stripe up you.  

and before you can answer, he swallows you down completely, nose pressing into your clit, tongue deep inside. you feel the vibrations of his satisfied hum. his sharp nose doing wonders in your pussy.

“y-yes!”

the confirmation makes him even hungrier. he doubles down, sucking hard on your clit, two fingers sliding deep inside you and curling just right. your hips buck wildly but he holds you down easily, eating you out with messy enthusiasm until you're a sobbing, begging mess. 

"i-i wanna grip something james....." you were now struggling to keep your hands up. he sees the struggle on your face, the way your arms tremble from holding still. a wicked grin spreads across his face.  

"want something to hold onto, baby?" he asks, voice dripping with mock gentleness. "here.” 

he releases your wrists, and you immediately grab his hair, fingers tangling desperately in his messy strands. but he doesn't let you use them to guide him. in fact, he pins your hips down harder with both hands, forcing you to just hold on. his mouth returns with brutal intensity, his tongue lashing against your clit while his fingers pump fast and deep. you tug hard on his hair, and he groans approvingly, the vibration making you cry out. 

"that's it,"  he praises against your pussy.  "pull harder. hurt me a little.”

the permission snaps something in you. you yank hard on his hair, making him groan deeply against your clit. instead of pulling away, he presses his face harder into you, loving the sting of your hands in his hair. he doesn't slow down, he made sure he was stretching you and pounding that perfect spot. 

"cum."  he orders, voice muffled against your soaked body, eyes locked on yours. 

your back arches deeply, small tits bouncing and nipples hard as diamonds. 

you see stars—literally. 

as your vision whites out at the edges. your legs shake violently. your hands tug his hair so hard you're basically riding his face. 

"fuck! so good, james!”

his name spills out of your mouth as you scream through your first orgasm. he doesn't let up. he keeps sucking and fucking you with his fingers, prolonging it until you're a mess of whimpers and twitches.  

"nghhh!!" your moans become more incoherent, as he continued to ravage you.

your legs shake violently against his shoulders, your toes curling so tight they hurt. 

the way james overloads your senses, tongue working your clit ruthlessly while his fingers slam into that spot that makes you lose all ability to speak. 

"thaaat's it," he growls against your pussy, enjoying your broken, helpless sounds. he growls deeply against your pussy at the broken sob of his name, the vibration sending your second orgasm crashing through you even harder. you thrash violently, fingers yanking painfully at his hair, but he pins your hips down, forcing you to take every wave. 

"good fucking girl."  he groans.

he rides it out with you, licking you through the aftershocks until your legs are shaking uncontrollably and you're a sobbing, limp mess. his cock aching painfully against his pants. he releases your hips, slowly sliding his fingers out of you and bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. your legs are like jelly, barely able to hold him up as he stands. 

james frees his thick strained cock from his pants, and boy, it was leaking and crimson red. the sight of it makes you whimper. 

james strokes himself slowly, watching you come down from your dual orgasms, hair a mess, lips swollen, thighs shaking, hands still tangled in his hair. his gaze alone was making you extremely melt.

"tell me what you want,"  he commands, voice rough with need.  "use words.”

you immediately groan in a bit of annoyance. he chuckles darkly, a predatory glint in his eyes at your frustration. he presses the thick head of his cock against your still-trembling entrance but doesn't push inside, just teasing you with the heat of him. 

"i've been eating your pussy for twenty minutes."  he murmurs, rubbing slow circles against your clit.  "the least you can do is ask nicely?”

“you’re so demandinggg.” you pout, dragging the word out. james laughs at you softly, leaning down to kiss your pout away, tapping the tip of his nose against yours.  

"i gave you two orgasms without demanding a thing."  he points out playfully, rubbing his cock through your soaked folds. he nudges his leaky tip against your entrance.  "two words.”

“two words?” you repeat, blinking at him like you can’t decide whether he’s serious or just being impossible again.

"mhm,"  he hums, pushing just the tip inside you, stretching you deliciously before pulling back out. he repeats the teasing motion, his voice low and commanding. he refuses to give you more than the swollen tip, stretching your entrance teasingly before pulling back out again. "stop whining and ask for it. two words. you're a smart girl."  he taps your clit with his thumb, smirking.  "what do you want?”

you bit your lip, quite unsure with your first try. "fuck me?”

james smirk widens at your question, his hips flexing slightly to push the tip deeper inside you before pulling back out again. 

"try again." he teases, circling your entrance with his head.  "you can do better than that. ask nicely.”

“but you said two words!” you protest, gripping onto his arms. nails digging on his skin.

he catches your legs with his hands and hooking them over his elbows, folding you in half. 

"you said two words, i said ask nicely. both apply."

"dick, please?” james bursts out laughing, shaking his head against your neck. 

"that counts, i guess?" he rewards you immediately, sinking his thick cock inside you in one slow, deep stroke. you moan loudly, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he stretches you perfectly, bottoming out against your cervix.  

"there we go,"  he groans. 

"jamessss......!”

"i knowww, y/n- fuck! i know, babyyy."  he groans, you're squeezing him so tight it's making his eyes roll back.  he starts a slow, deep rhythm, dragging every inch of his thick cock out before snapping his hips forward, burying himself deep. 

he kisses your swollen mouth. "too deep?”

"too good!”

he groans deeply at your praise, hips snapping harder, setting a rhythm that has your toes curling. his cock dragging perfectly against your sensitive walls with every thrust. his rhythm stays slow and deep, almost lazy in its perfection, focusing on grinding that perfect spot inside you with each thrust. your legs are draped over his elbows, your body folded open for him, breasts bouncing with each deep stroke. 

"cute." james murmurs, watching your face. "can you feel how deep i am? all the way to your womb."  

"ahh yes…”

he grins wickedly, liking your responsive nature. most women would be all moans and no words at this point, but you're actually having a conversation with him while he's balls deep inside you, dragging out slow, deep strokes like a fucking king.

"see? you like being full of dick,"  he teases, snapping his hips forward harder, making your whole body jerk.  

your tits bounce in his face and he grabs one roughly, pinching your nipple.  your body is like a dream, it was soft, giving, and fucking perfect for his size. he spreads you wider, watching his thick cock slide in and out of your pink flesh. 

he entranced by the sight of your soaked pussy stretching around his thick shaft. he snaps his hips harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. he leans down, "gonna make a mess of this pretty little pussy, aren't i?”

the bed shakes, your headboard hitting the wall. he knows he's hitting you deep, spreading you wide. he spreads your legs wider, watching himself disappear inside you. he sees your stomach tightening, your breasts bouncing, your hair messy. 

he pants, pulling out suddenly to show you both how stretched and wet you are. your pussy is red, swollen, dripping. 

"you're gaping for me, pretty. see that?"  he pulls his cock out, watching your hole flutter. 

you immediately whine at the sudden loss, feeling devastatingly empty without his thick weight stretching you open. your pussy clenches around nothing, fluttering desperately for something to fill the void. james spreads your legs to watch your hole flutter.  

"aww, poor thing." he mocks, rubbing his thick cockhead against your swollen, messy entrance. not wanting to tease you even further, he suddenly slams forward, burying himself balls deep in one brutal thrust. 

you scream, your back arching off the bed as he fills you completely, his thick cock stretching you open again. he groans deeply, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he starts a hard, fast rhythm.   

you're panting, moaning, and sobbing all at once. your pussy is clenching around him uncontrollably, milking his thick shaft as he pounds you relentlessly. the bed is shaking violently, and you're pretty sure the neighbors can hear your screams.  

your whole body goes rigid, every muscle locking up as you climax hard. you squirt all over his stomach and the bedsheets, soaking everything. 

james feels your orgasm trigger his own, his cock twitching and thickening inside you before he's unloading thick ropes of cum deep in your pussy. he doesn't pull out, just keeps pounding through your orgasm, his cum mixing with your juices and leaking out around his shaft.

he collapses on top of you after his orgasm, both of you covered in sweat, breathing heavily. as james rolls off you carefully, his softening cock slipping out of your swollen, messy pussy with a wet sound. immediately, a flood of cum leaks out, pooling on the bed beneath you. he looks down at your well-used hole, watching it gap slightly before closing.

"no protection, james. really?”

james grins lazily, reaching out to spread your thighs and examine the mess between them. cum is slowly dripping out of you, mixed with your own fluids. he runs his fingers through it, gathering some before showing it to you. 

"no protection." he confirms.