yaoyorozu

"so, how many this time?" you asked. of course you were aware of his inhumane immortality, but sometimes the fear of losing him bugs you at times when he was away. "six." he answered briefly, and pressed his cheek even more against you. you couldn’t help but sigh.

before, you asked him to promise that he’d try his best to not be reckless, but the more your relationship went on, the more you understood and realised that it was impossible for him to be unscathed.

"darling…" you rubbed your thumb on his cheek. "it’s quite impossible to stay alive when i need to fight for everyone." he explained, his hand longed stopped fidgeting and snaked up to your arm. "i know, i’m sorry. i just can’t help but worry for you at times." you looked away, ashamed. you shouldn’t worry about him when he’s come back to life so many times. it’s a constant.

"i am undying, not untouchable. it’s impossible to be unscathed in a battlefield." he continued to reason. he feels bad, he hates making you feel this way.

he understood your fear. hell, you both even fought about this.

yet all his deaths, all those treacherous times he spent walking the river of souls, he’d gotten used to it. he knows why you care, but doesn’t at the same time. it’s strange being loved, being important and cared, and seeing someone care about the many times he’s died and come back to life.

everyone bats an eye, but not you.

never you.

this was a losing battle. "…sure."

you were still unhappy. you couldn’t really pinpoint why. maybe it was the nagging fear of someday, he would never come back home to you. you squeezed him slightly. you weren’t crying, though, just deeply terrified. his eyes soften upon hearing your tone.

"my love, will you look at me?" mydeimos reached out to your hand, intertwining it with his. you could hear his voice, a slight hint of desperation. with enough courage, you looked at his eyes, embedded with golden hues. they were usually intense, but now, it was soft. uncannily soft.

"i know that it scares you. sometimes, i’m scared too," he started. you were carding his hair again. you were listening. "scared that someone will find my weak spot and maybe i’d never get back up again or… ever see you again." he gulped. he loved you so much, but he now realized just how profound and intense it was.

"i stand for glory, and i will always fight for my people, and for you." his voice quiets at the last part. even now, he still got shy whenever he tried to say that everything he did was for you.

your heart swelled.

his words somewhat eased your worries. even if no one had knowledge of his weak spot. he was a warrior, and he’d always will be. it was something that you couldn’t change, and if you did, he wouldn’t be mydeimos anymore.

you were still scared, but you trusted him more.

you smiled, before kissing the top of his head. "thank you for everything you do for us, mydeimos." you whispered.

for once he felt seen for his efforts personally. people praised him, gave him titles, but no one called him by his name so affectionately. he hid his face in your thighs, hiding his reddening cheeks from you.

"thank you for… saying that." his voice was slightly muffled with his lips on the fabric, but you laughed anyway. "you don’t have to hide from me, you know? you don’t have to be so shy." you smiled.

"there isn’t the word 'shy' in the kremnoan language." he reasoned, it was rather pathetic though. "i don’t even think that the kremnoan language even exists." you joked. he huffed, but he never looked back up to face you. if anything, he hides himself even more.

"…you are my glory." he suddenly whispered. a part of him hoped that you didn’t catch him, but apparently you had your ears everywhere. you hummed, deciding to not comment on it. you smiled even more at his words.

eventually, mydeimos slept on your lap. his soft snores were the only thing protruding the silence.

you came to realise that as long as he was alive and came back to you, even if him dying multiple times made you somewhat unhappy, it was more than enough.

you were happy he came back home. just as he always promised.

03.15.26 , 12:23

He looks like someone who belongs in a boardroom or a private dining room, not a campus coffee shop with mismatched chairs and a specials board written in student handwriting.

You’ve clocked him enough times to recognize the pattern.

He’s clocked you too. You know that without asking.

It happens on a day when your notes are a disaster and your patience is thinner. You’re packing up too fast, papers sliding, your pen rolling off the edge of the table.

He picks it up before it hits the floor.

“Careful.”

You look up. Properly, for the first time.

He’s closer than you expected, and he’s looking at you with that same quality he has when he’s just sitting. Unhurried, direct, like he has all the time in the world and has decided to spend some of it on you specifically.

Up close, the watch catches the light. You notice, and then notice yourself noticing, and look back at his face instead.

He doesn’t hand the pen back immediately. He just holds it, waiting until he has your full attention.

“You’re here a lot,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “So are you.”

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. More like acknowledgment. The look of someone who expected deflection and got something worth considering instead.

“Fair,” he says and hands you the pen.

He doesn’t leave immediately. Which is unusual. Most people, having completed the transaction, would go.

“Studying?” he asks, nodding at the scattered papers.

“Trying to.” You start organizing them with more dignity than you feel. “Midterms.”

“What subject?”

You tell him.

He listens with the focus he seems to bring to everything, and then says something that is actually relevant.

“You know it?” you ask, slightly suspicious.

“Enough.” He picks up his coffee cup, finally, and drinks. “You’re on campus?”

“Why?”

He meets your gaze. “Because you’ve been here for four hours and you look like you haven’t eaten since this morning. There’s a place nearby that’s decent.”

You study him for a moment. Expensive suit. Direct eyes. The particular confidence of someone who doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.

“I don’t know you,” you say.

“Not yet,” he agrees.

It should be presumptuous. Somehow it isn’t quite.

You go, mostly because you’re hungry and he doesn’t seem to be performing anything.

Mydei pays without discussion, eats without making a production of the food, and asks questions like he’s actually interested in the answers. When you mention your building on campus in passing, he notes it the way he notes everything.

You don’t think anything of it at the time.

One week later, you hear a knock on your door. It’s a delivery.

The arrangement is large enough to turn heads in the hallway. Flowers, the kind that aren’t trying too hard, wrapped simply.

Beside them in the courier’s hands, a small box of pralines from somewhere that doesn’t have a chain location, and a flat jewellery box that makes your stomach do something complicated before you’ve even opened it.

Inside: a bracelet. Simple. Elegant. The kind of thing chosen by someone who paid attention.

There’s no note explaining it. Just his name.

You stand in your doorway holding the weight of someone’s attention and feel, distinctly, that you are going to have things to say about this.

The next day, you go to the coffee shop again. Mydei’s at his usual table when you arrive. Of course he is.

You sit down across from him without being invited, which he accepts without comment, and put the jewellery box on the table between you.

“This is too much,” you say.

He looks at it, then at you. “Is it.”

“The flowers were already too much. The pralines were too much. This is—” You push the box slightly toward him. “I don’t know what you think this is, but I’m not—”

“I know what you’re not,” he says, calmly. He doesn’t touch the box. “That’s not what it was.”

You look at him.

“Money is only excessive,” Mydei continues, unhurried, “when it’s spent to impress. That’s not why I spent it.” He pauses and picks up his coffee. “I thought you’d like them. That’s all it was.”

The simplicity of it stops you.

“You thought I’d like them,” you repeat.

“The flowers. You had a dried one tucked in the back of your notebook. Three weeks ago. I noticed.”

He sets the cup down. “The pralines…you mentioned the brand once. In passing. The bracelet—” He glances at it briefly. “You looked at one like it in a window when we walked past. For about four seconds. Then you kept walking.”

You stare at him.

“That’s unsettling,” you say, after a moment.

“Probably.” He seems unbothered. “Keep it or don’t. It wasn’t a transaction.”

You look at the box, then at him.

You don’t push it back again. But you don’t pick it up either. Not yet.

He doesn’t send anything after that.

Not because you told him not to. You didn’t, exactly. But Mydei’s observant in that particular way, and he seems to have noticed that the grand gestures, however genuinely meant, put distance between you rather than closing it. They made the gap in your circumstances too visible. Too much to weigh up.

So he stops.

And starts doing something else instead.

The coffee appears beside you without announcement. Then food. Not restaurant deliveries, not anything that requires a reservation, just a container left on the table one afternoon with the matter-of-fact quality of someone who cooked because it needed doing and made enough for two.

It’s good. Better than good. You eat the whole thing before you think to question it.

“You cooked this,” you say, when he sits down.

“Yes.”

“You cook.”

He looks at you with mild patience. “You sound surprised.”

“You don’t look like someone who cooks.”

“What does that mean.”

You gesture vaguely at him. The suit, the watch, the general quality of someone who could have anything prepared for them.

Something like amusement crosses his face. “I’ve been cooking since I was old enough to be useful,” he says. “It has nothing to do with what I can afford.” He nods at the empty container. “You finished it.”

“…It was good.”

“I know,” Mydei says, and opens his book.

You test him, periodically.

Because the situation is strange and he is strange in it: a man who is clearly comfortable with money in the way that people are when they’ve had it long enough to stop thinking about it, who spends it on you with the same matter-of-fact quality he brings to everything, and who has never once made you feel like it means you owe him something.

You’re used to things costing something. Attention especially.

His doesn’t seem to. Which makes you suspicious, and then curious, and then something else.

So one afternoon you’re deliberately difficult about it.

You push the coffee back across the table without touching it. Tell him you don’t need it. Wait to see what he does. Whether he pushes back, whether something shifts in his expression, whether the patience reveals itself as strategy.

Mydei looks at the cup. Then at you.

“Alright,” he says.

And he takes it back.

Nothing else. He just picks up his book and reads, and twenty minutes later when you’re clearly flagging he sets a glass of water beside you instead, without comment, like he simply noticed and acted on it and the rest isn’t worth discussing.

You stare at the glass for a moment.

It’s the most annoying thing he’s ever done. (And the most reassuring.)

And yet, you smile to yourself.

The flowers arrive on a Thursday, which is your worst day of the week and he somehow knows that.

Something small and unpretentious left on the table beside your coffee. The kind of thing you might have picked out yourself if you ever bought yourself flowers, which you don’t, because there’s always something more practical to spend money on.

You look at them for a long moment.

“You’re doing it again,” you say when he sits down.

“Mm.”

“The thing where you pay attention to things I didn’t tell you.”

“You mentioned Thursdays once.” He opens his book. “In passing.”

You look at the flowers again, then at him, settled comfortably across from you, reading, completely unbothered by your scrutiny.

“This is a lot of effort,” you say, “for someone who hasn’t asked me for anything.”

He glances up at that and holds your gaze for a moment.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Mydei says simply and goes back to reading.

You don’t know what to do with that. So you do nothing, for now. But you take the flowers home, and you put them in a glass on your desk, and you don’t examine too closely why.

The moment it changes isn’t dramatic.

You’re tired. Genuinely, visibly tired, the kind where you stop performing fine because you don’t have the energy.

You sit down across from him with your coffee and your terrible notes and say nothing.

Mydei looks at you for a moment.

“Sit properly.”

You frown. “I am sitting.”

“You’re hunched like you’re bracing for something.” His hand presses briefly to your shoulder. “Properly.”

You exhale.

And you do it.

And for the first time, you don’t argue about it.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you tell him one evening, quieter than you intended.

“I know.”

“Then why do you?”

He’s quiet for a moment like he’s deciding how much of the honest answer to give you.

“Because you have too much to carry,” he says finally. “And some of it doesn’t have to be yours.”

You look at him.

“It’s not about showing off,” he continues. “Or keeping track. I just want you to have less to worry about.” He pauses. “That’s all it is.”

It shouldn’t be enough of an answer.

Somehow it is.

You don’t soften all at once. That’s not how you work, and Mydei seems to understand that. He has never pushed for more than you were giving, never made the patience feel like a strategy.

But you find yourself noticing things. The way he remembers details without making a performance of it. The way his presence has started to feel less like something to be suspicious of and more like something you’d notice the absence of.

You don’t examine that too closely. Not yet.

It’s a quiet evening when it finally shifts. You’re walking back from the café, later than usual, the city settling into that particular after-dark calm. He’s beside you, not filling the silence with anything.

You stop walking.

Mydei stops a half-step after, turning to look at you.

“You’ve been patient,” you say. “For a long time.”

“Yes.”

“Most people wouldn’t be.”

“I’m not most people.” He says it without arrogance. Just fact.

You look at him, really look, the way you’ve been careful not to for a while now. The steadiness of him. The way he’s watching you with that direct, unhurried attention that has never once asked you to be anything other than exactly what you are.

“I know,” you say quietly.

You close the distance yourself.

The kiss is brief at first, tentative in a way that surprises you, given how certain he is about everything else. But his hand comes up to your jaw, careful and deliberate, and he kisses you back like he means it. Like he’s been thinking about it and is in no particular rush now that it’s happening.

When you pull back, he’s watching you with something warm and unguarded in his expression.

“Took you a while,” Mydei says.

You laugh despite yourself. “Don’t push it.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

He takes your hand, and you walk the rest of the way in silence.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)

…

It doesn’t take long for your daughter to update you.

Honey Hi mommmm We r getting ice cream  Dad is rewarding me for acing my test !! You That’s good, honey. Make sure to drink water after, okay? [ <3 ] reacted by Melina

…

You Make sure she drinks water. Mydei Wouldn’t forget it. [ thumbs up ] reacted by You

…

The rest of the week goes on just like that. Mel would update you, Mydei would clarify some things for her schedule, you and your daughter would call when she gets stuck in one of her advanced mathematic questions—she’d fall asleep on call saying she’s only ‘resting’ and you’d chuckle when you hear her snore after a while.

You decide to message your ex-husband after a while of just admiring your daughter, your heart blooming for fondness as you gaze at her through the screen. 

How could one foster such longing for a daughter so loved?

You sigh and type out the message.

You Mydei, can you carry Mel to her bed? She’s gonna get a crick in her neck when she wakes up.

Mydei She fell asleep at her desk again?

You Yep.

Mydei I’m coming up now.

…

It doesn’t take long for the doorknob to twist and open. You hear him sigh in amusement through the phone as he picks her up carefully and tucks her in bed.

You stay quiet through all of it and just… watch.

Mydei does, too. After tucking her in properly, he pauses—looking content.

It’s normal, you suppose. With her studying as hard as she can for her upcoming entrance exams—she’s 17 now. Almost an adult, and growing ever so fast. Neither you nor Mydei have the time to know everything she did like when she was a child.

He must not see her asleep often—being busy with cases and paperwork. Only having time to pick her up from school, cook dinner, and go back to working on the documents.

But he’s changed.

He isn’t the same as before.

And it does little to soothe the pinpricks of your heart bleeding out through your chest.

Mydei sucks in a breath through the phone and when your eyes flit back to your phone, you find that he’s already looking at you.

“You miss her already?” He asks in a hushed voice.

You swallow—trying to make sure your voice won’t croak, “Yeah.” Your eyes turn to Mel who was sleeping peacefully on the bed behind him, “Yeah, I do.”

That makes your ex-husband sigh softly, “It’s only Friday, two more days and she’s yours again.”

“I know,” you murmur, scrolling idly at your laptop—browsing through your students’ essay submissions.

You say nothing for a while and neither does Mydei as he starts to tidy up the papers, books, and pens on Melina’s desk.

You don’t know the right word for it. 

You don’t know how to describe the feeling of it.

Domestic, maybe—but how is being on call from your daughter’s phone with your divorced ex-husband considered domestic? You don’t know. Maybe it’s just the familiarity of it all.

Maybe you’re just tired.

“Hey, Mydei, I’m going to end the call now, I have a few calls to make and a dozen papers to grade,” you tell him to catch his attention and you see him raise an eyebrow through the screen.

“This late at night?”

You swallow hard, caught in the lie, “Y-yeah… you know how it is with Cas and Aglaea, I need to consult a few things from the kids’ submissions.”

You pray to Nikador he believes your bullshit and doesn’t push. 

He won’t. 

He never does, but with how his brows are furrowed together—you know he doesn’t buy it at all.

Still, he relents, “Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The moment the call drops, you deflate into the ergonomic chair he bought—a matching set you and Mel have. You press your palms into your eyes.

God, five years in, and everything is still about him.

You don’t know how to feel anymore.

Ever since the divorce finalized, nothing felt right anymore. Mydei was respectful. Always have been. You never divorced because of any abuse, but because you felt… Well it doesn’t matter how you felt.

In the end, no matter how many times you’d try to talk to him, to think of a solution, to attend countless couple’s therapy sessions. It didn’t matter, none of it did. Because at the end of the day, he still didn’t have time for you nor Melina.

It was always case after case after case. His work always came first.

You had tried to understand at first, after all you were both chasing promotions at the time. You with your professor’s thesis, and Mydei with his heavy cases. You told yourself it was just a busy week.

Until a week became a month, a month became a season, and before you knew it, your daughter turns nine without her father by her side and he’s only been there for about half her life.

He’d come home, folders stacked under his arm, apologies spewing from his mouth as he tells you, ‘it’s the last time, I promise’.

The last time he forgets to attend a parent-teacher conference.

The last time he comes home late to a dinner long-gone cold.

The last time he puts work first.

It never happened.

And when one day, you give him the divorce papers, he doesn’t even ask why. Doesn’t even try to reason. He doesn’t fight you for it. Just stares at the papers you’d given him for a whole minute before moving to get a pen and signs his name on all of them.

That was it.

Eleven years of marriage, a daughter that’s ten years old, signed away in a minute, not even being fought for one.

Maybe that’s what hurts the most about it all.

Mydei’s a lawyer.

He fights for his client at the court almost every day.

He’s a fucking lawyer and yet he didn’t even fight you for the divorce papers.

Just looked like he’d long known about it. He just… accepted it. And signed away without a second thought, not even looking at you, just downing his black coffee and left.

It took you four hours to even move from your spot and even then your legs shook so much that you had to call your brother—Phainon—to take Melina to school and preferably for the rest of the afternoon.

…

The next two years following that were even harder.

Not only did you have to face him multiple times at court just to prove that you both really did want this divorce—you had to face multiple counselling sessions, the worried stares of all your friends and family, and juggle your job to prove that you can have custody and take care of your daughter.

But you were also faced with the daunting task of trying to explain divorce to a ten year-old child. 

You let her ask whatever she wants—making sure you hold her in your arms or some part of her as she does. You try to answer as best as you can, Mydei answering some questions she asks him, too.

You just didn’t know her next question would make both your hearts stop.

“Does Daddy still love us, Mommy?”

Oh, how you wanted to know that, too.

“I’m sure he does,” you try to reassure her, trying not to look at the man behind her, and holding her hands, “It’s just… Daddy and Mommy need to… need to have a break from each other, okay?”

“Forever?”

You try to blink back tears, “Yes, honey. It’s… It’s kind of complicated.”

“But why?”

“Because… because Daddy and Mommy have different goals in life right now…”

Mel is quiet for a while—fidgeting with her toys on the floor as you rub your thumb on her knee in a circle, trying to reassure her in the subtlest way possible just so you couldn’t disturb her train of thought.

“Are…” her voice breaks—and you think a piece of your heart does, too. 

“Are we still going to be a family?”

You swallow down your own tears and hold Mel as tight as you could.

“Yes, sweetheart,” your words catch on the hitch of your breath, “always, baby, we’ll always be a family.” 

And she sobs. Melina sobs for the first time since she started asking questions and the way she does lets you know that she was trying so hard to be brave and mature about the whole thing.

You truly did not think your heart could break any further.

Until she calls out daddy in such a broken voice that you do all you could, shut your eyes and sigh quietly—just so you don’t break down, too.

Mydei comes up and embraces the two of you tightly, a pained inhale comes from him as Mel switches her position and buries her face in his neck instead. He tightens his grip around the both of you. 

You think of it as him apologizing—maybe trying to offer some comfort for your daughter.

You tuck the thought that maybe this was as close to an apology that you were going to get from him to the very back of your head.

…

After the lawyer and social worker talked to Melina, the divorce agreement was drafted with a few new additions from your daughter.

Both parents must remain in continuous contact.

Custody exchange is scheduled weekly.

All of Melina’s events are to be attended by both parents.

You sign the papers without hesitation. 

You’d give anything for Melina to be happy.

…

It was hard at first.

Melina didn’t want to adhere to the custody schedule during the first few months. She’d cry, she’d scream, flail around, saying she didn’t want to leave your house when Mydei came to pick her up, or that she didn’t want to leave his when you did, or when he had to drop her off. Instead, she kept asking ‘why?’

“Why can’t we just live in one house anymore?”

“Why can’t Daddy live with us again?”

“Why can’t Mommy just come over?”

It was… a lot. 

Every time Mydei had to come in front of your doorstep, holding your sobbing daughter in his arms, he’d look so… mournful. Tired, even.

There are times he’d call you over at night—telling you that Mel refused to go to sleep without you beside her. You’d come over, only to leave a while after she falls asleep. He’d offer to drive you back and you would refuse, and he’ll leave it at that.

But eventually, it got better.

Mel got used to the weekly switches, you’d attend every event she had with her father, and just like your daughter’s terms in the agreement, you stayed in contact with Mydei.

He’d send updates about her, or even tell you when he’ll be picking her up and dropping her off.

Mydei changed.

He’s early to all Mel’s events—on time for pick-up and drop-off, has all her stuff accounted for, takes her for ice-cream or any sweet treat she loves every time she achieves a goal she’s set. It’s something she’s gotten from him, must be a genealogical trait or something.

The most surprising thing is—Mel tells you that he’s picked up cooking again.

It was something he stopped doing when she was around six and had gotten busy with work. It surprised you to learn that he picked it up again.

He’d cook their dinners and even send her some to take home. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him his cooking.

And sometimes—quietly, unwillingly—you wonder if this version of him had always been there.

And you hate that a part of you keeps circling back to the same thought—that maybe it was easier for him to become this man when it was just him and Mel.

That maybe you were the variable that made everything harder.

The thing that didn’t quite fit.

If maybe… it just never showed up when you were still part of the equation.

You try not to think too much about what that might mean.

No.

You shake the thought off before it can settle.

You didn’t walk away for nothing. You didn’t leave because you were the problem—you left because the relationship was. Because love, on its own, hadn’t been enough to make it work.

And maybe things are easier now. Maybe he’s better now.

But that doesn’t rewrite what the two of you were.

If he can show up for Mel the way she deserves, then that’s all that matters.

That’s enough for you.

…

Months pass in a way they hadn’t before—steadier. Not exactly easier, but… manageable.

You fall into routines you didn’t think you’d ever get used to—Work. Home. Mel. The empty spaces in between.

Therapy becomes one of them.

At first, it feels strange—sitting in a room and saying things out loud that you’d spent years swallowing down. But eventually, the words come easier. You learn how to sit with the silence after them. Learn how to name things for what they are, instead of what you wished they could’ve been.

Some days are heavier than others.

But you get through them.

Mel does, too—though in her own way.

She throws herself into archery with a kind of focus that reminds you a little too much of Mydei, shoulders squared and eyes sharp with determination. What starts as a hobby turns into something she actively pursues, something she talks about over dinner with bright, animated gestures.

Somewhere along the way, she picks up taekwondo, too—for fun, she insists, even as she drags you along to watch practices and shows off new moves in the living room.

She’s… happy.

And that makes everything else easier to bear.

Things with Mydei settle into something else entirely.

Not what you had before—never that—but something functional. Something steady.

You talk when you need to. About schedules, about Mel, about the little things that come with raising her between two homes. The sharp edges between you two dull over time, worn down by distance and routine.

And somewhere along the way, without really noticing when it happened, you stop hoping.

Stop waiting for something that isn’t coming back.

You learn how to speak to him again without it meaning more than it should.

It’s… normal.

Or at least, close enough.

…

You’re in a lecture room when Mydei texts you on a random day during your turn of the custody exchange.

Mydei I have to drop Mel off for a few hours.

Your brows furrow at the message, Mydei was supposed to pick her up from archery and spend a few hours with her today since he had a less busy week than you did. Neither of you wanted her to be alone as finals week loomed around the corner.

Immediately, you text back—worried something had occurred.

You What happened?

Mydei Nothing concerning her, don’t worry. Just some stuff at the office came up. It’s quite a gruesome scene of documents and images and I’d just rather she not see that You Alright, no problem. She can hang out in my office or here in the lecture with my TA. Mydei You’re teaching right now? I can have Phainon take her if you’re too busy. You No, it’s okay. It’ll be easier for us when we go home, too. Mydei Alright. We’ll be there in 10. 15, if she wants to get food. [ haha ] reacted by You

…

“Can anyone tell me what the derivative of this is?” you ask as you finish writing on the whiteboard.

Coincidentally, the bell rings at that moment and you laugh at your students who breathe a sigh of relief.

“Alright class, hahaha, let’s circle back to this next week, reminders that your final projects are due next month—so please make progress on it. Your weekly exam is already posted online and will be due this Sunday. We will not be having a final exam so do well on your project outputs. See you all next week.”

While your students trickle out the door, a familiar face pokes her head in the door.

“Hi, Mom!” she greets and runs through the door, tackling you in a hug.

“Hello, sweetheart,” you press a kiss into her hair, looking up to see Mydei walking in.

“I’m really sorry to drop her off like this,” he tells you, running a hand through his bangs, his low ponytail in a bit of a frazzled state. It was obvious the case in his hands had gotten him shaken up. Yet, Mydei seemed composed if anything.

You wave him off, letting your daughter go so she could set up her books and iPad beside your Teaching Assistant—Polites. 

“It’s no problem, besides, I’ll be going home after this next class. It’d save us both the trouble.”

He nods and fishes out his phone from his pocket, answering a message before it rings.

“Ah, I gotta go, I’ll see her for pickup next week. Bye, sweetheart!” He calls out to her before he rushes to take the call outside.

…

It’s only when you’re in the car and on the way home that your daughter tells you a very interesting and mildly concerning piece of information—interesting for you, and you being mildly concerned for Mel’s reaction to it.

“A client came over to Dad earlier.”

“Mh?” You answer absentmindedly, focused on switching lanes to not miss your exit.

“She was all up in his personal space, Mom, I swear, even I was uncomfortable watching them, and Dad wasn’t making that face he always makes when he wants to strangle Uncle Phai and he has to be polite because we’re in a public place. No, Mom, he was polite and smiling.”

Your attention splits and your brows furrow. That wasn’t like Mydei at all. He’d usually have no problem telling someone to respect his personal space—even if it was a client.

“Maybe he was just trying to be respectful, honey,” You reasoned with her as you took a right turn, turning off the blinker after you did.

Mel shakes her head at you, her hair and braid shaking as she did so, “Mom, that’s not even what I wanted to tell you—that’s just the context.”

You raise your eyebrow at her dramatic storytelling tendencies, “Go on…?”

“Mom, Dad turned her advances down and told her he was married.”

You let out a chuckle at that, you’d long given up on making it work with Mydei. You’d hoped that years after the divorce, he’d snap out of it and get his life together and win you and Mel back, but that was too far-fetched of a fantasy even for you.

“It’s just an excuse, sweetheart. I know what you’re trying to imply and your father definitely does not see me that way anymore.”

She sighed dramatically, “But Mom! I swear, if you were there you would’ve seen the look in his eyes.”

You actually snort at that, “You little missy, have been reading too many romance books. I gotta tell your Dad to limit your spending at Jayce and Viktor’s (this fic’s version of Barnes and Noble lol).”

“W-huh? Mom, you wouldn’t!”

You just laughed at your daughter.

…

Later that night you texted Mydei, making good on your promise to ask him to limit her budget on romance books. You fear your daughter might get too swept up in book romance and forget that real-life guys should be straightforward—none of that ‘playing hard-to-get’ game they try to play. Girls should be the one doing that, not the men.

You Mel told me something today.

Within seconds, the typing bubble already appeared.

Mydei I already told her not to tell you and it was an excuse, I swear.

Ah.

You Yeah, I figured. No worries. She’s been reading too many novels, I think… Mydei Oh.

It stays silent for a few moments.

Mydei Got it. I’ll lessen our trips to JnV’s. I’ll probably take her somewhere else that doesn’t involve romance books, huh? What do you think she’d enjoy other than the sports center? You Please don’t bring her to the sports center anymore. I will actually be sighing constantly if she picks up another sport. I’m worried she’ll injure herself again. Mydei My thoughts exactly. I was thinking of maybe bringing her to a farm or something. Let her run around a field. You I’m raising an eyebrow at you right now. [ haha ] reacted by Mydei Do you think our daughter is a dog? TT Mydei Hey, it’s what my Mom did to me as a kid to burn off all my stress and energy. You Mydei, please do not. Mydei Got any ideas?

You think about it for a little while, then you get a few.

You You could teach her how to bake? Or to cook, as long as you don’t leave her long enough to burn the kitchen down… Mydei That’s actually helpful. I’ll do that, thank you. You Make sure she won’t burn your house or herself down. Mydei Copy that. [ <3 ] reacted by You

…

It’s a few weeks after that talk—during Mydei’s turn of the custody exchange—that Mel updates you with a video. You take a break from grading the final projects and watch.

“Okay, okay, wait, Dad, don’t start yet!”

The camera shakes as she fumbles with the phone, propping it up against what you later find out is a jar of flour, “I need to film this. Mom’s soooo gonna be proud of me when she sees how good these turn out.”

It turns out, Mydei actually did try to teach her how to bake to spend more time with her and give her something to do to burn off her energy—while increasing her dopamine when she accomplishes something.

You hear him huff from beside her as he comes into the frame—tying an apron around his waist, “If yours turn out bad, do not blame me,” He jokes.

“Excuse me?” she gasps dramatically, “I am the creative director here.”

“You’re the one who almost set the toaster on fire last month.”

“That was one time!”

He snorts, but there’s a softness in it now. An ease that wasn’t there years ago.

“Hands washed?” he asks.

Mel rolls her eyes but holds them up anyway, “Yes, Dad.”

“Properly?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Show me.”

“Okay, now you’re just being annoying—”

“Melina.”

She groans but trudges to the sink again.

And later—when the kitchen smells like sugar and something slightly overbaked, when flour dusts the counter and her cheek, when she laughs at how lopsided their cupcakes look—She sends you a picture.

Honey [image] we cooked !!! well… baked LOLL they lowk look ugly but taste good I PROMISE ILL BRING SOME HOMEE

And then a few minutes later, to which you assume the pause is because she started snacking, she sends another message.

Honey Dad said I didnt even burn anything im so proud of myself !!!!

You stare at the photo longer than you should.

At the messy kitchen island, flour everywhere, metal and glass bowls still sitting on the counter, countless utensils in the sink, and the fridge left ajar.

At the uneven frosting on the cupcakes, some dripping on the island, some out of the cupcake liners.

At him, behind her—slightly out of focus, but there. Smiling.

You don’t realize you’re smiling too until your cheeks hurt.

…

Towards the end of the year, your students mention their siblings are applying for colleges now and that they would love to let them have you as a professor. The compliment makes you think about Mel and where she’d be applying for college in the summer.

You hadn’t really had the chance to talk with her about it. With her getting busier with her sports and extracurriculars and with you trying to improve your syllabus for the next term, you and Mel only spend time at home and when she needs help with her homework.

For a lack of information, you decide to text Mydei if he knows anything about it since Mel is in his custody this week.

You Has Mel told you where she’s applying yet? Mydei No. Has she told you? You Nope. Mydei We should be concerned. You We are concerned. I just don’t know if she’ll apply to Okhema U or maybe GoE. Mydei I’ll ask her tonight. Maybe she’ll apply to Gibranipar U, like we did? You It’s Garbaniphoro now, don't forget. Also.. Don’t interrogate her. Mydei I don’t interrogate? You You’re literally a lawyer. Mydei Unfair. [ haha ] reacted by You

…

The day Mel’s supposed to switch back to yours, Mydei is called into a meeting into the office. Something about a client requesting him, specifically. When he explains this to Mel, she grimaces in discomfort.

Mydei picks up on this—but not for the reason he thinks it’s for.

“Sorry, honey. It’ll be quick, I promise,” he reassures her, “I’ll go over some parts of the contract with her, then we can get a sweet treat at The Orchard before we go drop you off to your Mom’s, okay? How does that sound?”

The girl all but shrugs, fixating on the fact that her Dad said ‘her’ and feeling queasy.

Mydei ruffles her hair, “Alright, go pack up your stuff, we’ll leave in an hour.”

…

Melina sits on a desk in view of Mydei’s office—he put her there so he could see her at all times, and she could see him—earbuds in, pretending to study and do her homework, but she’s watching her Dad and his female client.

The woman across his desk leans in too close, laughs too easily, touches his arm like it’s nothing, and it makes Mel narrow her eyes. 

That’s definitely not how clients should act.

And the worst part of it all, is her Dad doesn’t react the way she expects. He doesn’t lean away dramatically, doesn’t snap—He just… shifts slightly and doesn’t do anything about it.

It… unnerves her. Like watching them feels… wrong. It shouldn’t be—they’re technically not doing anything bad, but her mind does nothing to dissuade the uneasiness in her guts—like the feeling that she ate something that didn’t sit right with her digestive system. The whole thing doesn’t sit right with her.

Then she hears the woman giggle through the glass.

“What is so funny that she has to laugh so loud and high-pitched?” she whispers to herself as she turns her attention back to her AP Geography homework.

And then she hears her Dad speak.

“Let’s keep this discussion relevant to your case,” he says evenly.

The woman speaks like she has a pout in her voice, “You’re no fun.”

“I’m not here to be.”

Mel fights the urge to snort. 

It does little to lift the uneasiness in her stomach, but she’s glad her Dad is being professional about it.

…

Later, in the car, she squints at him.

“You know she was flirting with you, right?” she tells him, looking directly at him as he fumbles with the seatbelt and looks for his parking ID.

He gives her not much emotion about it, not even a raised eyebrow like he always does, “I’m aware. Put your seatbelt on.” 

Mel huffs, quickly pulling her seatbelt on and facing him again, “And?”

“And nothing.”

She looks at him in disbelief, and tilts her head, “Dad.”

He sighs, knowing she won’t let this go until he answers all of her questions and complaints, “Mel.”

She crosses her arms and it reminds him of you.

“You didn’t even look annoyed!” Mel starts to gesture wildly with her hands now.

“I was working,” He stresses and puts both hands on the wheel.

She studies him for a minute. In silence.

Then she deflates and looks out her side of the window—arms still crossed, not even looking at him anymore.

Mydei doesn’t know what to tell her—how to reassure her that it really isn’t like that. The client is just a client, and that…

That he…

…

He still loves you.

But before he can even articulate any of his thoughts properly and move his mouth to speak, he hears her sniffle.

Then mutters—“Mom would’ve done something instead of just letting it happen.”

He stills, just for a second.

It sinks into him, then.

He did let it happen.

Mydei starts the engine.

…

It’s a very quiet ride home.

When Mydei asks Mel what she wants from The Orchard, she shrugs and tells him to get whatever he feels like. Eyes not meeting his and instead focused on her phone—texting who he saw was Phainon.

He sighs and tells her he’ll get her a strawberry cream cheese danish. If she has any indication that that’s what she wanted, she never gives it, and Mydei is left to order something for Mel, him, and you when he gets to your house.

He picks up a treat for Phainon, too, when he realizes Mel might’ve asked him to come over.

Mydei is no stranger to this. He’s dealt with Mel’s stubborness—something she got from both of you, and anger more times than he can count. And the best solution? Wait for her to be okay enough to talk about it.

He knows she’ll talk to him about it when she’s ready. 

It’s something you’ve both taught her from a young age. She just needs to feel it out and gather her thoughts together before she tries to confront the problem she has.

If her eating the danish on the way to your house was any clue, he’d say he and Mel are doing just fine.

…

Phainon lets you know through text that he’s coming over as per the request of his favorite niece through text.

Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 I’m coming over. You ??? Why?? Not that you’re not welcome… It’s just so completely random. Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 My favorite niece has told me she requests my presence. You … Phainon, she's your only niece. Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 I know. Obviously, she’s gonna be my favorite. Duh. You (eyeroll emoji) Whatever, get me a drink while you’re out. Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 (eyeroll emoji) Fineee. [ <3 ] reacted by You

…

To your surprise, he gets there earlier than Mydei and Mel get home, which really confuses you since he lives 25 minutes away, and he was able to get you the drink you wanted.

“Do you know why she’s asking for you?” You poke at him as you lounge on the couch behind him, sipping your drink as he flips through the TV channels with the remote.

“See, I would tell you, but that would render me a traitor to the Cool Uncle Club.”

You roll your eyes, “You’re sooo corny.”

Phainon flashes you a smile, “You can’t trick me with that anymore. You may be my little sister, but my cool status comes first.” 

Finally, he settles on a channel that’s showing Andrew Garfield’s The Amazing Spiderman, and you both get quiet.

Then you lean against him a little more, your head resting against his shoulder.

“Hey, Phai?”

“Mh?”

“Thanks for always being there for Mel,” you murmur, “and for me.”

Your brother huffs out an amused smile, “Always.”

Just then you hear the honk of Mydei’s car—a signal you both gave out to let the other know you were there. You stood from the couch to open the door only to see your daughter already approaching.

“Hi, Honey. I missed you,” you say as she buries herself in your embrace.

“I missed you, too, Mom. Is Uncle Phai here already?” she pulls away, asking.

You jerk your head softly towards the living room, “He’s in there, what happened, you okay?”

She nods absentmindedly, “Yeah, Mom. Don’t worry about it.”

Mel then pivots to greet her Uncle and gives him a hug, “I’ll be down in a minute, let me just change my clothes.”

You exchange a look with Phainon as he shrugs, not knowing why she’s in such a rush to get out of the house. It’s at that moment that Mydei’s trunk slams shut and he appears in the doorway holding Melina’s luggage.

Quietly, he hands over her stuff and a paperbag from The Orchard.

You thank him and go to put it away in the kitchen before you ask, “Did… anything happen?”

Mydei stays quiet for a moment—like he’s debating whether or not to tell you, his hands fidgeting with the bracelet on his left arm, a nervous habit he never got rid of.

“Mydei?” you ask again.

Yet, before he can even answer, your daughter comes down the stairs and straight to Phainon.

“C’mon, Uncle Phai,” she tugs him up by her arm and your brother easily relents, telling her to slow down, there’s no rush.

Your eyes flit towards her father and you can obviously see it in his eyes that something happened. You watch as he chews on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to say something but is holding back from doing so.

“Aren’t you even going to say bye to your dad?” Phainon asks, making Melina stop in her tracks, three steps away from Mydei.

The air is charged with something you can’t quite name.

Then slowly, lacking enthusiasm, Mel hugs him and you hear a muffled, “Bye, Dad, see you next week.” 

Mydei’s arms curl around her almost instantly, one hand petting the crown of her head, “See you next week, sweetheart…”

And that was it.

Phai then leaves with her dragging him out of the house—telling you he’ll bring her home before nine because it’s a weekend after all, with her hollering a different tone of goodbye to you, telling you she and Phai will be safe.

Leaving you and Mydei standing inside the house.

…

Mel doesn’t talk to her uncle at first. They walked around aimlessly to the park at first—Phainon asked her if she wanted him to drive them somewhere but she shook her head, asking if they could walk around instead.

Your brother was all too reminded of the way you’d walk around with him when you were young to refuse.

At the 30-minute mark, he suggested they get ice cream like they always do—her’s pomegranate-flavored and his would be caramel and vanilla, and she only nodded, still not talking.

When they got the cold treats, he dragged her over to sit on a bench by the riverside, and just… waited. Phainon watched her quietly as she pokes at her ice cream instead of eating it.

“That bad?” he finally asks.

Mel shrugs.

“You usually finish that before I even sit down.”

She sighs, pushing the pink cream around, “Not hungry.”

He leans back on the bench, “I thought we already established years ago that you can’t lie to me? Try again.”

She sighs.

“They’re… fine,” she starts, “Mom and Dad.”

“That’s not what I asked, Meli.”

The girl presses her lips together.

“They’re good parents,” she insists, “like—really good. They show up, they talk, they don’t fight… They’re following my rules in the divorce, everything’s in place, everything’s good and steady…”

She trails off and Phainon waits.

“But it’s just…” she mutters, staring at her melting ice cream, “It just feels… wrong.”

His voice softens, “Wrong how?”

She swallows.

“Like… it’s almost right. But not really. Like when you make eggs a little too runny and you’re thinking, no—it’s okay, it’s been cooked under a fire, but you get the feeling that you might get salmonella. You know? Like, it’s supposed to be right, but it feels so… off.”

A pause.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

Phainon sighs. He knew this day would come eventually, when the divorce would actually affect her in a way that she can fathom—not as a kid who only thought being a family was enough.

“Uncle Phainon?”

“Yeah?”

She sets her ice cream cup down on the bench and curls her fists in her lap, “Can you… Can you not tell Mom or Dad about this?”

Then she looks up at him, eyes teary and red—like she’s been holding them back. Looking the same way you did when you told him that you were divorcing Mydei and asking him if it was the right decision.

Phainon had always been weak towards you. 

And with how Mel definitely inherited your crying face? He was weak towards her, too.

So he relents.

“Of course, kiddo.”

…

Back at your house, Mydei purses his lips and you just observe. When it starts to look like he’s going to turn and leave, you stop him.

“Still drink pomegranate juice?”

His gaze snaps to you, “What?”

“Pomegranate juice,” you repeat, “Melina got her preference for it from you, I guess—she’s always keeping a carton of it in the fridge. Do you want some while we talk about whatever that was?”

Mydei nods, low ponytail bobbing a bit as he does so.

“Take a seat.”

…

When you finally settle on the couch, you take a bite of the pastry he bought from The Orchard, “Okay, spill, what happened?”

And he does, Mydei talks so much, you think it’s the first time he’s talked to you face-to-face this long since you served him divorce papers. It baffles you, if you were being honest.

He lays out every detail from start to finish—leaving out the part where he can’t say that he still loves you. And when he ends, he deflates into the couch.

You sigh as you ponder over the information he just gave you and shake your head softly as you come to a realization.

“She’s scared you’ll find someone else, start a new family, and lose time for her.”

Mydei snaps back up, “No, no, I wouldn’t do that, I would never lose time for her, not again.”

Not again, the words echo in your mind.

You shrug, “That’s how she sees it.”

“It’s not like that!” 

You put your hands up in the air in mock-surrender, “Hey, I know that because you told me just now. But you haven’t told her.” 

Mydei sighs again, deeply this time.

You know exactly what he wants. Advice. A solution. A way to make your daughter understand that you were still going to be a family no matter what—even if her father might find someone else. You knew he wanted to know how exactly he would tell her that.

You murmur his name softly from across the couch and he responds with a tired, defeated “Mh?”

“Talk to her,” you urge, “maybe not now, since I’m sure Phai is taking her out of her bad mood and if you talk to her now, you’d probably just undo everything he did.”

He keeps quiet.

“She’s just a kid, Mydei. She’s just scared, you didn’t fuck up your relationship with her. You two will be fine as always.”

He exhales.

“I know.”

“You two will be fine.”

…

The following weeks were strangely quiet in a way that unsettled you more than any outburst ever could. Melina would come home from her father’s place with that same faraway look she used to have when the custody exchanges had just begun—back when she didn’t understand why she had to leave one home for another—only now, there were no tears, no protests, just a tightness in her smile and a heaviness in her silences. 

It was subtle, easy to miss if you weren’t looking closely, but you were. 

You always were. 

You considered asking Mydei if he’d said something to her, if anything had happened, but something told you he was just as in the dark as you were. 

So you tried asking her instead, but she only waved you off with a tired laugh, insisting it was just stress from college applications, nothing more, nothing to worry about. And you wanted to believe her. You really did.

But something was bugging you, so you texted Mydei again.

You Hey. Mel wants us to be at the Foundation Fair for her school. The family day thing, just like last year. Mydei Hey, yeah. I saw it on the school forum. I’ll be there. You Also… Have you noticed Mel’s been… off lately? Mydei Yeah. She’s been quieter. You She said it’s just application stress. Mydei Do you believe her?

You stare at the message longer than you should.

You I don’t know.

No message comes through for a moment.

Then the typing bubbles come up again, and—

Mydei We’ll keep an eye on her.

There’s a pause.

Mydei We’ve got her.

And for some reason, that steadies you more than it should.

…

It’s noisy at the Foundation Day’s Fair. Kids ran around everywhere, balloons of different colors strapped to their wrists. The student band playing had really cool live music. 

You and Mydei arrived together, he picked you up from your office when Mel texted him that there was limited parking and it would be better if he picked you up to save time trying to find a space to park in.

She let you know through text as well that her Dad was coming to pick you up. Which to be completely honest, saved you the time of going home and parking your car then hailing a ride to her school.

The moment you got there, Mel was already waiting for both of you at the entrance, dragging you off to… well, everywhere. She rode on scary rides and insisted that you both ride with her. She asked Mydei to buy her cotton candy, win her prizes, and all the sort.

It made you smile, seeing how happy she was just to run around the fair with the two of you. Her weird attitude towards her Dad disappeared, and it was just like before. Like you were a family. It brought a warmth to your chest as you can only sigh in content as she enjoyed the day with you both.

Then she got hungry.

“Dad, please, I wanna eat nachos, please, please, please, please,” she repeated over and over, tugging at her father’s arm as his other carried all the prizes he won for her that afternoon while her other hand was looped around yours.

“You will eat real, actual food, Meli,” he replied.

“And then nachos?”

Mydei sighs in defeat, “Yes, and then nachos.”

The girl can only squeal in triumph.

When you got to the food caravans, you both told her to go find a seat somewhere for the three of you while you and Mydei ordered food—taking all her prizes with her.

You only shook your head in fondness when she asked if she could get ice-cream, too.

“She takes after your sweet tooth too much,” you jokingly scold Mydei and he raises his eyebrows, an amused smile on his lips.

“Please, like she didn’t get your taste for cold drinks?”

“Hey!” you swat him on the arm, “That’s a need in this weather, you know.”

“Uh-huh…” he nods like he believes you even though the grin on his face tells you he doesn’t buy it one bit.

…

From a few tables away, Mel had her eyes on the two of you—finding a seat in the cooler area of the venue. She saw the two of you talking and even laughing.

Even without the romance books, she knew that look in her Dad’s eyes.

There was something.

And then she hears it a few tables over, someone from the Parents’ Association was talking about the two of you, about her family.

“It’s a shame really, I mean, come on, Mydeimos Gorgo is a gorgeous man,” the voice starts, “The ex–wife isn’t that too bad looking either.”

What?

“But obviously, she’s done something wrong for them to divorce.”

Mel stays silent, she couldn’t believe someone would talk about her parents that way without even knowing the full story—actually, no! They shouldn’t talk about them like that at all!

Her eyes darted around, ears straining to hear where exactly the voice was coming from over all the noise.

Then another voice speaks.

“I don’t know whether to feel bad or embarrassed for them, I mean, they’re not even a real family anymore, why would they attend Foundation Day when it’s obviously known for being a family day? They’re just prolonging this charade for their daughter at this point.”

Melina stands up so abruptly that her chair scrapes the ground and the voice stops talking. She realizes the voice was coming from behind her all along—and the horrified look on the woman’s face when she sees that the daughter she was talking about was right there? Priceless.

But not enough to undo the damage.

“Next time, keep your comments to yourself,” she spits out before walking away.

…

It doesn’t take long for Mydei to notice your daughter missing.

The moment he scans the area when you finish ordering, he tells you immediately.

“Melina’s gone.”

Your attention takes a 180 and you scan around immediately, “What? Gone?”

Then Mydei spots the bag of prizes she had—now laying on a lonely table a few ways away and holds onto you to take you there.

“I’ll look for her, between you and me, we know I have better eyesight, I need you to be here in case Meli comes back, okay?” He tells you and you nod, panic steadily creeping up your back.

Mydei takes notice of this, places a hand behind your head, and pulls you in to place a kiss on top of your hair as he wraps a hand around you in a hug.

“I’ll find her, don’t worry,” he reassures, “I won’t let her slip away this time.”

You nod—still in a daze—still processing what the hell he just did, and watching as he walks away in search of your daughter. Phone in hand as you wait for any text that Mel might send you.

…

Just like it didn’t take long for Mydei to notice she was missing, it didn’t take him long to find her either.

He breathed a sigh of relief and texted you that he found your daughter, waiting for you to reply before pocketing his phone.

The field is loud in the way only campus events can be—whistles cutting through the air, laughter spilling over from picnic blankets, parents calling out to their kids with easy familiarity. It’s bright, full, and alive.

And somehow, that’s what makes it feel so quiet when Mydei finally spots her.

Melina sits alone on the bleachers, a few rows up, elbows on her knees, chin resting on clasped hands. She isn’t on her phone. IShe’s just picking at the skin beside her fingernails. Just… watching.

Watching the families gathered below, the ones that fit together without effort.

Mydei slows his steps.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything—just takes it in. The way her shoulders are slightly hunched. The way her gaze lingers a second too long on a father lifting his kid onto his shoulders, on a mother brushing grass off her son’s shirt.

He exhales quietly and walks up the steps.

The metal creaks softly under his weight, but she doesn’t turn.

He lowers himself beside her anyway.

Not too close. Just enough to give her space if she wants that, and enough that she can lean on him if she wants to. For a while, he lets the silence sit between them, lets the noise from the field fill the space instead.

Then, gently, he tries.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Melina blinks, like she hadn’t expected that, but shakes her head quickly, “No, Dad, you didn’t…” her voice falters, just slightly, “It’s just… I heard some people talking.”

Mydei hums, low and patient, eyes still forward, waiting for her to continue.

She shifts then, leans—just a little—until her shoulder presses against his arm. Not quite a hug. But close. It’s enough for Mydei.

And then it all spills out.

“You and Mom have been nothing but good to me,” she starts, words rushing over each other like she’s afraid she’ll lose them if she slows down, “you both didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just…”

Her voice wavers.

She swallows hard, shoulders trembling like she’s holding herself together by sheer will.

“It’s me.”

Mydei’s arm comes around her without hesitation, pulling her closer, anchoring her to him and Melina presses her face into his side, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve.

“I feel like it’s wrong,” she admits, the words muffled but heavy, “I know you and Mom divorced years ago, I know that, I get it, I should be over it, but—” her breath stutters, “—but here, today, it just feels like…”

She squeezes her eyes shut.

“Like we’re not really a family.”

The words land heavier than anything else.

“Like we’re just… pretending. Like we’re faking it for me.”

Mydei’s chest tightens.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Doesn’t correct her.

He just listens.

“And I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” she continues, voice cracking now, slipping past the point of control, “because I am happy, I am, I swear, but then I see them and it just—” she chokes on the rest, shaking her head against him. 

“It feels wrong that we’re not like that.”

A pause.

A breath.

And then—

“Why can’t you and Mom try again?”

Mydei stills.

For a moment, the world narrows down to just that question.

His throat tightens and the corners of his eyes sting. He takes a moment and inhales slowly, deeply—like he’s bracing himself against something unseen.

When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before, rougher, like it pains him to try to answer it—because it does.

Is there anything so undoing as a daughter?

“Meli…”

She doesn’t look up.

So he continues anyway.

“From the moment I lost you and your mom… I never found anyone else.”

Her grip on his sleeve tightens.

“It’s always been her for me,” he admits, the words sitting heavy on his tongue like something long kept in, “there wasn’t anyone after. There isn’t anyone now. There won’t be anyone else.”

He lets out a small, breathless exhale.

“That woman you saw at the office—she meant nothing. Truly. I was just doing my job.”

Melina sniffles, but she’s listening.

“I love your mom,” he says, more firmly now, even if it costs him something to admit it out loud, “I still do.”

A beat.

“But…” his voice dips, quieter, “I don’t think I’m right for her anymore.”

Mel pulls back just enough to look at him.

Really look.

And then—smack.

Her hand hits his bicep. Not hard, but definitely not gentle.

“If you love her, then tell her that!” she bursts out, eyes still wet, frustration cutting through the tears, “You can’t just decide that for her, Dad!”

Mydei blinks, caught off guard.

“Meli—”

“No!” she cuts him off, shaking her head, “You always do that! You just… decide things on your own and don’t even ask! That’s probably why you ended up here in the first place!”

That one lands heavily.

It makes him wince.

She sniffles again, wiping at her face with the back of her hand, breathing uneven but steadier now that it’s all out.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

Then slowly…

Mydei exhales.

A small, almost helpless smile tugs at his lips, “…Okay.”

Melina frowns, “Okay?”

“I’ll tell her,” he says, softer this time, “I’ll… try again.”

She searches his face like she’s making sure he means it.

Then, she nods.

They fall into silence again, but it’s different now, lighter, like something that had been pressing down finally shifted. The wind picks up slightly, brushing against their faces still sticky with tears.

Mel leans against him again, this time without hesitation.

Mydei glances down at her, then sighs quietly.

“You know,” he starts, tone shifting just enough, “we really have to limit your book purchases at JnV’s.”

Mel groans immediately “Oh, be quiet, Dad.”

And just like that she sounds like herself again.

…

Whatever happened on those bleachers, neither of them told you.

Melina came back first, eyes a little red, nose still pink from sniffling, but smiling softly, like something inside her had finally settled. Mydei followed a few steps behind, expression calmer than you’d seen it in weeks, the usual tension in his shoulders eased just enough to notice.

You didn’t ask.

You didn’t need to.

There are some things a parent learns to recognize without words—and the way Mel slipped her hand into his sleeve for a second before letting go, the way he rested his palm briefly against her head as he passed by—you could make a pretty good guess.

Whatever it was, it helped.

The strange distance that had crept in over the past few weeks seemed to dissolve after that day. Mel laughed more, talked more. Fell back into that easy rhythm between the two of you, and with him. The quiet heaviness that had followed her around finally lifted, replaced with something lighter. Something closer to how things used to feel.

Things were good.

Melina ended up applying to The Grove of Epiphany University in the end, where Phai went—after weeks of deliberation, second-guessing, and late-night rambling about pros and cons that changed every other day.

When she finally told you and Mydei, she looked… proud and certain.

“That’s a good school,” you told her, squeezing her shoulder.

Mydei nodded, something unreadable flickering across his face before it softened, “Your grandmother would’ve liked that.”

Mel tilted her head, “Grandma Gorgo?”

He hummed, “She always wanted me to go there.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” he agreed, a faint smile tugging at his lips, “We went to—” he paused, frowning slightly like he was trying to recall it properly, “Gibranipar—no, wait—”

“Garbaniphoro,” Mel corrected immediately, grinning.

“Right. That one,” he said dryly.

She snorted.

You found yourself smiling too.

It was easy, in moments like that, to forget everything that came before.

…

It’s one of those quiet evenings during your week with Mel.

Nothing particularly special—just the hum of your home settling into the night, papers half-graded on your desk, your phone lighting up every now and then with notifications you don’t feel like checking yet.

Until it buzzes again.

You glance down.

Honey Imma be sleeping over at uncle phai’s !!  for movie night 😎 Pls say yes

You smile, shaking your head slightly.

You Don’t stay up too late. Honey no promises THABKU LOVEU [ <3 ] reacted by You

You let out a soft huff and set your phone down—only to pick it up again a moment later, already opening your messages with Phainon.

You Is this true or is she plotting something?

It doesn’t take long for him to reply.

Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 Wow… no trust. I'm hurt. [ haha ] reacted by You No, yeah it’s true, I invited her over. I’ll pick her up from school in a bit. [ <3 ] reacted by You You Alright. Have fun, just keep her alive please. [ <3 ] reacted by Phainon Most Annoying Brother Ever <3 No guarantees. [ ?! ] reacted by You

You roll your eyes, but there’s a fondness in it.

You set your phone down again, and a few minutes later, it lights up once more.

Mydei She texted you too?

You blink, then pick it up.

You Yep.

There’s a pause.

Just long enough for you to think the conversation’s over.

Then—

Mydei Can I see you?

You freeze.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unmoving.

Almost six years.

Six years of schedules, of updates, of polite conversations that begin and end with Melina at the center of them.

And this… This is the first time he’s asked for something that isn’t about her.

The cursor blinks.

Waiting.

You What is this about, Mydei?

There’s a pause. Longer than usual. Long enough for your chest to tighten in a way you don’t want to acknowledge.

Mydei It’s important.

You stare at the message.

Important.

Your fingers hover again, hesitation curling at the edges of your thoughts. Somewhere deep down, something stirs—something you buried months ago, something fragile and dangerous and entirely unwelcome.

Hope.

You press your lips together.

No.

You’ve already made peace with this. With him. With what you are now.

You shouldn’t.

And yet.

You Okay.

…

He arrives twenty minutes later, ringing your doorbell with a bag of ingredients slung over his shoulder like this is just another normal night. Like he hasn’t just tilted something off balance with a single message.

You stand at the door and he stands there, staring right back at you.

“…Hi.”

“Hi…”

God, it’s awkward.

You step aside anyway, letting him in.

He moves through the house like he remembers it—like muscle memory guides him more than thought. Straight to the kitchen. His kitchen.

Just like he used to.

Before…

You linger by the doorway for a moment before closing it and following after him. He’s already unpacking the bag, pulling out ingredients, setting them down with quiet efficiency. You lean against the counter, watching as he does so.

“You didn’t change anything in the kitchen,” he comments, taking note that it looked just like how he customized it.

You shrugged, “Didn’t have the chance to back then, you know. I never really set foot in here until maybe a year after it all.”

He keeps quiet about it and starts to wash the ingredients.

“Now, I don’t really see a reason to change it, I don’t think there’s a need to.”

Mydei takes a look at you and hums, “I see.”

“…Did you just come here to cook?” you ask, unable to keep the curiosity out of your voice, “Is that the important part?”

He huffs softly, not quite amused.

“No,” he mutters, focusing a little too hard on chopping, “I’m… working up the courage to say it. Okay?”

You blink.

Mydei? Working up courage?

That’s… new.

“…Okay,” you say slowly.

You don’t push.

Instead, you give him space—moving back to the island where your papers are spread out, laptop open, red pen in hand. You sit, trying to focus on grading, but your eyes keep drifting up to him, sneaking glances every now and then.

And every now and then, his eyes drift back to you.

It’s quiet.

Not uncomfortable, exactly.

Just… charged.

Like something is waiting to happen and neither of you knows when it’ll break.

…

“I’m almost done,” he says eventually.

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts.

“Oh, okay.”

You stand, moving automatically, grabbing plates, setting them on the table. The motions come easy, it’s familiar. Pause. Too familiar, actually… It feels… domestic.

Again.

And yet—there’s something different now. Something cautious. Like the two of you are circling each other, careful not to step too close too fast. Like you’re both trying to test how far the other is letting this go on for.

You decide you’ll wait for his move. The ball is in his court and it’s his turn to do something.

But for now, you sit, he serves, and you’ll both eat.

The lasagna comes out of the oven still bubbling at the edges, the surface a perfect, blistered gold where the cheese has melted and browned just enough to crisp. The smell hits first—rich, slow-cooked tomato, garlic softened into sweetness, a deep savory warmth that wraps around you before you even take a bite. When he cuts into it, the layers give way with a soft, satisfying slide—tender sheets of pasta, velvety bechamel, and a thick, meaty ragu that’s been simmered long enough to taste like time itself.

Steam curls up from the slice on your plate, carrying that same intoxicating aroma, and when your fork sinks in, it’s almost effortless. The first bite is warm in a way that settles deep in your chest—the cheese stretching slightly before melting on your tongue, the sauce rich and full, balanced with just a hint of acidity that keeps it from being too heavy. It’s indulgent, comforting, and familiar.

It tastes like something made with patience.

Like something made for someone specific.

Like home.

“This is really good,” you compliment with a smile, “I haven’t had your cooking in years.”

He pauses mid-bite and raises a brow, “…I’ve been packing food for Melina to bring home,” he says slowly, “What do you mean?”

Oh.

You wince, shrugging a little. You couldn’t tell him that you couldn’t stomach the thought of his cooking back then, because you were… you were angry. At him. But that was back then, therapy had made you come to terms with these feelings, so you try to pivot the conversation back into a safe area.

“I just thought they were for her specifically,” you say lightly, like it doesn’t matter, “You know… I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

The silence after that is so thick and heavy it’s as if the air’s been knocked out of the room.

“Myd—” you try to start and he interrupts you quietly with your name on his lips.

You immediately backtrack, “Hey, it’s okay, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just—”

“It was always for you.”

You stop.

You blink.

He’s looking at you now.

Really looking.

“I cooked extra because I knew you’d be there,” he continues, voice tight, “I just thought… I thought you knew.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, shaking your head, “It’s fine, I’ll—I’ll eat the next one you send, okay?”

He looks… pained, as you tell him that.

“I thought we were okay.”

“We are—”

“Then why does it feel like you’re avoiding me?” he cuts in, frustration slipping through, “I know we’re not… great, I know I fucked up, but I thought we were okay enough to… to—”

He trails off and you sigh, rubbing your temple. 

“Mydei,” you say softly, “why did you come here tonight?”

That stops him.

Completely.

For a moment, he just sits there.

Then he exhales and something shifts.

“I didn’t fight for you.”

The words hit you like a blow.

Your heart stutters.

“…What?”

“When you gave me the papers,” he continues, voice low, steady only by force, “I didn’t fight you. I didn’t ask you to stay. I didn’t even try.”

You shake your head slightly, “Mydei—”

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says, a bitter edge creeping in, “I thought… if you were unhappy enough to leave, then the least I could do was not make it harder for you.”

Your chest tightens.

“I told myself it was respect,” he continues, “that I was respecting your decision. Your autonomy.”

He laughs dryly, “But really, I was just a coward.”

You stand up from your seat, the chair scraping off of the floor and you back up, “Don’t—”

“No,” he cuts in, sharper now, standing as he does so, “you don’t understand.”

You take a step back, “Don’t do this, Mydei.”

“Please—”

“No, please,” you echo, your voice breaking, begging, as months of therapy start to unravel at the seams, your heart bleeding out in your hands once again in this very kitchen, “please don’t do this.”

“It’s you,” he says, stepping forward.

You shake your head, another step back.

“It’s always, only ever been you.”

Your back hits the island.

You didn’t even realize you’d been retreating.

He’s there in front of you now.

Close—Too close.

“Despite everything,” he murmurs, voice dropping, hands coming up—hesitant at first, then certain and gentle as they cradle your face, “it’s still you.”

You feel dizzy.

Like the ground’s been pulled out from under you.

His forehead presses against yours. His scent flooding your senses.

The sensation too warm, too familiar, and eternally devastating.

“Please,” he whispers, breath uneven, “tell me what I have to do to win you back.”

Your vision blurs.

This is—This is everything you ever wanted.

For him to fight, to choose you, to try. 

And now that he is—you don’t know what to do.

“I’m scared, Dei.”

The nickname slips out before you can stop it, and it breaks something in him.

You feel it.

The way he inhales sharply. The way his grip tightens just slightly.

“…I know,” he murmurs.

You shake in his hold, barely able to contain the tears that spill out from your eyes.

“How do I know it won’t end the same way?”

It’s barely a whisper, but it carries everything.

Every late night, every empty chair, every broken promise.

Mydei’s hand trembles as he brushes a tear from your cheek.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss against it.

“I won’t let it happen again,” he says, voice fierce despite the quiet, “I lost you once. I won’t—” his breath catches, “—I won’t let it happen again.”

His hand slips down, finding yours, intertwining your fingers.

He brings it up between your face as he looks up at you—despite being taller—and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

Gentle.

Reverent.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, “if you’ll have me.”

Your chest heaves, your eyes burn, and you nod.

Just once, but it’s enough.

He lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and broken.

He’s crying too.

You realize that distantly.

And then—softly—just like the first time.

“I, Mydeimos Gorgo, take you,” he continues, voice steadier now, like he’s anchoring himself in it, “to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

“I don’t have perfect words, I never did. But I know this—every version of my life that meant something had you in it. And every version without you… didn’t feel like mine.”

“I vow to come home to you—not just in place, but in heart. I vow to make space for you in every part of my life, the way I should have from the beginning.”

“You are not an afterthought. You never were. You are my first choice.”

“And if you let me again—I will keep choosing you. Every day. For the rest of my life.”

Your breath catches.

He remembered.

After everything—he remembered.

A breath.

“I do.”

“Do you,” he begins, voice trembling, “take me, Mydeimos Gorgo, as your lawfully wedded husband?”

“I do,” you sob, nodding through tears, the words breaking on a hiccup.

He smiles at that and slips a ring you didn’t even know he had into your ring finger. His face soft as his heart remains aching.

“I know this may be sudden, but I think this is long overdue, what about you?”

Your hands come up, cupping his face like you’re afraid he’ll disappear.

You answer him by pulling him down and crashing your lips against his. Like you’re dying of thirst in the desert and he’s the only thing that can save you.

It feels the same.

God, it feels the same.

And that’s what breaks you.

You sob into the kiss, your fingers tightening against him, and he smiles—smiles—against your mouth, holding you like he’s afraid to let go.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours again and presses a soft kiss to your nose.

Your breathing is uneven. Your chest is aching. Your mind spinning from trying to process everything, but you feel lighter.

So much lighter.

“…Meli’s going to be ecstatic about this,” he murmurs.

And despite everything—you laugh.

…

Meli DAD UPDAET Plss im dying of anticipaton here Meli HEY DONT LEAVE ME ON DELIVEREED DADD !!! On nikador bro i swear u are taking So longgg read at 8:04 pm Meli HEY I SEE U READ IT Dad reply pls oh my strife Uncle phai and i are dying here Meli Give update to revive pls pls pls Dad [ sent a photo: ring in someone’s finger, hand covering her face as she’s leaning against someone’s clavicle ] Got her back. [ <3 ] reacted by Melina Meli THATS WHAT IM FUCKING TALKING ABOUT !!!! Dad Language. Meli God forbid a girl is happy she's no longer a child of divorce. [ haha ] reacted by Mydei

…

Bonus scenes!

You Meli and I are on the way to the grocery store. Do you want anything? Dei <3 My beautiful wife and daughter home safe You Corny. [ <3 ] reacted by Mydei

…

Favorite Niece 5Ever Can u sneak me out and drive me to a party It starts at 11 On the 12th Pls pls pls u would be blessed with a gf w a big ass Coolest Unc 5Ever Girl what ?? Your mom AND dad will kill me. Favorite Niece 5Ever Soo is that a no…? Coolest Unc 5Ever If your mom catches me we are soo dead. Send me the addy. [ <3 ] reacted by Melina Favorite Niece 5Ever THX LUVYEW 5EVER !!!! [ <3 ] reacted by Phainon

…

Mom Melina Hera Gorgo. Where are you. You are so grounded when you get home.

usagi's note: can u guys pretty please tell me what melina looks like for u guys PLEASEEE i begggg, anyway i have another mydei fic coming up soon, can u believe i did this in 2 days? me neither. i am so insane wtf. stream dawtde!

@usagiarchive 2025. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!

Phainon brings Mydei around so that he isn’t outnumbered by women—or so he claims, though you know he mostly drags Mydei with him because the latter isn’t exactly a social butterfly. That much is apparent from your first meeting. And your second. And the third, fourth, and possibly by the eighth, you’ve concluded that Mydei simply isn’t social, regardless of whether he were a butterfly, a moth, or any other creature with wings.

Still, Phainon is a good friend for trying—for forcing Mydei to at least attempt to expand his social circle.

You’ll concede this much: for as awkward and stone-faced as Mydei may seem, he isn’t impolite. Or unkind. Or even unpleasant. He’s just…there half the time. Getting more than a three-word, neutral response out of him is like pulling teeth, but he never treats your presence as a chore. That alone makes it easy enough to overlook his terrible ability to mingle with other humans.

Or so you thought.

Mydei is actually—if you can believe it—plenty good company when it’s just the two of you. When there’s no group setting to make him retreat to the sidelines, he’s surprisingly…chatty.

“Where’s Phainon?” he asks as he lets himself into Phainon’s student apartment.

You glance up from the couch where you’re typing on your laptop. 

“He went off to grab some snacks for the movie later,” you hum. “He let me in before he left. My class ended nearby, and I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to my dorm just to come back here again.”

Mydei nods, setting a small box on the table before slumping onto the opposite end of the couch. “I let myself in. Have a key. My class ended early.”

You gesture at the box. “What’s that?”

He picks it up and wordlessly holds it out to you. You blink, confused, before he pops the lid open and a warm, sweet scent fills the air.

“Cinnamon rolls,” he murmurs. “Baked them in class. Thought I’d bring them over.”

You perk up immediately, brightening at the offer. “You made these yourself?”

“Yes.” He hesitates, then adds, “Though I don’t think my professor’s recipe is the best. I’d use less butter. Didn’t really have a choice if I wanted the grade, though.”

“The more butter, the better, I say,” you hum, reaching for a pastry and taking a delighted bite. The warmth of cinnamon and sugar floods your tongue, and without thinking, you do a little shimmy of satisfaction.

Mydei chuckles, eyeing you in amusement. “Do you always do that little dance when you eat? You did it the other day, too.”

You pause mid-bite. “Of course—something tasting good is like the number one reason to do a happy dance. Also, this is definitely not too much butter.”

“It’s not healthy,” he counters, brow furrowing just slightly. “You’d never know the difference if you used less.”

You snort, giving him a look of mock bewilderment. “Oh, yes, because a sweet pastry is supposed to be a healthy snack. What’s a little extra butter in the grand scheme of all that sugar and flour anyway? I think being a gym freak has turned both you and Phainon delusional when it comes to food—yesterday he said a donut could be ‘redeemed’ if he had it with plain black coffee.”

Mydei huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That does sound like him.”

“Right? I told him that’s not how balanced diets work. He just said I just don’t understand nutrition.”

“Maybe you don’t,” he teases mildly, tone soft but playful in a way you haven’t heard from him before, “but to be fair, neither does he.”

It’s a funny way things work, you like to think. How a cinnamon roll and an empty apartment that doesn’t belong to either of you is enough to finally break the ice. Mydei is still not a very good social human being—but it’s endearing that way. 

By the twenty-something time you’ve hung out with him, he’s still quiet and observant from the side as he always is, but he likes being there, and you like having him. You like seeing him. You like the slightly snide comments he makes to Phainon under his breath, and you like the fond snort he lets out when Phainon whines at how he’s so mean! You like trying his newest little baked good he brings in a box for you after his class, and you like the amused look he gives you when you insist a little more sugar would never kill anyone. 

(It might kill you, he tends to say. If you have so much of it. Heart failure is never good.

Are you saying I’m unhealthy Mydeimos? you always gasp, who taught you how to speak to women?)

You grow fond enough of Mydei that you start to notice other things than just how well acclimated he is (or isn’t) in social gatherings. You start to notice his tattoos—enough that you think you could draw them by memory alone. You start to notice how tall and broad he is—enough that once or twice, your mind has drifted to how easily he might be able to lift you. And, more importantly, you start to notice how handsome he is—enough to make you worry that this might be an issue that shifts dynamics around. 

But, all things considered, you think shifting dynamics are something you’re safe from for now if one half of the parties involved hardly understands what your first dynamic is to even think about changing over to a second. 

———————————————

You thought wrong.

It takes all of two glasses of wine—and maybe halfway into a third, you’re not so sure—for you to be bold enough to change the dynamics yourself. Castorice and Phainon have already left your apartment—they both have early shifts in the morning, so they make their goodbyes after your routine weekly movie is over. 

It’s your turn to host this week. And Mydei, being Mydei, the nice guy that he is, stays behind to help you clean up the mess. Empty glasses on the counter, crumbs on the coffee table, crumpled wrappers fallen here and there. He doesn’t think twice, doesn’t even hesitate before he stands and starts to tidy up for you. 

“You don’t have to do that,” you murmur, reaching to grab the glass in his hand.

He gently catches your wrist, steadying you as you wobble slightly. “I don’t mind,” he says quietly. “I helped make the mess, didn’t I? And you…you should have some water. Sit down before you fall or something.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” you argue, even as you sway a little on your feet.

He huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head before stepping away toward the kitchen. You hear the sound of a glass being filled, the soft hum of water running, and then he’s back, holding it out to you with an expectant look.

“Drink,” he says, tone firm but still so kind. (He’s always so, so painfully kind.)

You take it, squinting at him over the rim. “Are you always this bossy, or is it just me who gets this treatment?”

“I’m not bossy,” he smirks, “it’s called being responsible. Someone has to be when you’re clearly not.”

You pretend to scowl, but the amusement breaks through anyway, and you giggle. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you act like this.”

You don’t register what you say. But he does. In fact, it gets his smirk to falter for just a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise flashing in his eyes before he looks away, blushing. “You should probably sit down,” he mumbles, suddenly finding the couch fascinating.

He guides you to your couch, gently with one hand on your shoulder and one at the small of your back, helping you slump onto the cushions before he hands you the glass of water once more and helps you take a sip. 

“Mydei,” you say softly. He looks up, and you lean closer—close enough that you can see the faint flush creeping up his neck and to the tip of his ears, close enough that the warmth of him feels like it radiates onto your own. “Thank you,” you murmur, “you’re always so sweet to me.”

“It’s nothing,” he grunts out quietly. 

“It’s not nothing,” you insist, “I like being around you. I always have a good time.”

His eyes widen before he stutters over his words—shy. Sometimes, Mydei can be shy. And it’s cute. 

So you kiss him.

You lean in, pressing your lips onto his. It’s slow, and soft, and tastes faintly of the wine you both drank earlier. (You more than him, clearly.) For a second, he freezes—but then his hand comes up, careful and unsure, to the side of your face. And then he’s kissing you back, hesitant but desperate all at once, like he’s been waiting for this to happen all along but can’t be sure it’s actually happening outside of his imagination.

He pulls away first, closing his eyes as he lets out a shaky breath. You hum happily, slumping back against the couch. 

“Yay,” you murmur. 

“You should sleep,” he breathes out, “I’ll clean up.”

“See? So sweet,” you giggle at him.

You don’t sleep right away like he tells you to. Instead, you sit on your couch and watch him clean for a bit, admiring his form as he bends and picks things up and walks around your tiny little living room. Some time between him finishing and leaving to go home for the night, though, you do fall asleep. 

But not before you feel him drape a blanket over your form. Because Mydei, for all the many things that he may be, is thoughtful before everything else. 

———————————————

You change your mind quickly. Perhaps Mydei is not as generous as you gave him credit for. 

You haven’t seen him in two weeks since you kissed him. Or, well…since you both kissed each other—you refuse to let go of the fact that he clearly reciprocated. Therefore, this was not a one-sided incident so much as it was a tango of two.

But apparently, it’s a tango he’s been desperate to pretend never happened. You think that’s rather fucked up because you could hardly be considered drunk—and you definitely had vivid memories of everything that happened that night after you woke up. He drank less than you, so he cannot use the excuse of forgetting. But it’s become his life’s newest mission to avoid you and talking about what happened, anyway, and he’s executing it with military precision. 

Every time Phainon tries to make plans for all of you, Mydei finds a way out of them.

I have extra shifts at the restaurant, he’ll text. Other times, it’s: Sorry, I’m too tired from class. I’m gonna nap. And, if he’s feeling particularly creative, he’ll say: Have to stay after class to redo a recipe. I messed up the measurements.

Mydei does not mess up measurements. He’s too good a cook for that. You have seen him tweak recipes with flawless execution off the top of his head—he is too skilled to do something like mess up a pre-instructed recipe. But at least he’s committed to the bit—he is certainly charitable enough to at least attempt to play his blatant avoidance off as unintentional due to his overwhelming schedule. 

Phainon, unfortunately, has caught on because he so bluntly asks you one day when you’re trying to study together while Castorice is at work—which, you realize, is exactly why he asked to study with you in the first place. Because she is at work. And he can have you alone. And if he has you alone, he can interrogate you. 

You should have seen that coming. 

“Did something happen between you and Mydei?” he asks casually, though his tone is far too deliberate to actually be casual. He sets his laptop aside, folding his arms. “He’s seen Cas a few times, and he hangs out with me just fine. That only leaves you. Did he say something you took the wrong way? Because if so, I know he’s not always the best at expressing himself, but I promise he didn’t mean it with any harm.”

You glance up from your notes, trying for nonchalance. “What makes you think something happened? Maybe he’s just busy.”

Phainon raises an eyebrow. “Busy. Right. Because the man who plans his week down to the minute suddenly has no time for movie nights or dinner? Please.”

You look down, pretending to focus on the highlighted paragraph in front of you. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?” he asks, raising a brow. “Look, usually, I’d drop it, but this time…I don’t think I’m wrong. So, what happened? Did he say something stupid? He does that sometimes—he doesn’t ever mean it, he’s just not exactly the best at…words.”

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “No. He didn’t say anything stupid.”

Phainon tilts his head. “Then what?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“That sounds exactly like something you’d say if it were a big deal.”

You glare at him. “It’s not. It was…something that just happened. And now he’s avoiding me, and I don’t know why.”

“Okay, so what happened?” he presses. He is rather persistently making it clear he isn’t going to let it go and drop this.

You stare at the open tabs of your laptop, debating whether to lie, deflect, or just walk out the door. Eventually, you cave. Phainon and Mydei have been friends since they were awkward, scrawny teenagers who grew into themselves. Surely, if he really wanted, he could weasel an answer out of Mydei. It’s probably out of kindness that he asks you for your side of the story first so he can make fair assessments without being biased. 

So you rip the band-aid off. You set your laptop down on the couch beside you and turn your body to face him, and you rip the band-aid off, even if it means revealing the fresh wound that hasn’t even started to scab over yet. 

“We…we kissed,” you admit quietly.

It’s silent. Phainon is, to his core, bewildered.

“You kissed Mydei?” he blurts, blinking at you as if you’d just confessed to some awful, terrible, unimaginable crime. 

You sigh, already regretting telling him anything. “And so what if I did?”

“So what if—” He stops, mouth parted in shock and jaw slack enough it might as well touch the floor. “I just—wow. I didn’t think Mydei even knew how kissing worked.”

You blink, then hiss incredulously, “What is that supposed to mean?”

Phainon waves his hands defensively. “Hey, no need to get so offended on his behalf. I’m just saying he doesn’t exactly strike me as the romantic type. He’s like—what’s that word? Stoic? Mildly robotic? Did it feel like kissing cold metal?”

You purse your lips. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just asking,” Phainon insists. “Well, anyway…did he initiate it or did you? Wait, no, don’t tell me—actually…wait. Yes, tell me.”

“Phainon.” You give him a flat stare. “If I tell you anything, you’ll make it weird.”

“It’s already weird!”

You pick up a pillow from the couch and toss it at him—he yelps as it hits him square in the chest. Yet another display of his commendably annoying theatrics because he could have easily caught or dodged your throw, and you know it as well as he does. But you suppose you appreciate his good sportsmanship in letting you land a hit. 

“Enough questions,” you mutter, crossing your arms and looking away. “It just…happened.”

Phainon narrows his eyes like you’ve given him a riddle. “It just happened, huh? So what, you tripped and so did he, and you met halfway and accidentally locked lips?”

You huff. “Does it matter who did what? It wasn’t a big deal.”

He stares at you a little longer than necessary, as if trying to read something in your face. Then, finally, he lets out a low whistle and sinks back into the couch on the opposite end of you.

“Wow. Mydei actually kissed someone. Voluntarily.” He leans back, shaking his head in disbelief. “Next thing I know, Castorice is gonna tell me he’s eloping with his bread starter.”

You can practically see Mydei’s reaction to that—the slow blink, the withering look, the grumpy smack to the back of Phainon’s head—and you have to bite down a laugh before it slips out. The last thing you need is Phainon accusing you of smiling at the thought of Mydei.

“I’m pretty confident,” you say instead, fighting your grin, “that he’s likely a better kisser than you. Your lips are barely even there.”

Phainon gasps, clutching his chest in mock hurt. “So now we’re body shaming? Crazy.”

“You did that to yourself,” you snort.

“I was just expressing concern for my emotionally repressed friend!”

You roll your eyes. “Concern that is pretty unnecessary.”

“Please,” Phainon scoffs, mirroring your tone as he leans back against the couch. “I’m looking out for you both. If anyone’s gonna date Mydei, it should come with an instruction manual. He’s…a piece of work.”

You laugh—can’t help it this time, even if you tried—and shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s not here to hear you say that. You’re the worst.”

He shrugs cheerfully. “And yet, you still hang out with me. Which, honestly, makes me question your taste almost as much as the kissing thing.”

“I don’t know if you’re rooting for him or against him,” you say flatly. “And in any case, like I said, Mydei is finding every excuse in the book to avoid hanging out with all of us, which is probably because I’m there, which likely means he regrets the kiss, which likely means he doesn’t feel the same, which likely means—”

“Mydei is, like…the dumbest guy I’ve ever talked to,” Phainon cuts in, “and that’s only because I can’t exactly talk to myself.”

“You can if you really want to,” you laugh, “but at least you’re self-aware.”

“You didn’t have to agree that fast,” he mutters, giving you a dry smile. Then, with a sigh, “Look, he’s a little slow on the emotional uptake, okay? But he definitely likes you—trust me, I’d know.” He pauses, squinting. “I mean, I never thought you’d like him back, of course, because—well, you know, you seem like someone with standards, but—”

“Phainon.”

He freezes, hands up instantly. “I’m kidding! He’s a good guy—great, even. My point is, he probably thinks you regret it. He’s avoiding you because he thinks you’re going to reject him.”

“That makes no sense,” you grumble. “I was the one who kissed him first.”

“So it was you who initiated—” 

You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut glass.

“—B-but anyway, Mydei doesn’t always make sense!” he rushes out, backpedaling so fast it almost makes you smile. “I meant it when I said he’s a piece of work—but I also meant it when I said he’s a good guy. I know him better than anyone, and I’ve never seen him look at someone the way he looks at you. So while I think he’s an idiot for being a coward, I also think maybe you could…I don’t know, end his suffering. Let him know he’s not walking straight into heartbreak.”

You huff, arms crossing. “Fine. But you owe me for this. A month’s worth of coffee.”

“For what?” he gapes. “I didn’t do anything—”

“Just ’cause.”

You stand, gathering your bag and laptop, and head toward the door. Phainon wordlessly follows, his footsteps padding behind yours until he stops beside you at the entryway.

You hesitate. Then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn and lean forward, wrapping your arms around him. He startles only for a second before returning the hug instantly—one arm protectively around your waist, the other rising to cup the back of your head with enough gentleness, you feel the familiar sting of tears in your eyes. 

“Hey,” he murmurs against the crown of your head, voice low and steady, “you two are good for each other. I know it, okay? Don’t worry so much.”

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice soft and small. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he chuckles, the sound rumbling against your body. “Just don’t soak my shirt. I can’t replace my wardrobe if you drain my wallet with coffee.”

You laugh, and it’s a watery little thing. “You are so insufferable.”

He grins. “And yet, I’m still your bestest friend in the world.”

You roll your eyes but don’t deny it. Phainon is a good friend, you think—and, if things work out between you and Mydei like he promises, he’ll also be the one who introduced you in the first place. You think you can afford to be a little nicer to him from now on. Perhaps starting with trying not to make fun of his thin lips ever again. 

(Key word: try.)

———————————————

Mydei’s apartment is on the wealthier end of apartments in the area. 

Apparently, from what you’ve gathered in passing from Phainon, Mydei comes from generational wealth. Or something like that, at least. You don’t really know—his family is a touchy subject, evidently. He seems to sour anytime the mention of fathers in a general sense is brought up. You don’t even dare to bring up his father specifically—you can only imagine that he does not get along with his father. 

Perhaps, though, if things go accordingly, and you are able to mend things over with him, you could get to know him better. Get to know him personally. Intimately. Get to know him in ways that only you are allowed to know—vulnerable ways where he doesn’t just confide in you, but lets you pick up the pieces and press them back into place, holding them steady with nothing more than conviction and affection as the glue. 

A wishful way of thinking, maybe. Daydreaming, even. But you’d like the opportunity—you really would. You like Mydei. He’s nice and quiet and respectful, and he cares for people in silent boldness. He doesn’t smother you in that way that feels performative, and he doesn’t make you wonder how long before he gets bored with you. He takes the time to learn you silently without you realizing, and he shows you just when the time is right in casual, gentle ways without asking for anything in return. 

Here, he’ll say, I baked this for you. I know you like that flavor. 

You rolled your shoulder out again, he’ll point out casually, if your bag is so heavy for you, you shouldn’t carry that much all the time. Here—give it to me.

You have an exam next week, he’ll bring up, I got you groceries. You never eat healthy during exam weeks.

He’s sweet. Blunt and a little dry in nature, but sweet. His heart is so gold, you wonder if he bleeds it. If it pumps delicate, soft gold between every vessel and artery. It’s exactly why it hurts so bad when he seems to avoid you after you get a taste of him—being so close to believing you could have someone like him before having it torn away from you feels sickeningly cruel. 

But Phainon is right about one thing. Mydei is a good guy. Great, even. You choose to believe he is a little slow in the head and goes about protecting himself in the wrong ways. And you choose to believe that with a little luck on your side, you can walk away knowing that getting to know him enough to understand why his father is a sore spot and why he never brings up his family is quite possible. 

You knock on his door. He opens it almost instantly—so fast that it’s clear he was expecting someone else. You’re fairly certain you have Phainon to thank for that.

“Hi,” you say.

“Oh.” He blinks, surprise flickering across his face. “You’re…here?”

“Yeah.” You fidget with your fingers. “Is that okay?”

“I—yeah,” he stammers, stepping aside. “Uh, yeah. Come in.”

“You don’t have to invite me in,” you shake your head quickly. “I just wanted to talk, Mydei. It’ll be quick.”

He stands there for a beat too long, staring at the floor, before his shoulders slump the slightest bit with a quiet sigh. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “I know you’re probably upset with me for…what happened.”

“I mean, yeah,” you admit softly, “you could’ve just been honest if you didn’t feel the same—”

“I should’ve never let it go that far when you were clearly tipsy,” he blurts. “I’m sure you think I was taking advantage of you.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then again, just to process his words and make sure you heard him right.

“Sorry,” you frown, “what was that?”

He stares back at you, equally confused. “Why wouldn’t I feel the same? I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

“No, no, hold on,” you say, lifting a hand. “Forget that part for a second. Why would I feel taken advantage of?”

“Because I kissed you when you weren’t sober?” His tone is baffled, staring at you like you’ve grown two heads. “I don’t know what got into me that night, but I don’t usually lose control like that. I’m sorry—I should’ve had more restraint. You don’t deserve to—”

“This whole time you were avoiding me because you thought I felt taken advantage of over a kiss?” you interrupt, incredulous.

“Well, yeah,” he almost pouts, “you’re not supposed to be intimate with people when they aren’t sober. It’s not right.”

“You thought I regretted it,” you continue, half-laughing in disbelief. “This whole time, I thought you regretted it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he says instantly, “I would never regret kissing you. I just regret not waiting for a more appropriate—”

You cut him off by wrapping your arms around him and pulling him into a hard, passionate kiss. One, because he’s such…a good guy, and two, because he deserves to know you’re not mad. Not in the slightest. 

He doesn’t hesitate, either. Wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you tight against him, kissing you back with an almost desperate amount of need. Your mouth parts, and he slips his tongue past your parted lips, groaning as he gets a taste of you. Without wine, this time—thankfully. And because Mydei is so well-mannered and considerate, he turns his body so that you’re not facing the outside world, gently maneuvering you into the privacy of his apartment and shutting the door behind him so no one gets a glimpse of the way he kisses you absolutely senseless. 

You pull away with labored breaths as his forehead presses against yours. 

“We were both tipsy, for the record,” you snort breathlessly, “you silly goose.”

His lips quirk into a slight, amused grin at that. “I guess maybe I was. I don’t drink often enough to know my limits.”

“You are a hopeless case,” you huff out a disbelieving chuckle, “Phainon was right. You aren’t very bright, are you?”

His face turns sulky at that as he asks, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing important,” you laugh. “Just kiss me for now—I’m sober, okay? So you can. And you can even when I’m not—I don’t mind if it’s you.”

“Okay,” he smiles, pressing a chaste peck to your lips. You press another before he can fully pull away. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Don’t ignore me again.”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?” you pout.

“I do,” he hums, kissing your curled lips soothingly.

“It hurt my feelings when you did, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” he says instantly. 

“So do you like me?” you bat your lashes hopefully, cheekily. 

He laughs—sweet, and low, and delicate enough that you lean in closer to hear the sound a little better. “I do. A lot. Maybe more than like, actually.”

“Good,” you nod, “I like you, too. So take me on a date.”

“Will do,” he grins. His arms wrap tighter around you, and his face buries into your neck as he pulls you flush against his chest. “You can stay here, even. I’ll make you dinner. It’ll be good.”

“Okay,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his hair as you lean into him in relief, “I will.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” he begins, then rests a hand over his chest as a reflex. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to refuse. The last expedition has left me rather exhausted - and as you know, I don’t fare well in cold weather.”

Dan Heng nods in understanding. He’s never been a man of many words, and for that Sunday appreciates him. He rather likes straight-forward people, who aren’t afraid to say their mind - perhaps that’s why he’s grown to adore both the Express and the Hunters so much.

“Is there anything you want us to bring back?” pipes up the Trailblazer, dog-like eyes shining as they lean over March. “Like, sweets or whatever?”

Sunday bites back a chuckle. Somehow, word had gotten around that Sunday had quite the sweet tooth. He doesn’t know who started it or how they found out (he has his suspicions on March), but ever since the trio has been dragging him around to various planets and encouraging him to try the local desserts.

He wonders if he’s gotten cavities yet. He hopes not.

Maybe he should check again, at a later time.

“That Rye Bread Iceberg you brought last time was rather enjoyable. I’d like to try it again.”

March and the Trailblazer brighten at his words. “Okay, on it!”

Dan Heng only hums his acknowledgement before turning to leave the parlor car. “Let’s go,” he advises the others. “You know Seele doesn’t like to wait.”

Sunday has never personally met this Seele (the Trailblazer describes her as a crass but kind-hearted warrior), but her fury is enough to whip both March and the Trailblazer into shape. It isn’t long before the trio is waving him goodbye as they descend into the frozen planet, and he also bids them farewell.

And then it is just him, and the conductor.

A small sigh leaves him as he sits down on one of the many couches. He wasn’t lying when he said he was exhausted. Fighting - or any physical activity, for that matter - isn’t exactly his strong suit. Even during his time with the Hunters, he’d stayed behind the front lines, acting as a pseudo Kafka with his carefully crafted words and tuning abilities.

That’s one of the few things about the Hunters that he prefers over the Express - they didn’t force him to hike through deserts and jungles and mountains and Xipe knows what else. All they did was throw him off a skyscraper in the name of the script (he’s pretty sure Elio just wanted to see if he’d actually fly or not).

Sunday blinks, realizing just what had just passed through his mind. Then he sighs with a smile, leaning back into the red plush of the couches.

Only a few months since his fall, and he’s already beginning to think as weirdly as the rest of them.

“Sunday, are you alright?”

Sunday glances down to see the conductor waddling by his feet.

Pom Pom is… strange, no doubt - for whatever reason, Dan Heng fears them and has advised Sunday to not anger them at all costs. Their past is shrouded in mystery, but Sunday finds himself drawn to the conductor. Perhaps living most of his life in a fever dream like Penacony has warped his perception of what is normal and what is not.

“I’m fine, thank you.” He shifts on the couch to make room, but the conductor shakes their head.

“Are you sure? Pom Pom saw you laughing to yourself,” they fret, tapping their nubby hands together anxiously. “Have you been sleeping enough?”

Sunday crosses one leg over the other, and rests his hands over his knee. “If you’re concerned about my transition from Penacony to reality, be at ease. The Hunters have practically beat a proper sleep schedule into me.”

Pom Pom yelps in shock. “B-Beat?! They beat you?”

“Not literally,” Sunday hastes, instinctively reaching out a hand to calm the conductor. “It was more akin to… ominously threatening checkups. Although, there was this one time-”

He sees the look on Pom Pom’s face, and decides to stop it there. He fears they might break out sobbing if he continues.

“Nevertheless, rest assured that I am sleeping at an appropriate time,” he finishes reassuringly. His practiced smile pays off as the conductor gradually calms down, albeit worry about the Hunters’ methods still lingers.

“Alright, if you say so, Sunday.” They look around uneasily. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Sunday waves his hands hastily. “No, I am alright, thank you-”

“He’ll have some tea.”

Pom Pom jumps with a shriek and Sunday’s wings puff up. A familiar laugh ghosts his ear, and immediately Sunday’s face brightens.

“What- What are you doing here?!” Pom Pom quickly hides behind one of Sunday’s slender legs, hugging it like a lifeline. Sunday places a hand on their head to calm them as he turns to the hologram with a warm smile.

“At ease, conductor, they’re a friend.”

Your holographic form glitches in and out of reality. There’s a thin blue filter over your appearance, but other than that, everything is the same as he remembers.

“Hey, angel,” you coo, leaning your elbow on his shoulder as you sit besides him. Its weight is not the same as it would be in reality, but the presence is enough - a small, barely noticeable tingle that has his heart fluttering and his wings following in suit. “How’s life as Nameless? Do you miss us yet?”

Sunday laughs gently. “It has only been two weeks since I left the Hunters. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to miss you all.”

You pout playfully, sticking out your tongue.Even though parts of you chip away and reappear, and your form isn’t stable, Sunday can’t help but be as captivated by you as he was when he was still among the Hunters’ ranks. Where the projection fails, his tinted memory fills in.

“Silver Wolf misses you, although I doubt she’d actually say it,” you say, taking a lock of his hair and twirling it around your finger. “Has she visited you yet?”

Sunday stutters a bit before weakly batting your finger away with his wing. “No, I’m afraid she hasn’t.”

“Hm.” You smile at his attempt to brush you off. Letting go of his hair, you instead opt to tug lightly at his cheek, earning a squeak from the Halovian. “That’s weird. Maybe she was too shy to speak up.”

“I-” Sunday rubs his cheek when you finally let go. Embarrassingly, his wings jump to shield his face, an unfortunate reflex he’d yet to curb. “I suppose she was…”

He hears you hum, and he lifts a wing to peek at you. His cheeks feel hot - no, that’s an understatement, the entirety of his body feels as if he’s in a fireplace.

“Give her my regards,” he finally breathes out, thanking the Aeons for his training in keeping his composure. Sure, it ultimately fails whenever he looks at you, but at least he’s able to fix himself quickly enough… or at least, he hopes that’s what it looks like.

“You didn’t answer my question though.” Propping your elbow on his shoulder again, you rest your cheek in your palm. “How’s the Nameless life treating you?”

“It’s chaotic,” Sunday admits with a fond sigh. He relaxes into the couch once more, feeling himself sink into the plush. Briefly, he’s tempted to lean his head on your shoulder, but given that you’re a holograph, he holds himself back. “But it’s fun. The Nameless have been kind, and the planets I’ve visited… It’s nice, to see the universe as someone other than a wanted criminal.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

Sunday would apologize, but considering that it’s you he’s talking to, he doesn’t feel the need to. After all, you’ve said worse to him, and him to you.

“You know what I mean,” he chuckles. “To be honest, though, the Express and the Hunters aren’t so different.”

He hears Pom Pom squawk indignantly, and again he ruffles their fur to calm them. Turning ever so slightly to your hologram, he gazes at you with adoration and fondness swelling his heart.

“To the both of you, I am forever grateful. If it weren’t for your kindness, I’d be rotting away in an alley somewhere. I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

All distaste for the Hunters fades from Pom Pom as they giggle bashfully. “Aw, Sunday… You don’t have to thank us. We were just doing what the Nameless do.”

You nod in agreement, reaching through his wing and poking his cheek again. “Conductor’s right. No need for thanks, birdie.”

“Still-” Sunday makes a sound like a startled bird as you poke his cheek harder, squishing it against the rest of his face. Underneath his coat, his primary wings strain with the urge to flutter and twitch, while his secondary wings are held back by sheer willpower. The only sign that they want to flap so badly is with the tiniest of tremors.

“None of that,” you chide him gently, tapping him lightly on the plush of his lips. “We’re just glad you’re happy - right, bunny?”

“Who’re you calling bunny?!” Pom Pom protests, steam puffing out of their head while steam threatens to escape Sunday’s face for completely different reasons.

Before you can reply, however, your form begins to glitch out, flickering in and out of reality at a higher frequency. With an annoyed click of your tongue, you stand up.

“Looks like Silver Wolf isn’t happy,” you comment, brushing off imaginary dust from your clothes. Taking one step so that you’re fully in front of Sunday, you lean in so that your projected nose barely brushes against his. “I have to get going now. You have my number, so text me if you need anything, okay? Or if you want to catch me up with your travels, you can always call me.”

Sunday’s voice feels lodged in his throat. With a subtle gulp, his Adam’s Apple bobbing ever so slightly, he manages to speak with an even voice.

“Okay,” he whispers, his voice almost a whimper. He wants to explode.

You smile fondly, and duck in to peck at the corner of his lips. The buzzing of your holograph morphs into electrifying lightning, surging into his veins, puffing up his feathers and making all of his hairs stand up and sending his already tapping heart into a frenzy. His body freezes into a statue, and all coherent thoughts melt away into a haze that is both ecstatic and shocked.

By the time you pull away, his wings are flapping erratically and his entire body is dyed in a rosey red. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, but all words die on his tongue and he is left blabbering like a fool.

You laugh again, eyes crinkling so beautifully he swears he’s ascended.

“If that’s how you react, I wonder how cute you’ll be when it’s the real deal.”

And then you’re gone, vanishing like a sweet dream in a flurry of pixels, leaving Sunday there to dazedly touch his lips, and then where you’d kissed him.

And then he smiles, giddily, and his halo practically glows as soft, love-stricken giggles begin to leave him.

“do you want to get furboeats?”

you make a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a protest, still half-buried in the aftermath of a decision you’re going to pretend you didn’t make. the room he got in this shoddy love hotel is exactly as disreputable as he promised. creaky bedframe, cheap sheets, and a mirror bolted to the ceiling.

you catch your reflection in it and immediately regret looking. the bastard had left a scatter of bite marks and darkening bruises that would get you written up in any other line of work.

you drag a hand over your face. “are you going to explain what that is?”

at the foot of the bed, ashveil glances up from his phone, faintly pleased with himself. “oh. it’s a food delivery app. places like this don’t do room service.”

“tragic.”

“i adapt.”

you stare at the ceiling instead of him, which is arguably worse, because the mirror insists on showing you both anyway—him intact and already bored, you looking like you lost an argument with a wild animal. which, to be fair, you did.

you don’t know why you keep coming back.

not a single soul has seen la mancha in years, and since your last encounter with the old wolf, you’d gotten good at moving on and letting certain names rot where you left them. you thought you’d finally kicked it, this particular vice filed neatly under mistakes you made when you were younger and significantly dumber.

but then the ipc decided to broadcast the supplicants of the phantasmoon games in planarcadia, and there he was—second place like a bad habit with a leaderboard.

you should’ve ignored it.

instead, you tracked him down.

again.

“so?” ashveil prompts. “you eating or sulking?”

you close your eyes. “i was aiming for a conversation.”

he laughs, patronizing, right before crawling back on the bed and settling between your legs.

“you always say that.”

half an hour later, the food arrives in a crumpled paper bag that looks like it lost a fight on the way up. ashveil nudges it open with one hand, already halfway disinterested, and passes you a burger like this is the most normal follow-up to what just happened.

you take it. because, evidently, this is your life now.

for a while, the room settles into something quiet—just the faint hum of whatever passes for infrastructure in planarcadia, the rustle of paper, the soft give of the mattress every time one of you shifts.

that’s when you notice it.

his arm.

you’ve seen it before, of course. hard not to, when he makes no effort to hide it. but you’ve never had the misfortune of staring at it this long, this closely. the prosthetic is sleek where it should be, functional where it needs to be, but the shadows... they move beneath his skin, curling and crawling like veins of some sinister power. like something lying in wait.

your gaze drifts lower, to the nails driven clean through his wrist. they were not decorative in the slightest. no, they had one purpose only.

containment.

you don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until he speaks.

“if you stare at it any longer,” ashveil comments lightly, “it might start thinking you’re interested.”

“…is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“no,” he says, taking another bite. “it’s supposed to be advice. monsters get attached to attention. best not to encourage them.”

you hesitate. because you can’t quite tell if he means the thing in his arm or himself.

he glances at you then, and smiles. it’s the same as always: easy, unreadable, the expression of a man who knows more than he’s willing to share. his slate-gray eyes, deep enough to pass for calm until you look too long, hold yours for just a second too much.

“you said you wanted to talk, rookie.”

you frown. “i haven’t been a rookie for an entire amber era.”

“oh?” he tilts his head, faintly amused. “time does get strange when you’ve spent half of it in cryo-sleep.” a shrug. “either way. ask. i’m feeling chatty tonight.”

you look down at your burger instead.

it’s absurd, really. the whole thing. the phantasmoon games, his participation as a supplicant, and the fact that you’re sitting here at all. nothing about planarcadia fits the logic you’ve spent your life relying on, and somehow, someone like la mancha fits into it perfectly.

you swallow, then decide to ask anyway.

“why here?”

ashveil hums, like he didn’t quite catch it. “what’s that?”

your grip tightens slightly around the wrapper. “why did you choose this place as your graveyard?”

that gets his attention. because you’ve spent long enough chasing his shadow to know the difference between evasion and interest, between something he’ll brush off and something he’ll circle. you don’t chase him, you bait him.

this, you’ve learned, is how you make a wolf stop running.

ashveil doesn’t answer immediately. he leans back on one hand, the other resting loosely over his knee. the arm that imprisons something more dangerous than he is stills, and for once, the shadows subdue like they’ve been told to behave.

“no one here asks questions that matter,” he tells you plainly. “not quite like you do, rookie.”

you glance up to meet his eyes, but they’ve drifted somewhere past you and the dingy walls of the love hotel. somewhere you can’t possibly reach.

“places like this,” ashveil continues, “they don’t care who you were. what you did. what followed you here.” a pause. “things get lost in the noise and the fanfare.”

you don’t like the way he says that.

“you don’t strike me as someone who wants to be lost.”

he huffs in amusement. “no?”

“no.”

“…everyone ends up somewhere they can afford,” he says finally. “this just happens to be mine.”

you stare at him. it’s not an answer. not really. but it’s closer than anything he’s given you so far.

your eyes flick back to the nails in his wrist. the way they hold something down that very clearly does not want to stay there. the faint, almost imperceptible shift of shadow beneath metal.

you look away first, because you’ve never learned how to hold the intensity of his gaze. no matter how many years or systems or selves you’ve shed along the way.

“whatever you say,” you mutter. “ just… keep in touch with boothill and rappa sometime. they worry about you more than you deserve.”

for a moment, he says nothing.

but you’ve spent enough time tracing the outline of this man to recognize when the version of him that slips through your fingers gives way to something more tangible. the faraway look dissolves, and what takes its place is warm in a way it has no business being.

the mattress dips as ashveil leans in, crowding you back without force. his prosthetic hand braces somewhere beside you, the other settling at your hip, and suddenly you’re aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with how you knew him in your memories, and everything to do with him now.

“oh?” he murmurs. “and you’re not worried about me? the ranger who gatecrashed ahatopia the moment they caught my scent again?”

the brush of his mouth is barely there, but his teeth sink into the lobe of your ear without a second thought. the smallest reminder of what he is, of what he’s always been.

it would be easier if he were simpler.

if he were cruel, or careless, or even just honest in a way that could be pinned down and understood. but ashveil has never been any of those things, and you do not pretend you’ll ever untangle him into something comprehensible.

he is what he is: a question without a clean answer, a man who carries too much and explains too little, and you’ve long stopped asking him to.

that is the only reason he lets you catch him.

the only reason he lets you stay.

“i didn’t say that,” you sigh, the words thinning at the edges as his mouth ghosts along your throat.

ashveil answers with a quiet hum before the distance you’d tried to carve out collapses entirely, and he pulls you back into something you know you will never quite learn to refuse.

because as long as he’s still here—as long as he’s still something you can find if you look hard enough—you can afford to ignore the rest. turn a blind eye to the parts of him that don’t make sense.

“Can I help you?”

Ashveil stares down at the person on the other side of the door like he’s trying to decide if they’re real or just another thing his brain coughed up out of boredom.

The office is quiet in the way it only ever gets when everyone else has scattered off somewhere. The Furbos are gone, Mister N is gone, even the usual background noise feels like it’s packed up and left him behind. So when someone knocked, it echoed up until even his own agency—loud, annoying, and intrusive.

And here you are.

The first thing he notes is that you don’t look like trouble. Not that “not looking like trouble” has ever stopped trouble before, but still—you’re just standing there, holding a bag that smells—he sniffs, subtle—good. Really good.

“I—um, sorry,” you start, already sounding like you think you’ve made a mistake. “I was looking for someone. Is Nihilux—”

“No,” Ashveil cuts in, leaning his weight against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere to be. Which—really—he doesn’t. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”

You blink, as if you didn’t expect the answer to come that quickly or maybe at all.

“Oh,” you say, and then you start talking.

You ramble. The words spills out of you in uneven, apologetic waves—about Nihilux, about how she’d often forget to eat, how you’d bring her food because she’d get so caught up in her art that hours would pass and she wouldn’t notice, how you weren’t even sure if she’d still be here but you thought you’d check anyway because it’s been a while and—

Ashveil listens.

There’s something oddly nice about it. The way your words tumble over each other, the way you circle back and correct yourself, the way you keep glancing at him like you expect him to shut the door any second now.

He doesn’t. Instead, he hums once, low in his throat, just enough to let you know he’s still there.

“…and yeah,” you finish, a little breathless. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just… talk so much. You probably don’t even care.”

“Didn’t say that,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders.

Flustered, you look down at the bag in your hands.

“Well, since she’s not here…” you say, holding it out toward him, hesitant but decided all the same, “you can have this. I mean—only if you want. It was for her, but it’d be a waste otherwise. And I already bothered you, so…”

Ashveil blinks. “For me?” he echoes, like he needs to hear it again to make sure he didn’t misinterpret anything.

You nod quickly. “As an apology for talking your ears off.”

He takes it.

“Thank you,” he says, thumb hooking into the plastic as he lifts it slightly. It’s warm and fresh. His stomach reacts immediately—traitorous thing.

You smile, small and relieved. “Okay. I’ll go now,” you say, stepping back. “Sorry again.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

He doesn’t go back to his office right away. Instead, Ashveil lingers by the door, fingers resting loosely against the handle as he stares at the empty hallway like it might shift and give you back if he waits long enough. He almost expects the sound of hurried footsteps returning, like you might realize you changed your mind and went to retrieve the food you gave him.

You don’t.

He exhales through his nose and shuts the door.

When he turns back into the agency, it’s dim, cluttered, and quietly decaying in ways that have long since stopped bothering him. Bottles crowd every available surface—some empty, some not, and none of them particularly organized. Pills sit scattered where they were last left, and papers cover the walls and desk in uneven layers, their contents faded into irrelevance even to him. The computer hums steadily in the background, and the freezer in the corner hangs slightly open, leaking cold air into the room like it’s waiting for attention he won’t give.

He ignores all of it.

Instead, he clears a small space on the desk with a sweep of his arm, sending a few sheets of paper sliding to the door, and sets the bag down. There’s nowhere to sit, so he leans his weight against the edge of the desk, glancing at it for a moment longer before opening it.

The smell hits him immediately and—

Oh.

That’s… yeah. It smells good.

He reaches in, not bothering to look for utensils, and takes a bite.

The effect is immediate: he stills, jaw going slack for a second before he actually chews, like his brain needed a moment to catch up with what just happened.

It’s been a long time since food tasted like this—long enough that he’d stopped expecting it to. There’s no bitterness, no stale aftertaste, no underlying sense that he’s eating something just because it’s there. It’s warm, properly made, and unmistakably intentional in a way that most of what he consumes isn’t.

He swallows, then takes another bite.

And then another.

And another.

And another.

Somewhere along the way, the pace picks up without him noticing. His hand moves before he thinks about it, reaching back into the bag again and again, like something in him is trying to make up for something it’s been missing. And by the time he realizes it, he’s already halfway through and still reaching for more.

The door opens behind him.

Ashveil doesn’t turn around right away. He just takes another bite, slower this time, as if the interruption doesn’t quite register as urgent. He hears soft and light footsteps padding closer, and only glances over his shoulder after he swallows.

“…Mr. Ashveil,” Mister N calls. The Slumbernana Monkey stands in the hallway, small and still, holding a thin plastic bag filled with fruits that aren’t clearly bananas. His gaze shifts from Ashveil, to the food, and back to him again. “Where did you get the food?”

The detective hums softly, leaning his hip more firmly against the desk as he tilts his head back slightly to swallow. “Someone dropped by.”

“Someone did?”

“Mhm.” He taps the edge of the container with his fingers. “They were looking for the former president of Furbobo Weekly. Said they were a friend of hers and that they usually bring her food. I told them she doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Did you get their name?” Mister N asks.

Ashveil glances down at the half-finished meal. He shrugs. “I didn’t ask,” he says. “They left right after handing this over.”

His assistant’s eyes linger on him for a moment, his expression unreadable yet attentive. “And your stomach?” he asks after a beat.

Ashveil lets out a soft scoff. “It’s fine,” he says. There’s a slight pause before he adds, more honestly this time, “Better than fine actually.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Ashveil says, glancing at Mister N with the faintest hint of dry amusement. “I haven’t died yet.”

A small silence settles between them.

After a moment, Ashveil lifts the container in a casual manner. “You want some?”

Mister N’s gaze lingers on the container, as if weighing the offer more seriously than expected. Then he gives a small, polite shake of his head.

“No,” he says. “You should finish it yourself.”

Ashveil studies him for a second, searching for any sign of hesitation or hidden interest, but finds none. Mister N simply steps further into the room and places the thin bag of fruit on top of the slightly open freezer.

“Suit yourself,” Ashveil mutters.

He shrugs it off easily and turns his attention back on the food. If anything, Mister N’s refusal seems to settle something in him—permission, maybe, to keep going without restraint.

So he does.

He digs in again. Bite after bite, steady and unthinking, until the world narrows down to taste and warmth and the simple act of eating. The room fades into the background—the clutter, the dim lighting, the hum of machinery—all of it blurring at the edges compared to what’s right in front of him.

Across the room, Mister N remains.

By the time the container is nearly empty, his pace finally begins to slow. He leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looks down at what little remains.

He just stares at it briefly. Then, almost absently, he finishes the last bite. Ashveil rolls his shoulder, shifting his weight as he sets the empty container aside.

It’s not often that something lingers like this. Not just the taste—though that too—but the feeling of it. The care behind it. The fact that it hadn’t even been meant for him at all, and yet…

His gaze drifts, unfocused, toward the door.

You hadn’t stayed long. Had barely given him time to ask anything, really. No name, no details—just a bag of food and a hurried apology before disappearing down the hall like you were never there to begin with.

And still—

He wonders if he’ll get to see you again.

The thought comes easier than expected, settling somewhere in the back of his mind as he glances once more at the now-empty container and, briefly, to the side—at the bag of fruit resting untouched atop the freezer.

If he does…

Well—he’d have to say thank you. Properly, this time.

Since that day, Ashveil hasn’t seen you again. Not that he was looking—at least not in a way he’d willingly admit.

Days pass the same way they always do. Work comes and goes in irregular bursts, and the agency remains just as cluttered, just as dim, just as stagnant as ever. If anything changed, it’s subtle enough that he doesn’t bother naming it.

Still, every now and then, the memory resurfaces. A passing thought while he’s staring at nothing in particular. The faint recollection of warmth that doesn’t come from anything in the room. The taste of something that had no right being as good as it was.

It’s annoying, honestly, because it lingers.

It’s not enough to distract him—not enough to derail anything—but enough that, on occasion, he catches himself thinking that if did happen to run into you again, he’d say something. Just a quick acknowledgment, maybe. A simple thank you; tell you the food was good.

That’s all.

Which is probably why he wasn’t expecting for it to actually happen.

“Fresh air,” Mister N had said earlier. “It would be beneficial for your health.”

Ashveil had stared at him for a long while, unimpressed. Eventually, he left anyway.

Now he’s outside, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other rests loosely around the handle of his cane. His shoulders are slightly hunched, his stride unhurried, the cane more of an extension of habit than necessity as he walks with no real destination in mind.

The air feels different out here—less stale, less suffocating—but he wouldn’t go as far as to call it refreshing.

He follows the sidewalk without thinking too hard about it. People move around him in a steady flow—faces he doesn’t know, lives he doesn’t care about, all carrying on with a sense of purpose he doesn’t share.

And then, he slows.

And there you are.

Standing at the edge of the street, waiting for the stoplight to change. Grocery bags hang from both of your arms, the thin plastic stretched taut from the weight of whatever it is you bought. You shift slightly where you stand, attention fixed on the traffic passing by as you wait for your turn to cross.

Ashveil comes to stop a few steps behind you. For a moment, he just looks—like he’s confirming something.

You’re real. Not a trick of memory, not something his brain conjured out of boredom—you’re actually here, in the same space, close enough that if he wanted to, he could just walk up and—

…

He exhales softly through his nose. Right.

This is it then. The chance.

He straightens just a little, before finally closing the distance between you.

“Hello.” The word comes out casual, low, just enough to catch your attention without startling you. Your head turns at the sound of his voice.

Ashveil hadn’t really expected much—at most, a polite glance, maybe the brief confusion of someone trying to place a stranger. Instead, recognition settles in almost immediately, and he sees it happen. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your expression brightens like something just clicked into place—and then you’re looking at him properly.

It catches him off guard.

For a moment, he just stands there, his grip on the cane adjusting ever so slightly as the moment lands in a way he hadn’t prepared for. There’s a flicker of something in his chest—light and unexpected—and he can’t quite pin it down before it settles somewhere deeper.

Flattering, he realizes. Weirdly so.

He hadn’t thought he left much of an impression. Your interaction had been brief, barely anything worth remember on your end—or at least that’s what he assumed. People don’t usually hold onto things like that. And yet here you are, looking at him like you’re genuinely glad to have recognized him.

It does something to his stomach, an unfamiliar flutter that makes him shift.

He frowns faintly to himself, already dismissing it. Probably just hunger. It makes sense—you did give him food, after all. It’s only natural to associate you with that.

“Hello!” you greet him, voice warm despite the noise of the traffic. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

For the first time since he met you, Ashveil smiles. “Thank you for the food last time,” he says. “That was the first time in a while that I’ve had such good food.”

There’s a flicker of surprise across your face before it melts into something else, something almost shy, and then you laugh—light, a little flustered, like you don’t quite know what to do with the compliment. “I’m glad you enjoyed my cooking!”

Ashveil watches the way you react, the way your grip shifts on the plastic bags hanging from your arms, and his gaze briefly drops to them. The thin handles dig int your fingers slightly where the weight pulls down, and you adjust them again without really thinking about it. He frowns just a little.

He lifts a hand, pointing at the bags. “Do you need help carrying those around?”

You shake your head almost immediately. “Oh, there’s no need! I can handle just fine!”

There’s no hesitation in your voice, no sign that you’re struggling in a way you’d admit, but Ashveil doesn’t look convinced.

“I insist,” he replies. “Here—let me.”

Before you can properly protest, he steps out and reaches out, sliding the bags off your arms in one smooth motion with his free hand—the other still occupied with his cane. The shift in weight is immediate, the pressure gone before you can brace against it.

“Wait—” you start, a little startled, your hands hovering awkwardly. “You don’t really have to. I mean— I don’t want to trouble you.”

Ashveil adjusts his grip on the bags, barely sparing them a glance as he settles them comfortably at his side.

“You’re not troubling me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “If anything, you can think of this as payment for the food last time.”

“But you don’t need to anything to return the favor,” you insist, brows knitting slightly as you look at him. “I gave it to you because I wanted to, not because I expected anything back.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m choosing to do it.”

You open your mouth like you’re about to protest again, but the words don’t quite come out this time. “…okay,” you relent, reluctant. “If you’re really sure.”

“I am.”

The stoplight changes from green to red, the steady stream of cars slowing to a halt, and once the moment it’s safe, the crowd begins to move, carrying you and Ashveil along with it as you step off the curb and into the crosswalk.

For a while, the two of you walk quietly, your pace naturally adjusting to match his, but it doesn’t take long before the silence gives way to something easier.

Ashveil glances at you. “Your friend,” he starts, casual. “Did you find out where she might’ve moved?”

There’s a small shift in your expression—something brighter. “I did, actually,” you say. “She apparently forgot to tell me about it. I’ve started bringing her food again like before, so… she’s eating properly now.”

Ashveil hums. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you found her.”

You smile at that, and the conversation continues from there without much effort. He asks what you do, and when you tell him you’re a chef, he isn’t surprised.

“That explains a lot,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You laugh lightly. When you turn the question back on him, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I’m a detective,” he says.

“Oh.” You blink, clearly intrigued. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

The details that follow are sparse, but it’s enough to keep the conversation going—small exchanges, bits of curiosity traded back and forth. By the time you reach your apartment building, it almost feels the walk passed quicker than it should have.

You lead him upstairs, the familiar surroundings closing in as your unlock the door and step inside, holding it open for him as he follows you in. The space is modest but lived-in.

“Just set them down in the kitchen counter, please,” you say.

Ashveil nods once and does exactly that, placing the bags down with care.

For a second, he just stands there. Then, as if remembering himself, he shifts his weight back, hand adjusting around the handle of his cane.

“I’ll take my leave now,” he starts, already turning slightly toward the door. “Thanks for—”

“Wait!”

He pauses, turning around.

You hesitate only briefly before continuing, fingers fidgeting together for a moment as you glance at him. “Would you… like to stay for lunch?”

Ashveil smiles. “You’re very kind,” he says. “But are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”

You shake your head immediately.

“Oh, no, not at all!” you insist, words tumbling out before you can slow them down. “I really don’t mind, I promise! I actually like cooking for other people more than just for myself, and it’s not like I had anything else planned anyway, and you did help me carry all of those groceries—which you really didn’t have to, by the way—and you said you liked my food last time, so— so it’s kind of like I’m just, um, returning the favor? I think?”

He considers your words quietly, gaze lingering in a way that suggests he’s weighing more than just the offer itself.

“Alright,” he says, and your face brightens almost instantly, the shift in your expression so quick and genuine that it’s hard to miss.

“Really? Okay— great!” you say, already turning toward the kitchen with renewed energy. “You can just make yourself at home! I’ll, um— I’ll start on the food.”

Ashveil nods. He doesn’t wander far. Instead of taking a seat somewhere in the living room, he steps over the kitchen island and settles there, positioning himself just off to the side where he won’t be in your way.

From there, he watches.

You move about your kitchen, pulling ingredients from bags and cabinets and the refrigerator, setting things down with a familiarity that suggests you’ve done this a thousand times over.

You’re meticulous, he thinks. Your hands move with certainty as you wash, peel, and cut—your knife gliding through ingredients with practiced ease as if it already knows where it’s meant to go before it gets there. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is wasted either.

And you look comfortable—like this space was made specifically for you or maybe the other way around.

Ashveil admires it. The passion, the ease, the care you put into something as simple—but also not simple at all—as making a meal. It’s different from anything he’s used to, and he finds himself drawn to it in a way that doesn’t feel forced.

At one point, you lift a wooden spatula from the pan, bringing it up to your lips to taste. Your shifts almost immediately after—your eyes light up and a pleased smile forms like you’ve just confirmed something you were hoping for.

Ashveil watches that too.

And he assumes that’s all it is—that you’ll go back to cooking, or maybe take another taste for good measure. So when you repeat the motion, lifting the spatula again, he thinks nothing of it. At least not until you turn and extend it toward him.

He blinks, momentarily caught off guard, his gaze shifting from the spatula to your face, where you’re looking at him expectantly.

“…you want me to have a taste?” he asks, almost dumbly. You nod.

There’s a brief pause before he leans forward slightly, accepting the offer without further question.

The moment it hits his tongue, everything else falls away.

The flavor is immediate and overwhelming in the best possible way, rich and layered and warm in a way that feels almost surreal—like his senses weren’t prepared for something like this and are now scrambling to catch up.

It’s not just good. It’s— it’s—

Ashveil stills.

For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even fully process that fact that he’s already swallowed, because his mind is too busy trying to reconcile how something so simple can taste like this.

If there’s such a thing as paradise—he thinks distantly—then this must be it. Because wow.

“What do you think?” you ask, eyes bright with anticipation. “Do you like it?”

Like it? The thought echoes in his mind, almost incredulous. Like isn’t even enough of a word—not even close, not something that could possibly hold the weight of what he just tasted—because it feels like trying to contain something vast inside something far too small.

He loves it.

It’s almost absurd, really—how something can taste this good, how you’ve managed to take what he already thought was the best meal he’d had in years and somehow surpass it. The first time he tasted your cooking, it had already felt like a rare exception, a one-time thing he wasn’t expecting to experience again. And yet here you are, proving him wrong in the span of a single taste.

“I do,” he finally says, though even that feels like an understatement. There’s a brief pause before he exhales softly, something almost like disbelief slipping through.

“It’s…” he starts, then stops, brows furrowing slightly as if he’s searching for the right word and finding none that quite fit. “…better than the last one.”

Which, considering everything, says more than it should.

“Is that even possible…?” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You fluster almost immediately under the weight of his attention, the way his gaze lingers making you take a small step back, a shy laugh slipping past your lips.

“I’m so happy you like this one as well!” you say, a little breathless, a little embarrassed, but unmistakably pleased. “I can’t wait to finish cooking so you enjoy it in its full glory!”

Before Ashveil can respond, you’ve already turned back to the stove, slipping right back into your rhythm like nothing happened—like his reaction didn’t settle somewhere warm and lasting beneath your ribs.

His gaze drifts briefly to the pan, then back at you.

Me too, he muses.

He can’t wait to eat.

Ashveil doesn’t realize how much he’s eaten until there’s barely anything left.

The plate in front of him is nearly empty, reduced to scattered remnants that wouldn’t even qualify as a proper serving anymore. He leans back slightly, gaze lingering on what’s left.

…Right. He could finish it. Easily.

The thought comes without hesitation because there’s no doubt about it—if he wanted to, he could clear the plate in seconds. There’s no fullness weighing him down in any way, no real resistance from his body that would stop him. If anything, there’s still that lingering pull, that subtle urge to keep going, to chase the taste just a little longer. But—

His eyes flick up briefly, landing on you. You’re still eating, slower than he had been. He looks back at his plate.

He’s already had three servings. That’s… more than enough. Without much ceremony, he sets his utensil down and nudges the plate just a fraction away from himself. That’s where it ends.

He knows he wants more. He also knows he doesn’t need it. And—more importantly—he doesn’t want to look greedy.

The thought is faintly amusing, enough that the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. It’s not something he usually concerns himself with—appearances, impressions, any of that—but here, now, sitting across from you with the aftertaste of something genuinely good still lingering on his tongue… It matters. A little.

Besides, you should eat too.

Eventually, the plates are cleared, the conversation—whatever remains of it—settles into something softer until it naturally reaches its end. Ashveil rises not long after, adjusting his grip on his cane as he prepares to leave.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says, voice low but genuine. “It was very good.”

That feels insufficient. It is insufficient. But for now, it’ll have to do.

He turns toward the door, already expecting that to be the end of it—the natural conclusion to something that, realistically, shouldn’t have extended this far to begin with.

“Wait—”

He pauses mid-step. There’s a brief beat before he turns back, brows lifting ever so slightly in quiet question.

You hesitate, just for a second, before speaking. “Do you want to take some food home?”

Ashveil blinks. “…home?” he echoes, like the concept needs a moment to settle.

You nod, already moving toward the kitchen. “There’s still plenty left,” you explain, voice a little quicker now, like you’re trying to justify it before he can refuse. “And you said you liked it, so I figured—”

“You don’t have to do that.”

You pause, glancing back at him.

“I’ve already had more than enough,” he continues. “Three servings is—” he huffs lightly, almost amused under his breath, “—generous, to say the least.”

“That’s fine,” you insist. “I made a lot on purpose.”

There’s no hesitation in your expression, no polite obligation dressed up as generosity—just something straightforward and sincere, offered without expectation. It makes refusing feel unnecessarily difficult

“…still,” he starts, though there’s less conviction behind it now, “I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not.”

You’ve already started packing the food before he can argue further, moving with that same easy decisiveness he’d noticed earlier, like this outcome had been decided the moment the thought crossed your mind.

“…alright,” he relents.

By the time you return, handing him the neatly packed container, he takes it without further protest, his fingers brushing briefly against yours in the exchange.

“…thank you,” he says.

You walk him to the door after that.

He adjusts the container in his hand, already calculating how long it’ll last, how best to portion it, how Mister N will probably—

“You can come back whenever, you know.”

Ashveil pauses.

“I don’t mind cooking for you.”

He stills, before turning his head slightly, just enough to look at you.

You don’t seem to think much of it. To you, it’s probably just a polite offer—something said out of kindness, out of habit, out of the same easy generosity that led you to hand him food in the first place. But to him, it doesn’t land lightly.

Come back whenever.

Ashveil’s grip tightens around the container in his hand. He could brush it off. Treat it like nothing. Let it pass the same way most things do. That would be the easier option.

Except—

“…I’ll take you up on that offer.”

© 2026 kominigiru.

end note: ashveil when he tasted mc’s cooking for the first time: