jostein

They couldn't possibly understand the creases in your smile lines, nor could they point out the irony in your sarcasm, so he thinks the Akademiya is downright wicked for scheduling you away from him.

("If they weren't already corrupt before this, they definitely are now." He grumbles under his breath.

"'Haitham," you give him a funny look, "You were literally in charge of it for a little bit."

"And? My point stands.")

That's why it's surprising when a certain smell awakens him from his slumber.

The aroma of grain and vegetables flows through the air, stirring him from his sheets, bleary eyes blinking open to his room. It feels warm in his room, which he supposes could possibly be from the changing weather — from the dusty winds that blow sand in from the desert to the beating sun that's begun to shine that much brighter and earlier — but still, that wouldn't explain the scent of his favorite food outside.

Kaveh can't cook for shit, and he most certainly wouldn't spend his extra Mora for an extravagant meal on him of all people, so who could be outside?

The thought rouses his mind awake, his footsteps past the hallway leading to the common area, drowsy curiosity peaked in his chest and—

He understands now.

You stand in the kitchen, not as some figment of his imagination or the fade in his dreams, but your full physical form. In all your glory, your bags and supplies haphazardly lain on the sofa, wearing one of the shirts he'd given to you to remember him by. Sunlight creeps past the blinds to adorn your cheek, a small curve in your lips as you hum a tune unfamiliar to his ears, the sound of snaps and sizzling coming from the pan you're stirring.

And his heart tightens.

It could never be shameful to love someone like you so arduously. Not when you make it so easy.

His feet move on their own, hitting the spot where the floorboards never really lined up correctly, the creak in the step signaling your attention away from the food to your boyfriend as he gets to you.

“’Haitham, you're awake—?” Your words are cut off when his arms wrap around your body from behind, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the unsteady thump in his chest against your body.

“You're here.” He mumbles against your skin, his face feverish. He can't help but repeat himself. “You're here.”

You laugh, and he squeezes tighter.

“You didn't think I'd miss your birthday, would you?” Your hand reaches up, ruffling through the wisps of his hair, leaning your head on the back of his.

“You told me you'd be gone.”

“It's called a surprise,” you mock him playfully, “Ever had one before?”

Not on his birthday, no.

His grandmother was always too soft to pretend to forget about his birth date — he meant too much to her to even fathom it, even if it ultimately would've been okay. Maybe she left it out on purpose, so he could experience what surprise felt like with you, so his heart could fathom being so utterly whole he thinks his ribs might burst.

The wooden spatula in your hand stirs the concoction, the aroma of beef in the air. He ignores your question, resting his chin on your shoulder, murmuring the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up.

“What are you cooking?”

“Can you guess?”

He can.

Ideal Circumstance, coined by him in jest after a late night at the Akademiya and a craving for Sabz Meat Stew with zero inclination to open a recipe and some clean pans.

All the ingredients are there — lamb sizzles against the open flame, half-cut lemon ready to garnish on the table, parsley, leeks, and cilantro finely chopped and frying in oil. The onions are caramelizing in a slow cooker, and the rice boiling in the pot.

“… My favorite?”

Only Alhaitham would have the hubris to make his favorite dish one that he created — though, to be fair, only Alhaitham would be a good enough cook to transform a soup into a fried bread bowl and keep it tasting good. A teasing pout pulls at your lips, a sing-song lilt in your voice.

“I’m your favorite, though, right?”

His teeth ache.

(He could eat you right now.)

His head tilts towards you, lips coyly brushing against the middle edge of your collarbone. Silently, he bites down — gentle and with barely any pressure, grazing against your skin.

You shiver at the contact, pressing your lips together as he travels up your neck, teeth grazing warm skin, up to your ear to bite against the cartilage. You taste sweet against him — a hint of the fresh wind from Mondstadt on the nape of your neck, sweat from your travels on your flushed jaw.

“Alhaitham …”

A low chuckle escapes his throat, gravelly in his chest as he disconnects his lips from your skin. “Apologies,” he presses one kiss to your cheek before settling his head down on your shoulder again, “I got too excited.”

“Just go and set the table,” you mutter, your voice uneven, “This should be ready in 15 minutes.”

Eventually, he’ll have to let you go, and the time will ebb and flow as it normally does. He’ll set the table, and you’ll portion out the meal; he’ll wash the dishes as you unpack your things, and he’ll wash your hair as you bathe. It’s this small slice of domestic life with you that he’s been dreaming about since you left, and he’s happy to get to it when the easygoing tone in your voice becomes annoyed, but it’s his birthday today, and he thinks he has the right to indulge himself with you just a little bit more.

He responds with the most obnoxious kiss to the crook of your neck he can muster, earning a gasped “Alhaitham!” from you.

He smiles.

It’s been a long time since Alhaitham even remembered his birthday, much less celebrated it. Stuck in the small gap between winter and spring, it was you who brought warmth to the cold — you’re the one who melted the snow and brought rain back to trees devoid of any life.

“I love you.” He whispers.

In between the unbalanced thumps in his heart and his eyelashes fluttering to a close, he hears you say the same thing.

Alas, when a quickly descending foot flatly makes contact with a cylindrical object, said object is bound to roll and send the possessor of the aforementioned foot first flying, then crashing roughly to the ground.

This is not an ideal situation during the best of times. Unfortunately you're surely only halfway through the very worst of times, which is why the situation is made altogether far more dire.

There are eight enemies behind you. There isn’t a single weapon on you, because it’s on one of the Wilderness Hunters behind you instead, embedded stupidly in its waist like a third arm. Or. Well.

You doubt even the calmest Ratnik you’ve met could joke her way out of this, let alone you. 

“Well,” you rasp. Your throat hurts and there’s a dull ache all along your right side. Getting slammed into a rock generally does that to one. A tree is also a good option if no tall rocks are available. You’re pretty sure the agony in your hand means you’ll never use at least a couple of your fingers ever again. Just a little longer. You clutch your head. Hopefully there’s another Ratnik at the closest Tideseal Stone– you’re not sure you can operate it in your current condition.

Truth be told, you’re not sure you can even make it there.

Your fault for dallying, for not being cautious enough, for letting your newly-engaged patrol partner slip off to celebrate with her fiancée, for not carrying an extra lamp. You never expected so many of the Wild Hunt to lurk along– not when you’d cleared the area out just two days past.

Clever creatures. It was a bigger party then, and they must have hidden themselves away. You wipe away a sliver of drool off your chin– heavens, everything hurts.

Not so far… Tideseal Stone… 

You’re not sure if those are your words, your thoughts or your prayers.

You’re also not sure where the lamp you just tripped over went. Curses. You needed that thing. But ah, does it mean a Ratnik–?

No matter. You’ll have plenty of time to mourn them later. You hope.

Taking a step back, you attempt to steady yourself on your feet, but stumble. Expecting to slam into the cool sand beneath, you brace for the impact– but warm hands grab your shoulders instead. 

You slump heavily against a tall, warm body and an arm holds you close by the waist, with little to no effort spent. The stranger rests a hand firmly on your hip, fingertips brushing your thighs, keeping you carefully in place.

Through your spinning, hazy gaze, you watch an arm extend from behind you, clad in a dark sleeve, a gloved hand at the end of it. It holds the lamp from before, and crackling energy swallows the monsters before you whole.

✦—————————————✦

Your colleague, Nikita, is the one to bring you home. He’s so incredibly sweet– an immense shame, because you’re pretty sure he’s married.

Recovery took long– you slept several hours a day and then all night first at the Ratnik base in Nasha Town, then in your own home (where you insisted to be moved). Your suspicions of Nikita being married are soon proven correct when he comes to check on you– evidently the man is far older than you thought (you now regret being friendly and informal) and also has a young son, Illuga, that could be anywhere from six to sixteen (you cannot tell children apart.)

The two make for a very sweet sight– Nikita brought along a small basket of food and wine, and little Illuga (how old is this boy?) gently set some flowers in your arms before affixing his father with a stare that plainly said– ‘can we go now?’ 

You thank them with far more formality than Nikita is used to seeing from you. Clearly he makes a note of this– his smile widens for the slightest moment. (This makes you want to die.) He then tells you he’s soon to become the new Sergeant Major of the nearby Lightkeepers, and you sheepishly congratulate him. (Thank goodness Lempo Isle is conveniently supplied with many very lovely cliffs.)

You very sincerely tell Nikita you hope he becomes the next Starshyna, and he laughs, knowing precisely why you wish it.

“Not to worry,” he amusedly tells you. “There’ll be no shortage of heroes around, even with me posted far away.”

Your face warms. “To be sure!” Why did you say that. You sound like you hail from an old (and poorly written) Fontainian play. There’s a small pause before you remember– “ah– I’m sorry I can’t really offer refreshments in my present state.” ‘Present state?’ What the fuck?

Nikita bites back a laugh. You hope he dies on the job. (You don’t.) 

“No worries,” he reassures. “I’ll wait on your porch while you freshen up. A friend will bring over some snacks and drinks– he’s coming over from Speranza with only the finest for you. We asked Katya for your usual.” 

“Oh! That’s… really nice of you, Sir.”

He chortles this time, clearly unable to keep it in. “Hey now, I haven’t been promoted yet– but I’ll make you my guest of honour if I ever throw a party, how’s that?”

“Oh, I couldn’t! That should be Illuga!” 

Illuga looks at you, spooked at the mention of his name (seriously, how old is this kid?) and huffs as his father musses his hair.

What a mess.

Nikita smiles and tells you the two will be outside. You hear a whiny “can I go now?” right as the door clicks shut behind them.

✦—————————————✦

You don’t know what to wear. You do not wish to set a single foot outside your house– nor do you want to let even a single more foot in. 

Deciding to just pull something casual on, you step out, determining to tell your saviour you’re simply too tired for conversation today when you notice who he’s standing with and quickly change your mind.

Now who could that be?

You barely have time for a proper ogle when you’re interrupted.

“Ah, my friend!” Nikita smiles, and you instantly resent your mussed hair and unironed clothes. Oh, you look like the most veritable used tissue next to this– woah. You didn’t think anyone could ever entice you this quick, and yet– but maybe. Just maybe. It’s probably his eyeliner– and oh–

“Friend?” Nikita smiles gently at you, and you grimly conjure up the very cliff you’ll leap off tonight in your mind’s eye. “This is the man I spoke of. His name– you may call him Chudomirovich.”

Chudo-what?

Man, what the hell. Parents nowadays– and you thought Chlamydia was a bad name.

“Hey!” You smile warmly at Chud, then instantly regret it when he gives you a smile and a bow. Who is this man? And is he also your superior? Fuck.

“Hello.” He tips his head and the very gentlest of smiles graces his pretty lips. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. Please, let us drop all formalities– we are all Ratniki. We are all friends.” When you nod relievedly, his smile broadens. “As such– you ought to call me by my given name, of course. No need for honorifics.”

Your smile wavers. His eyes twinkle.

What was his name? Crap. What was his name? Chumorvich? Chudmivoich?

Yours is surely soon to find itself carved roughly onto a headstone. Argh. 

“Of course!” You smile gently, and he beams in return. He’s suddenly not as beautiful to you as he was a second ago. In fact, he’s the ugliest thing you’ve lain your eyes on in a while. His ashen skin? Gross. What is he, a vampire? And the red in his eyes makes them look infected. He should see a doctor. The way he dresses– surely no one needs that many belts and bits and bobs. And his eyes?

You bite back a shudder. Creepy man. You can’t wait for them to leave. You’ll entertain them for some minutes, then make up an excuse–

“Why, my friend.” Chum smiles. “Do invite us inside. Worry not– we come well armed with supplies. It is our intention to spruce up your home, as well as make you a meal. Surely you’ve been deprived of hearty sustenance since your bedrest?”

You deflate. Well. A free clean and good food… surely you can tolerate Chum for a bit longer. You can’t help but give him a relieved smile, which he gently returns. “Of course, Ch– friend! Come inside.”

✦—————————————✦

Nikita leaves early in the evening. He was apparently supposed to leave sooner– you hear him giggling and telling Chum he has to make a quick trip to the greenhouse on the way, although flowers aren’t likely to appease his wife. Chum wishes him luck.

You can’t help but notice that a considerable portion of his time here has been spent in the pursuit of coaxing his name out of your lips. He’s hidden around the house pretending to not hear your calls of um, everyone? You guys? He’s given you a little trinket and leaned closer in as you muttered a quick thanks. By the sea, he even made you dinner– a large one too, so you could have the leftovers tomorrow, although he wasn’t very keen on tasting or having it with you, preferring instead to sip reluctantly at a wine glass. (The dinner was mediocre. You miss the lunch they got from Speranza’s, but alas it is well on its way to the exit.)

Currently, you’re occupied with clearing up the table and doing the dishes. Chum pretends to be very busy with his hundred little belts– you’re sure he’ll chivalrously offer to do the dishes in the hopes that you’ll thank him, but you’re confident you can keep the cliffs for another day.

You’re too busy mulling the cliffs over when you realise you’ve dumped the dishware into your sink before clearing out any scraps first and sigh. You’re about to heft them out when you’re checked by his gentle voice calling your name.

“Allow me,” he chides. “You are yet recovering.”

“It’s alright, friend.” You sigh, and he smiles. “You’re a guest– you’ve cleaned my home and made me food, which is more kindness in one day than all the Lightkeepers together have shown me in my lifetime. Seriously–”

“Your fortitude does you credit, but your body will only suffer if you keep this up.” Chum frowns. “You have traces of abyssal corruption and you know it– yes, they are minute, but present still. Please, rest.”

You laugh. “Chum, corruption is a heavy word for a literal scratch. Most of the damage I took was from being chucked around, which. Ow, but still. I only got a really tiny abyssal scratch– why are you smiling?”

His smile widens. “No reason, dear friend. Pray rest.”

Well, if he insists.

“I’ll be on the couch, then, my uh. Good pal.” You wave, then confusedly pat his shoulder. It’s only when you’re snuggled on the couch, too cozy to move when your eyes widen as you realise– 

You forgot to thank him.

You shrug. No matter. You’ll thank him once he’s done doing the– your dishes, you figure. No point in exerting yourself.

Argh. You bury your face in your hands. This sucks. So much. He’s such a nice man, truly, and you don’t even remember his name.

Think, you sternly tell yourself. Think, think. Think. Think…

✦—————————————✦

When you awaken, it is afternoon, and you are in your own bed. You know it is by the quietness outside– Nasha Town is never placid, save for lunchtime. 

There’s a note on your bedside table, weighed by a bottle filled with warm water (warm water! Maybe he is handsome after all.) The fireplace is also warm– there’s powdery ash coating and smothering the now nearly dead embers. (He bothered to make sure you were carefully tucked in with a fire in the grate! Forget Nikita. You can make do with Chum.) 

Thoroughly charmed and smiling to yourself, you grab the note and amble over to the window, because Chum dear even shut your curtains for you– and only halfway, to still let some light in. You grin at the little carved blunthorn rhino perched upon your mantelpiece. Really, now that you think about it– Chum is an exceptionally good looking man.

Stumbling over the last few steps, then seating yourself on the windowsill, you shove your dishevelled hair out of your eyes and begin to read the note he left you.

Dear friend, it reads.

I hope my note finds you well rested. I write to assure you– you need not worry in the slightest of the state of your hearth, for I have taken the liberty to make a final cursory sweep of it and recondition any out of order appliances. The tap in your bath room leaks no more, and your doors have all been carefully oiled.

The ingredients to your next meal have been already yarkd– all you need do is assemble them and break your fast. I hope you find my preparations satisfactory.

Ah, and as I found you in a slumber too deep to be roused from, I reluctantly bore your spare key upon my person and locked the door (with care) on the way out. It is yet with me. If you wish to retrieve it, you may find me at the offices of the Ratniki.

Yours faithfully, 

Chum.

✦—————————————✦

Fuck Chum.

First drawing you in like the little worm he is, then hitting you with ye olde Embarrassment Beam. You didn't know lighthouses had an option for those. Worse, he made you dig through an old dictionary for the word ‘yarkd–’ it apparently means prepared.

So much for his fancy, gentlemanly bullshit– he did some lousy meal prep is all, and the meal he prepped was a dry as hell sandwich.

“And it didn’t even taste that good!” You grab the little rhino carving and glare at it. It glares back. You put it back down.

Argh.

You know you’re being irrational– you know you are. You don’t need the rhino  to reproach you too. 

Yours faithfully, Chum.

Archons, you heard that in his voice.

How did he find out? Did you sleep-talk? Did you let it slip somehow? You were just so tired– and that’s probably exactly what he wanted. 

“Go to hell, Chum,” You hiss, skin still prickly and warm as you drag a coat out of your closet. You can’t exactly leave your key with some stranger– ah no, ‘upon some stranger’s person’ after all. Stupid idiot. You’re going to have to change your locks after this. But first, Chum needs to be thanked.

✦—————————————✦

Chum had better like your thank-you offering.

The flowers are beautiful– bunched up in a redolent little bouquet (albeit the smallest you could find– spite is a powerful force) and yet.

The small, fragrant bouquet– which your new friend would probably call a nosegay– was unexpectedly expensive. Quite a bit more so than its larger, showier (but far less aromatic) cousins. Of course, you weren’t going to embarrass yourself before the beautiful Richeza, so you laughed the price tag off (with tears in your eyes) as you handed her your mora. 

You’ve known Chum for just one (1) day and yet he’s already cost you– literally and figuratively.

With your dignity already extinct, you’ve decided to just come clean: you do not know his name. You’ve tried really hard to puzzle it out, but you quit. 

You’ll just have to describe him to your fellow Ratniki and hope for the best.

✦—————————————✦

“Flins?”  You yell. “His name is Flins?” Saying so, you jerk the bouquet (nosegay, his voice whispers in your mind) up to your shoulder to chuck it out the door of the Lightkeeper base before remembering the price tag and hurriedly bring your arm down.

Maybe you should keep it for yourself– or gift it to Richeza. Or your poor patrol partner who you just accidentally yelled at.

Watching her blink rapidly, you suddenly deflate Argh, your sweet, sensitive friend. Where is her fiancée when you need her? “Oh– sorry, I didn’t mean to–” you start to say, and suddenly see her eyes crinkle as she’s overcome.

“No!” She cries. “I’m sorry! If I hadn’t snuck off that day to celebrate– I’m so sorry!” Saying so, she launches herself into your arms and begins to weep in earnest. You’re very touched– and simultaneously very startled, and so you accidentally jerk your hand up, sending the nosegay (bouquet, bouquet!) limply flying a foot or two away and out the door.

Lovely, you think. I’ve bagged the honour of meeting that gentleman with a wilting bouquet and snot on my clothes.

You shut your eyes with a wince as it arcs to the floor, choosing instead to hug your friend and let bygones be bygones when a soft rustle makes you glance up again.

Chu– Flins stands at the threshold, his towering body casting a looming shadow your way. He seems to have caught his gift just in time. When he sees you still busy with your friend, his eyes widen in a polite apology and he steps outside and away.

Turning your attentions onto your friend, you quickly dry her tears. A few quick quips and haughty reassurances (“hah! Of course I recovered fast, can’t have you canoodling on the job. I’m a well respected third wheel, you know.”) have her quickly laughing again. Once you’ve waved to her and watched her leave with her new temporary squad (and her beloved. Everyone has a wife nowadays, where’s yours?), you turn to face Flins. 

Honestly, he’s as pretty as any wife. His eyelashes… no, focus.

He wears a curious expression as he faces you. His aristocratic brows have the faintest arch to them, and there is a smile playing somewhere along the outline of his lips. 

He makes for an elegant figure– an arm pulled behind him, the other hand holding the bouquet carefully up to the sun. You see some lightkeepers grin and wink as they walk past behind him, and realise what it looks like.

“Hey.” You plod over with a resigned sigh, and his eyes narrow further. His lashes, you realise, are ombre like his hair, and the sunlight filtering through to his gold eyes makes them look like…

Like wheels of cheese, you sternly tell yourself. You refuse to pine after Mister Chum Flins.

“Hello.” He smiles. “Without preamble– I first wish to return to you your key.”

“Ah, thank you.” That’s nice of him, but who knows what he could have done with it in just a few short hours. To his credit however, he seems like a friend of Nikita’s, which is probably a good sign. But then again, you shouldn’t trust some strange men, no matter how good loo– seeming.

“Secondly,” Chins continues, “I have a small question; albeit it may be a little improper.”

Your own eyes narrow, and not just because of the sun. “Go on.” Yeah, you should change your locks.

Flins bows in thanks. “My thanks. I simply wished to enquire– are you not angry with your friend?”

Huh? 

“Er– a bit, I suppose,” you say, nonplussed, then feel a bit embarrassed for thinking he was about to ask you out, as if it wasn’t you who got him the bouquet to begin with. “But she– that’s– she couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” You shrug. “And it wasn’t that bad, either.”

“Indeed.” Flins’ eyebrows raise in amusement. “Not quite that bad– just far worse. I had to bring you to the Lady Moonchanter before returning with your limp body to Nasha Town– and I confess, I did not think you would survive. But perhaps the moon does work miracles.”

HUH?

You blink up at him, startled, and his lips twitch ever so slightly. You would never have noticed it were you not so close, the tip of the bouquet in his hand close enough to brush your collarbone. 

And now you’re left feeling worse than before, because as it turns out, not only did he take care of you and fix up your home– he’s apparently also the one that rescued you and took you as far as Hiisi Island, before bringing you back to Nasha Town. And you now owe the young Lady Moonchanter a favour– she’s a mere teenager, burdened more by her duties than even her heavy antlers that are bound to only grow.

And you do not remember either of their names. The poor girl probably used her own blood to heal you, and yet you can’t recall what she was called. Luna? Laura? Moon above and Moon below, you’re the worst sort of scum– well maybe not the worst in Nod Krai, but pretty damn terrible.

All you can do is hang your head and stare at the ground. Any passerby glancing at your defeated form would think you’re getting broken up with, what with your clenched fist and slumped shoulders.

But if nothing else, you refuse to be ungrateful. Setting your jaw, you square your shoulders and look Chum in the eye.

“Sir,” you say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t quite catch your name when Nikita first mentioned it– and it was rude of me to call you Chum. I really am sorry.” Chum’s– no, Flins’ lips raise into a smile, his lashes lowered with north and good humour, and you feel a little lighter as you continue. “And, honestly, I can’t remember the Lady Moonchanter’s name either. Was it Luna?”

Chum laughs and laughs.

When you head home that day, the sound of it rings in your ear, and you get the feeling that to hear it is a distinction in itself. And when you lie in bed, belly full and warm with the mediocre meal he sent you back with, you turn to the rhino on your mantle and meet its glare.

“Kyryll,” you tell it, and yawn. “His name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.”

✦—————————————✦

You like to think Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins really quite likes you. No, not in that immature way– it’s just that he invites you to his home sometimes (you did not expect it to be the Final Night Cemetary) and sometimes he’ll come visit with more mediocre food and even fragrant flowers. 

You find out he has a penchant for rocks. Shiny rocks. And bones. You find the former fascinating. The latter left you more than a little befuddled, and then… afraid.

Which leads to you standing on his doorstep one morning. The morning mist is cold, but your spine runs chillier. You should've brought a thicker coat– but what you need more is an answer. 

“Mr. Flins.” Your knuckles sharply rap against the door of his crypt of all places. “Mr Flins. Sir.”

There's several still moments, punctuated by a clang, and then rustling. When Flins finally opens the door, he's mussed and without his coat. A dog runs out, whining. What the hell was a dog doing in there? Or even out here?

“Mr Flins–”

“Dear friend.” He gingerly lowers the accusatory finger you've pointed at him with a hand. His palm is as smooth and firm as metal, and his skin is warmer than anything should be on this miserable island. “What brings you here?”

“Mister Flins–”

“You may call me ‘Flins,’ or even simply ‘Kyryll.’”

You narrow your eyes. “I doubt I'll ever offer such fond familiarity to a gravedigger.”

Flins heaves an exasperated exhale. “First you accused me of being a vampire. Then–”

“It makes sense–”

“Now you call me a gravedigger.”

“Mr Flins, you play with bones.”

“I do not– how, pray, does one come up with such misbegotten accusations?” 

You narrow your eyes and try to peek past him into his… house, but he slams an arm in the way, looking more irked than you've ever seen him. Or perhaps ‘irked’ is a strong word– just not as calm. He's almost smiling with that eerie face of his, and here in the gloom it truly does not look the slightest bit handsome.

You clench your jaw. “What are you hiding from me?”

“...the bones I was playing with.”

“Where do you get them?”

Flins pinches his nosebridge. “My dear friend, are you truly asking if I ethically source my bones?”

“Yes.” 

He huffs. “If you really must know…” he trails off. “Well, you'll not believe me. Why don't you wait a little longer? I am almost certain we will witness a demonstration shortly.”

That's suspicious. Does he want your bones to play with, too? You're suddenly glad you remembered to change the locks.

You sigh. “Sure.” Well, here goes. If nothing else, you know you're strong. This vampire here's not the only one with a vision. 

✦—————————————✦

The hours come and go. The ‘demonstration’ does not. Flins dodges all your questions, insistently claiming it will happen presently.

Flins serves you tea. He boils it for a while, seeming to enjoy the aroma wafting around his tomb. It’s only when your longing glances at the tea set become too obvious that he pours you some. It’s piping hot and immensely bitter. You’re too civil to sigh.

“So.” You plop your chin in your palm, elbow braced against his dinner table. “Where’s your defence?” 

“My bones are ethically sourced,” he promises. “That is all I can offer at present.”

You sigh. “Okay.”

Scratching your shoulder, you pick up a book to read. It’s Liyuan, and a bit old. You trace the embossed words along the title– Golden-Winged King. The damp has aged the paper faster, making it thin and powdery. When you open it, the spine comes clean off and falls onto your lap. When you look up at Flins in horror, he tells you it ‘tends to do that.’

Once you’ve made yourself still more comfortable, Flins excuses himself away, telling you he needs to urgently write some reports. He vanishes into a separate section of the crypt. Before you can make up your mind about whether or not you ought to follow, he returns with his things and keeps you company. 

He writes. You read. He writes. You eat. He writes. You ask him where the bathroom is, and you swear you see his eyes widen for a moment. Is he one of those weirdos that doesn’t like people needing to use his bathroom? You just needed to pee, but by the moon, you’re going to take the fattest–

“The lavatory… Well, this is a crypt.”

You deadpan. “You don’t have a bathroom?”

“Friend,” he protests. “I do. It is simply a tad cold and dark. Allow me to make arrangements before you make use of it.”

Ah. Well. You refuse to be embarrassed. He’s the one that insisted you stay, so if he has to go check if he flushed and maybe air it out a little, that’s on him.

 What a weirdo. You bet he didn’t put down the toilet seat either. How odd, to act like a gentleman and yet not really be one?

Flins returns soon and politely points you to the bathroom. You really need to know the whens and the whys of a crypt having functional plumbing. Stepping into the corridor, you see it’s not that bi– ah, there’s a turn. It would appear it is, in fact, that big.

How does all this work? Does he have a septic tank or does he dump everything into the ocean directly? Where does he keep his filters? You don’t think you passed a kitchen on the way here, but the bathroom was quite close.

It’s a bit ominous. Right at a dead end. You glance back down the dimly lit hallway to the base of the L, where the… living room is. Ha. A living room in a tomb. Ha ha ha.

The loo is uneventful. A bit dusty and dry, as though it hasn’t been in use– which isn’t possible, unless he has a second secret loo he plays with his bones in. This is plausible, since there’s a whole other hallway, and possibly even more that you haven’t yet had a chance to snoop through.

Adjusting your clothes, you lower the lid (to teach the ‘gentleman’ some basic bathroom etiquette) and flush. When you try to wash your hands, though, you find that the sink handle won’t budge.

When you finally wrench it open, the faucet makes a horrible gurgle, then spits out no small amount of sludge, before some clear water finally comes into view. You reach over for a bar of soap and your fingers meet dusty, cool marble. What the hell.

Was it so hard to just let you take a piss in his actual loo? What the hell is this?

Well, it’s a good thing lightkeepers carry soap on them, in case… well you’re not sure since you’ve never needed one, but it was in the kit bag HQ gave you, along with some knives, flares, a tinderbox, rope, candy– candy?

“Ooh.”

“Dear guest? What are you doing there?”

You hurriedly shut your bag and run the tap. “Washing my hands.”

Flins does not respond.

✦—————————————✦

More waiting. The dim and gloom swallow time whole. You’re not hungry, nor thirsty (maybe that’s all the ginger cookies and the bitter tea) and much to your surprise, not exactly bored, either.

You notice Flins has a few cabinets strewn around, and when you ask what’s in them, he looks almost pleased as he introduces you to an old coin or a shiny rock, carefully wrapped in strips of plain silk, and encased in various boxes. 

Your earlier doubt is quickly transformed into reluctant pity. He clearly really wants to talk about all his shiny rocks, and truth be told, he’s a fine storyteller, as well as being fine in general. He briefly tells you about whatever fancy rock he’s holding, as well as a little anecdote, relating any pertinent stories, or the tale of how he came to acquire it. 

It’s cute, and you can’t help but grin a little as he asks about your interests in turn, and smiles at you with gently lowered lashes. He even asks all the right questions, which quickly makes your reluctant pity turn straight to panic.

For a second, the wheels of cheese in his eyesockets– for just a moment–

No. How could you? He listens to your chatter and you fall in love? How silly. Especially when– and your eyes widen as you suddenly remember– you came here to investigate him for gravedigging. 

“Er, friend–?”

“I just remembered–” You blink up at him in horror, and he sighs.

“I know. The deferment stretches on.”

Or perhaps not. 

There’s the sound of paws skittering across tile as the dog from earlier bumbles into the crypt, a clean bone in its mouth. It spits it out right by Flins’ feet and immediately turns to the trestle table on which there’s nothing but crumbs anymore. Seeing this, the thing starts instantly howling. 

“Agh!” You cover your ears as Flins hurries to shush it, patting its head and reaching for a drawer, from which he pulls out more cookies. He tosses them onto a tray in the corner and the dog swallows them all in a single breath, then looks to him for more.

“No more, friend.” Flins glares at it sternly. You’re not sure what to think of Flins addressing both you and the dog the same way. “You’ve had a heavy breakfast. Meat so soon once more will only make you vomit like last time.”

The dog huffs and plops onto the floor.

“Is it yours?” You finally ask. 

“No. We have a transactional relationship. She fetches my bones, and sometimes keeps me company while I carve and assemble them.”

“Ah.” There’s a lull in the conversation, before you drily ask, “and where does she get the bones from?”

Flins waves an elegant hand. “The sniffer moles. Her prey. What a beast does in the wild is of no concern to me.”

You huff. “She may be laying waste to your necropolis, Mr Flins.”

He smiles. “No, friend. In fact she quite loves its denizens and is adored in turn. They have witnessed much carnage, and the sight of sprightly life soothes many sore eyes.”

✦—————————————✦

“Flins, we need to start doing better things when we meet. That or we need new bones because there’s only so many animals we can make with these.”

Flins exhales, tilting his head slightly. You wonder why he brings his knuckles to his chin when he never props it on them. He never slouches.

At length, he answers. “True. Our little friend has brought us nothing save for bird sternums and pelvic girdles.”

“And the skulls,” you groan. “Nothing but skulls.”

“My, the skulls… with them, we could make a veritable monstrosity.”

You hum, and start arranging the vertebrae along the humanoid structure’s shoulder (calling it a skeleton feels a bit generous). It now has a chicken head, along with its normal mole head, and also another chicken head. Flins places a fishhead at the tip of its tail. “A chimaera,” he says, gesturing helplessly.

“This is stupid.”

“Please be gentle.”

“This is foolish.”

“That feels harsher, friend.”

At length, he continues, tilting his head slightly towards the floor. "There is the other thing, of course. We could carve jigsaw pieces out of the bones."

This suggestion is so oddly specific that you're instantly certain of it being what he actually does, instead of laying random bones out on his table. That does make a lot more sense, now that you think about it. You appreciate him trying to spare your feelings, but you wish he'd just told you everything at the outset– and actually, you're not sure about his intentions anymore. Because Flins is a bastard, and he fucks with you at every turn. Argh.

It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault. With how much you embarrass yourself, you really ought to learn to bounce back well.

Whatever. You are a mature adult. You know what? You refuse to be embarrassed. How could you have known to properly navigate his hobby in all its... unconventional glory?

And so– "oh!" you exclaim. "Ah, that does make a lot more sense.” Wow, you sounded collected. “Do you have any jigsaws you've put together already?"

Flins’ eyes light up with what clearly isn’t just relief, and in the gloom of the crypt, the effect is welcome. "I most certainly do. Would you like to see them, friend?"

Well. Okay, sure. You nod.

You brace yourself for things of a macabre nature, but everything is surprisingly normal– and even beautiful. All the little jigsaws are stunningly well crafted– little skeletal figurines of monsters and adversaries, in various dynamic poses that must have taken an age to make. When you mention this to Flins, he smiles, and affirms it. Clearly he's very proud of his bone carvings (made with ethically sourced material), so you decide to not judge, especially knowing some of the things you read in your spare time. No one wears hypocrisy well, not even you.

“Ooh,” You murmur as you bend your knees to look at an especially detailed jigsaw of a Frostnight Herra. “This is beautiful, Flins. The pieces are so thin– it doesn’t even look like bone. They look like these little paper jigsaws I saw once– they looked like they had a million pieces.” You turn to him, wide eyed, and he blinks slowly back, looking unreadable for a moment. 

Finally, he softly smiles, and a soft puff of breath leaves him as his shoulders relax. You feel the warmth of it brush against your ear as you straighten, and your heart jumps in your chest.

You’re glad to be nearing the end of the displays now. Once you’ve seen the final few, you turn to Flins with a smile.

“Well,” you snort. “I think I’ve affirmed you’re not a grave digger. I also think I’ve spent long enough here– how many hours has it been, do you know? Anyway, I think I should head back.”

Flins looks up from where he’s seated, rapidly blinking. The lamplight catches on his soft lashes, and you try not to stare at them too keenly. “So soon?” he asks. But Flins, you’ve learned, is too well bred to protest. And so he tugs your coat off the rack, and holds it chivalrously out for you. 

Although Flins, you find out, isn’t well bred enough to resist wrapping it snugly round you, adjusting the collar gently with his fingers. When he finally pulls away, they brush your jaw, and their warmth lingers all the way home.

✦—————————————✦

“Ever since that day,” you tell Flins between crunches, “I feel like the Lantern Fae has been keeping tabs on me. Not to sound self absorbed, but I feel like I see him on the way home.”

Flins wordlessly places more cookies on your plate. “Truly?”

“Mhm.” Placing aside the cookie for just a moment, you take a sip of your tea. Flins has gotten better at making it– it’s not so bitter anymore, and at the townspeople’s recommendation, he’s even begun adding dried herbs and spices to it on occasion. It’s not always good, but you appreciate him trying– over the months you’ve come to realise he’s not the fondest of tea, and if given the choice, never has any. 

The reasonable extrapolation , therefore, is that he continues buying tea for any lightkeepers that may visit.

What you refuse to think too much about, though, is him going out of his way to add all the flavours to his teas that you ever mention liking.

After all, Flins is eccentric. He likes causing mischief, and underneath his distant demeanor is a man made of empathy and pragmatism. Even so, he doesn’t keep many friends– and the ones he keeps, he treats well.

This sucks. You can’t believe you, Nikita and the dog all get the same treatment. It sucks especially when you suspect that over the past several months, you’ve been nursing a tiny sprig of fondness for Mister Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins.

“Friend?” Flins prompts, and you blink rapidly at him, broken out of your thoughts. “What plagues you so?”

“What plagues me? Ah.” Crap, what plagues you? A lot plagues you. The thought of walking all the way back and having to remember what you have at home so you can plan what to make for dinner, then to make said dinner, clean the house, take a bath, wake up early and polish your weapon, do your laundry, clock in for work around early afternoon, walk over to Flins’ after bidding your friend home. Like the thought of making the shoemaker a visit before your soles give out, when you’ve been too tired to. Like the scratch along your shoulder that aches and pulses in the night. You try not to think too much about it, because you swear paying it attention makes it throb worse. Case in point. 

“Mm?” 

“Dinner.” You sigh. “I can’t be arsed to make dinner.”

Flins gives a soft laugh. “Why not take some days off to recuperate? Finding mundane tasks too arduous is an intimation of the body; it needs rest.”

You squirm. “I guess.”

The truth is, you know exactly what tires you– it’s the journey made from here to home. Your patrols take you north of Lempo Isle anyway, and so resisting the urge to pay Flins a visit becomes difficult when your usual boatman comes into view. How are you to turn around and head home when the sight of his face makes you smile so wide it nearly hurts? The journey back always seems like a small price– right up until it has to be paid.

Flins taps his fingers to his knee in a soft, mechanical motion. His eyes do not stray from your face. “Or,” he asks gently, “is it the sojourn here that fatigues you so?”

There’s a Fatui facility pretty close by. You’re confident you can find a guy to shoot you.

“Uh,” you dumbly say, and Flins glances away toward the fireplace, cheek twitching. His thigh tappies grow faster for a few seconds until they suddenly stop.

“My friend, why don’t you allow me to escort you home?”

✦—————————————✦

There’s something in you that just refuses to end things at just a ‘thank you.’

Perhaps it’s for the best, though, because Flins deserves far more for first bringing you home, then making you one of his Mediocre Meals. He was so sweet and gentlemanly (and inordinately affectionate– no, friendly) that you’re pretty sure he’d have tucked you in if you’d allowed.

It was late by the time he left. Knowing as you know now that his home is really quite far, you’d tried to insist he stay the night, but he very politely declined, opting instead to stay at the Flagship before setting off early in the morning.

And so you pick up the bag of gifts you’d tucked away beneath a bush while your favourite boatman (and the only one you know) drags his boat ashore for you. You’d hidden the little gift bag away while on patrol, and much to your delight, the Wild Hunt hasn’t messed with it. Thank goodness.

You’re about to drop your usual fare into the boatman’s palm when a third hand suddenly catches it instead. Jerking back, you shriek, and so does the boatman. Mister Chudomirovich Flins only offers one of his eerie smiles. When he speaks, though, his voice is warm.

“Hello, friend,” he says. “May I escort you home?”

✦—————————————✦

Although Flins is too well bred to shun your gifts (potpourri and reed diffusers, since he seems to enjoy some scents) he puts a firm halt to your apologies. Instead he tells you of your new arrangement, which is simply that of your roles being inverted. Once his patrol comes to a close, he’ll make his way from Paha to Lempo, escort you home, and spend some time with you before concluding his ‘sojourn.’ He does not take your input on this, save for suggesting he simply return home after work, with you doing the same.

Your response is a quick “no.”

The next thing you debate is where he’s to stay while he’s in town. He suggests the Flagship, to which your answer is once again a quick “no.” 

“You’re staying at mine or you’re heading home.”

This point is kicked about till you’re breathless from the brisk walk and simultaneous chatter. Man, you swear you have more stamina than this. You’ve known Flins for over two years now, so you’re well aware of his stubborn streak– but you also know his stubbornness is often a bid for propriety. In this day and age though, and particularly in Nasha town, the concept is made moot, or “frankly pretty stupid,” as you tell him, reaching up to scratch an itch on your shoulder.

“There’s no need to waste your money at the Flagship when you could just stay over. Listen, I get it.” You shrug. “It feels a bit like moving in, but we live too far to– to.” Ouch. A sharp pain suddenly rings where you'd scratched, in a single, focused spot. You try not to wince, but it’s too late for pretenses when your feet have come to a sudden stop.

 Flins reaches out a hand in alarm, steadying you against his chest as you stumble. For a moment, your nose is full of a dry scent you can’t quite place, before you shift to place your cheek against him instead to breathe better.

“Friend?” Flins asks.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “It’s my shoulder.”

Flins pulls away and frowns. He’s the most expressive you’ve ever seen him. “Friend.” His gaze is icy. “At the site of your abyssal injury?”

“Injury is a strong word,” you reassure. “‘Tis but a scratch.”

Flins does not laugh.

Your happy chatter comes to a quick close. Flins links his arm through yours and drags you straight home, insisting you speak little to conserve your strength, much to your chagrin. You’re fine! You were made woozy for what, three seconds? And yet, upon depositing you on your doorstep, Flins turns elegantly around and makes a beeline for the Lightkeeper’s base.

“Flins!” You yell. Argh. “Pighead! I’m fine!” Jogging after him, you yank on his arm. He blinks as you glower. “Don’t you dare disturb the healers at this hour.”

“The healers are well equipped to function at all hours,” he answers in his usual patient way. “Their occupation demands it.”

“Flins–”

Flins walks away.

✦—————————————✦

In the end, no amount of wheedling is enough to convince Flins. He’s quick to escort a healer straight to your home. As if that weren’t embarrassing enough, he seems to have recited the incident in the worst, most exaggerated way.

“And so you felt faint?”

You shoot Flins a glare over the healer’s shoulder. He’s got your shirt pulled low over your shoulder, which had made Flins politely exit the room until he was summoned back by the healer, in case he needed to receive further instructions for your care. (As though he were my boyfriend, you can’t help but think).

“No, I didn’t. I just felt a bit lightheaded and stumbled.”

“Ergo faintness,” Flins adds. Your glare worsens.

“That’s not a good sign,” the healer mutters. No shit, you think. “How long have you had this scratch?”

It’s Flins’ turn to glare. You shift uncomfortably. “For um. Over two years now, I think?”

Flins soundlessly exhales. The healer purses his lips.

“Well,” he says. “Not a good sign.” (I heard you the first time, you think). “But what’s good is that it’s taken this long for you to feel any effects.”

Oh? There’s a sinking feeling in your chest. The feeling is soon vindicated when the healer goes on to say– “Well… if you had any dreams of seeing your grandkids grow up, you’re gonna have to wake up. But you can dream a bit longer ‘bout your kids.” He stands up and gestures for you to pull up your collar as he continues. “You’ll probably have to deal with this for a long time. abyssal corruption doesn’t leave, and even better– it festers. You might lose a shoulder in your old age, but you’re gonna be fine. Probably.”

“Probably?” you exclaim, and he gives an embarrassed laugh.

“I mean, we don’t really know a lot about this sort of thing. Most people would’ve just died in your place, but you got lucky. Maybe unlucky.” He rubs his face. “Come to the healers if you face more problems. Maybe visit that Moonchanter. But I don’t know how much we can really help if it gets bad, so take care. Your body can only fight it if it has the strength for it. You have to make sure you eat well and rest lots. Plus light exercise while you’re on break.”

“Ah.” You lick your lips. Your throat feels dry all of a sudden. Flins disappears into the hallway. “Well. Thank you, for coming here and– everything.”

He shrugs. “Just my job. I’ll see myself out.” As he turns to leave, he bumps into Flins, who makes his way over to you with a glass of water in hand. Setting it on the table beside you, he turns to escort the healer out. You hear him making hushed inquiries in that soft, polite voice of his, and sigh.

When you reach for your glass, you find it to be warm, and the thought of Flins fumbling with your kettle makes your eyes suddenly sting. He’s always so kind. Really, you think as you slowly sip, you’re quite lucky. You’ve seen the things abyssal corruption can do, and it’s not pretty. You’re lucky, to have friends that care for you, to be expected to live till your midlife, to have Flins bring you warm water when it’s cold. Your fingers tremble a little as you recall the way he held you against him when you stumbled. 

When Flins returns to your room to wish you a good night in that gentle voice of his, your heart sinks, because his eyes look like discs of gold.

✦—————————————✦

It takes some time for everything to sink in, for you to adjust to this newness. You find that rest really does drive the impurities back– several hours of sleep result in the scratch looking far less irritated than it was before. Seeing as you’d spent the night worrying and dampening your pillow, this raises your spirits well enough for you to prance over to the kitchen to make yourself a meal.

You’re reminded of Flins’ presence when you find one of his Mediocre Meals waiting for you on your table.

Right.

It’s around lunchtime, which must mean he’s on his way to Paha Isle right now. He left no note this time, which somehow makes your heart sing more, although you’re too frazzled to try to puzzle out why. 

Since you’re officially on leave now, you decide instead to get your home in order. You’ll have to buy groceries, too. You loathe laundry, so you should probably start sectioning your clothes– you refuse to do it all in one go. Figure out dinner. Man, feeding yourself is an endless process. You really have to clean your gutters out, too, before the rains get worse and turn to snow. 

You’re patting down your furniture for stationary with which to make a list when your lock clicks and your door glides open. Flins steps inside and changes smoothly into your house slippers, as though it were second nature. You blink at him, half confused, half wondering what to clean the windows with, as he greets you and sets your groceries down on the coffee table.

“Have you just arisen?” He asks. “Judging by your eyes, you seem to not have had a restful night.”

“Huh?”

A slight furrow forms between Flins’ eyebrows, so slight you would not have noticed were he not directly in your face. The back of his overwarm hand brushes your forehead, and if he now thinks you have a fever, that’s on him.

Somehow, despite having spent the night over, his clothes are pressed, and smell dry and fresh. They smell like him, and the scent does little to quell your dizziness. Forget corruption– a crush seems to do worse to you.

“Uh,” you say. “What are you doing here?”

Flins blinks. (He’s cute, you think). “Taking your temperature.”

“No, I mean. In my house.”

He wordlessly gestures to your coffee table, and you sigh. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you tell him, frowning. “I’m sorry you had to bother–”

“Apologies,” he interrupts, “but I must ask you to simply thank me hence, and even that only if you wish. If you are in need of my services, I will offer them. I fail to understand why it is expected of me to treat you with the coldness of distant civility, when my assumption was that we were friends.”

“Huh? We are friends!” you splutter. “It just feels like you do a lot for me, and I can’t do enough in return.”

Flins is too well bred to interrupt a second time, but he looks very much as though he’s fighting the hugest eye roll of his life. 

“My hope,” he says drily, “is that my silence will enunciate what my words cannot.” Saying so, he tugs you over to a couch, puts your plate in your hands and vanishes into the kitchen. You hear soft clinks before he returns with a glass of water.

“Make your way to Speranza when evening comes,” he tells you. “I have to leave now, but will return for the night– with spare clothes, if you will allow.”

“And a toothbrush,” you automatically add. “But wait– the dog? Not that you should be staying here to begin with–”

“If you desire, I can bring her here. I suspect she grows lonely on the Isle without either of us around. Also, do not worry for the boatman. Do not worry, he has not lost custom- there is yet a person that avails themself of his services.”

All you can do is blankly stare.

Man, you just woke up. You need a second to process– wait, is he seriously–? Moving in, more or less? Common etiquette classifies this as ‘uncivility,’ and yet Mister Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins insists on imposing? 

“Flins,” you finally say, overwhelmed. “It’s a scratch.”

Flins pauses, then, true to his word, electing to ignore you, walks over to open the curtains instead.

“These are sordid,” he muses, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “They will need to be washed.”

“Flins–”

“Your gutters are in need of cleaning as well, if I correctly recall. Well.” Flins shrugs. “Leave to me what you cannot do. Feel free to tackle the rest. I will be late to return– pray head to bed whenever you think it right. You need not wait for me.”

“Because you think I’m crawling into bed with you? Hey! Explain yourself! Where are you going? Hey!”

✦—————————————✦

“You know,” you say, moving your bishop across the board. “You should stay at the lighthouse instead of the crypt.”

“Why so?” 

“The crypt scares everyone.”

Flins smiles, but does not move a piece. He simply surveys the board, which means you’re soon going to lose. “The crypt is dry. The lighthouse is blustery, and the spectres often slip inside to gawk.”

You laugh. “Even the ghosts? Seriously?”

Flins blinks, bemused. “Even, you say?”

“Ah.” You wave an embarrassed hand as he checks you. Fuck. “Forget– hey!”

“Pay better attention henceforth.”

“Whatever. I quit.” 

“You still have a chance– victory may yet be yours.”

“Victory may be in reach, but I can’t see it, ergo I don’t know where to reach, Sir. I yield.”

Flins grins. He’s so cute. “Alright, then. Once again, I emerge victorious. Now for my prize.” Saying so, he lifts up the little pouch on the table, set in the middle. It clinks. Flins’ smile grows wider the wider he opens it. Looking inside for a long moment, he finally sets the pouch down with a chink.

“What occasion brought these gifts about?” He asks coyly, and you cover your face with your hands. 

“Your birthday,” you mumble, and he laughs one of his rare, soft laughs. “I’m sorry, I know I missed last year’s–”

“And the year before.”

You groan, and he laughs again. Gosh, he’s cute as hell, but by now, you’ve gotten quite good at smothering the thought. “The year before, I’d just met you!”

“And the year after, you were in no condition to celebrate,” he reassures. “Do not worry. My jabs are merely in jest.”

Your embarrassment is quickly overcome by exasperation. “Flins. It was a scratch.”

He raises an elegant hand with a shake of his head. Diva. “I will hear no more of you on the subject,” he says. “Ah, but I must ask– how did you come to know of the occasion?”

“Ah, that.” You grin. “You’re a special little boy. The Sergeant Major himself told me. He said he might come by later with cake and wine if he has the time.”

Flins raises an elegant brow. “Here, or?”

“Here,” you confirm. “He said he might bring the kid, too. How old is Illuga anyway? Ten?”

Flins chortles. “I believe he turns sixteen this year.”

“...my bad.”

The rest of the evening is spent investigating your cupboards for more board games. Flins laughs every time you find a piece missing– the miseries of analog board games are the little bits and bobs you end up losing. You’re reduced to crawling around and checking behind the furniture, then beneath and finally in desperation, above. You find nothing.

Although it was he who wanted to play, Flins does not mind. He’s in a very good mood– if you’d known a little bag of coins and gems would make him this happy, you’d have bought a dozen more little pouches, bankruptcy or no. Flins is adorable.

You’ve known him for a little over two years now, although it  feels like a lot more. Perhaps it’s because he’s practically made your residence a second home– he has spare clothes and belts and bones lying around. Even a little safe in which to keep his mora. The guest room is now wholly Flins’, which you don’t mind, since you barely receive guests anyway.

It’s nice, having a kinda-sorta roommate. He’s always making himself useful around the house, and he doesn’t disturb you often, since he’s hardly around. Most days, he’ll check in on the lighthouse while he’s out patrolling, and will return to the shoal by night, where you await him. Then you head back together, sometimes stumbling along because of the rain and sludge, sometimes laughing and plucking flowers off the tall, grassy stalks lining your path. Always with linked arms, though.

It started off as a precaution– Flins just didn’t want you stumbling because of an abyssal flare up, is all. What if you were walking by a cliffside? By a wide mole burrow? A thorny bush?

You’d frowned and agreed, and ever since, Flins holds out an arm to you as you step closer. You link yours with his and walk home, kept warm by the proximity. Flins is never cold.

Your home is, though. Shuddering, you reach over to the window to shut it, and spot Flins in its reflection. When your eyes finally focus on his features, made hazy by the moisture stains, you find him looking right into the glass, back at you.

When he speaks, his voice is as soft as you’ve ever heard it. “Is it too cold for your liking?”

Too cold? All of a sudden, you are entirely too warm. For a moment, you’re frozen doing nothing save for staring outside, praying you’ll see Nikita ambling up the path and be broken out of this moment, yet not knowing why you wish it. 

“It’s alright,” you force out. “And um. I don’t think Ni– the Sergeant Major’s showing.”

Flins ambles over and places his fingers on the windowsill, right next to yours. If he moved just a bit to the left, his body would be flush against your own. As it were, you feel his warmth through his several layers of clothing, the small gap between you, then lastly your own clothes. Flins is always so warm.

“Although it most certainly is not my place to offer familiarity on the Sergeant Major’s behalf, I doubt he minds your friendly address.” 

Huh? Oh, right.

“Oh yeah, probably. But still.” You pause, wondering how to lug the conversation along. “By the way, if he’s really not coming, or showing really late– why don’t we start with dinner?”

Flins’ fingers flex ever so slightly on the windowsill. You berate yourself for staring at them, and his smooth knuckles, and the blue veins trailing across the back of his palm in patterns you’ve never seen before. How odd. 

His voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “Ah– truth be told, I lack an appetite today.” He gives you an abashed smile. “You are welcome to start, however– after all, this is your residence.”

“What? No!” You scoff. “Eat without the birthday boy? Come on, I’ve got wines from Mondstadt I’ve been dying to try. Maybe we could do that instead? I just figured we shouldn’t eat on an empty stomach, so maybe a snack first?”

“Ah…”

“Ooh and I also got some really tasty stuff from Speranza’s,” you babble. It’s either that or you ogle at his fingers. “I told them it was for the handsome lightkeeper, so they went all out.” You wink.

“Friend– ahem.” He coughs into an elegantly furled fist, not meeting your eyes. What’s up with him? Ah, does he not like the food you got him? Does he have allergies?

It was something you realised when you stopped by Speranza’s to get him something. Thankfully both you and Flins had some free days, so you had plenty of time to sneak over without him insistently linking arms with you. You’d cheerily walked over to Katya, greeted her and told her you’d wanted– what? 

You’d never realised you’d never really seen Flins savor anything before. Sure, the occasional snack– but he usually packs all of his meals, and eats on the job. You like your leisurely breakfast, but Flins… on the weeks that he keeps vigil by night, you naturally eat separately, and you don’t really go out to eat a whole lot otherwise.

And so Katya had looked pleasantly on as you buffered and stepped back, confused. You’d asked her what Flins usually ate when he came by, but she’d told you that his every purchase was with you in mind.

And so you’d told them to just pack whatever they thought tastiest. You suspected Flins was the sort to peruse the more expensive side of the menu, but oh well. The things you do for love.

Presently, you’re employed in blinking up at him from underneath those pretty lashes, and the longer you watch, the more thoughtful he looks, until he finally stalks over to your couch and takes a seat, gesturing for you to do the same.

“Friend,” he says, his expression inscrutable. “I have a secret to tell.”

“Oh, okay.” You take a seat. How exciting! Flins never talks much about himself, so this is quite the treat. “Ooh, is this about a crush?”

Flins pauses. Frowns. “Pardon?”

Ah, right. “Someone you fancy,” you explain, softly snickering, and he looks at you carefully with a smile for just a moment too long. You swallow. You know his smiles mean nothing, but unfair pretty is still unfair pretty. You can hardly be blamed for ogling the prize, especially when you’re still thoughtful enough to resist the gamble.

“No.” Flins laughs his soft laugh. When he inhales, shoulders rising, the last vestiges of a smile still playing amongst his cheeks and lips, you breathe in with him. “No, this secret pertains to my mystery identity, that I have needlessly kept from you for far too long.” 

You wait with bated breath. Hold on, is he a vampire after all?

“Friend, I am a lamp.”

When Nikita arrives, he’s met with you blankly shovelling garlicky bread into your mouth as Flins burns and absorbs his meal.

✦—————————————✦

“So. How does this work, exactly. Do you still take baths?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need to eat?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are you like– a god?”

“No.”

“What if you were in lamp form and I chucked you into the sea.”

“...Pray, do not.”

“Huh.” Stumbling, you accidentally step on Flins’ toes. You mutter an apology as he steadies you, an easy reassurance falling off of his lips. “So does all this mud bother you?”

“I suspect that would be a universal annoyance, save for our fair lady over yonder.” Saying so, he nods at Friend, who continues barking at nothing and delightedly sprawling into the mud at intervals. “I suspect a leash is in order.”

“Oh, leave her be. I’ll bathe her once we’re home.”

Flins smiles eerily. “You may try.”

Upon reaching home, you do try. You wish you didn’t.

“Rash promises were made,” you grunt, as she pummels her head into your belly in an attempt to run past. “Bitch. That really is just what you are– hold still.”

Friend howls. Flins only smiles. 

“You, Sir,” you pant, “are also a bitch. Help me.”

“No, thank you. Friend prefers you to me.”

“That’s not–” you start, then turn to Friend as she tries to back up to jump over you. “Hey!” you bark. “You’re filthy! And you have a shitty name that you can thank your dad for!”

Flins chuckles, safe beyond the threshold of your tiny (and now very muddy) bathroom. Ignoring Friend’s beseeching gaze over your shoulder, he calls over to you as you wash the mud off of her hind legs and tail. “What does that make you, friend?”

“Me or the dog?” you snap, and watch in the mirror as he bites his lip to keep back a laugh. “The unlucky nanny, obviously!”

“I do not think Friend is quite qualified.”

You glare at Flins darkly in the mirror. He blinks at you, pouty lipped and wide eyed, the very picture of angelic innocence– at least if you ignore the rest of him. You wonder what all he hides away under those clothes of his… wait.

“Hey, Flins,” you call. When he hums in return, you blurt out what you simply could not keep in, steadily keeping your eyes on the dog. Cursed curiosity. Or ‘curst,’ as he would call it. “If you’re a lamp, does–? Do you have, um.”

“Hm?”

Never mind. That is an insane question to ask. “Forget it. Help me dry Friend.”

He tosses you a towel and stands at a distance, politely lacing his fingers together. You glare again, civility almost forgotten. 

“What was your question?”

“I said, forget it.”

As soon as you stand, Friend, sensing bathtime to be over, runs out and instantly flings her sopping wet body onto your bed. You deadpan, too tired to fight her anymore. Lethargy has been sapping away at you recently. Just the cold, you tell yourself. 

“I’ll just sleep on the couch, then.”

“Take my bed, please. I will–hm?” Flins steps closer, looking at you carefully through his prettily lowered lashes. “My friend, am I mistaken in believing you appear unwell?”

“Really?” Your intention was to sound cheery, but the end result is as though fondant found a voice. “I just haven’t been feeling too well recently. Probably just the cold, or something seasonal.”

The slightest furrow appears between Flins’ brows. “And it never occurred to you to bring this to my notice, or to a healer’s?”

“What are either of you going to do?” You ask, surprising even yourself with the bitterness that laces your words. “Burn the abyss out of me?”

Flins reaches to grab your wrist, but composes himself at the last moment, holding onto the excess fabric of your sleeve instead. When he speaks, his voice wavers the slightest bit, and the temperature in your hallway– your now shared hallway– takes a sudden drop. “My dear– friend? Is it beginning to fester?”

You shrug. You’re unable to meet his eyes when you know you did, in fact, see a healer. And that their honest diagnosis was: who knows. A desperate visit to the poor, sweet Moonchanter could not conjure up a different verdict, and her apology was written plainly in her lowered head and clenched fists.

Flins seems to take notice of your pursed lips and shifting eyes. Tugging you over to your couch in a rare moment of forcefulness, he seats you down, gently still and props a cushion behind to make you more comfortable. Once he’s brought you a glass of warm water, he sits on the adjacent loveseat.

Flins says nothing. He doesn’t even look at you, staring instead at his loosely clasped fingers with downcast eyes. His elbows rest against a knee and a thigh– you’ve never seen him slouch before in all the years you’ve known. You hear Friend’s growls in the next room, and the sound of ripping fabric. This seems to break Flins out of his  reverie– he looks up with a heavy sigh, and you can suddenly believe he really is over a thousand years old.

As stupid as it sounds, this was why you couldn’t bear to tell him– or anyone. No friends, no comrades, no acquaintances are aware of what’s wrong with you– and you hardly know either. There’s few signs– muscle spasms, sudden stabbing pains and aches. Sometimes it feels like the pain inches from your shoulder towards your chest, lapping softly at your strength with its soft tongue.

Friend ambles guiltily in the room, with the wobbly walk of a dog that knows it fucked up. The sight of her is so comical, with the feathers and fluff clinging to her whiskers and lashes, and her tongue that’s snaking round her teeth in a desperate attempt to get it out, that you can’t help but smile and walk over to clean her up.

Once she’s all clean, you give Flins an amused glance, but wilt a little at his expression. It’s stony, almost angry. Friend slinks quietly away, which only makes you feel worse. She’s always so cheeky with her father. You don’t think she’s ever feared him in her life.

“So,” you say, getting up from where you and Friend were seated on the floor. When you push yourself up with an arm, Flins’ eyes dart to it and you know he’s taking notice of the fact that it’s the uncontaminated one.

There’s a pause as you seat yourself on the loveseat next to him and shakily bring the glass of water to your lips. It’s warmer than before, and Flins’ glove is damp with steam. You carefully exhale.

“Is it not your intention to speak to me of this?” Flins finally asks. He looks so defeated. You’ve never seen his shoulders slope so visibly before. “I understand we are not family and tread the strange line twixt friendship and– camaraderie. I do not claim to be fully cognisant of–”

“Kyryll, no.” You bury your face in your hands, before abruptly sitting up straight again. You need to tell him– and particularly with what’s to come for the future. “I’m not– it’s not like that. I owe you an answer. I love you very much.”

For a moment, Flins just stares, lips slightly parted. You sweat– there’s a reason you didn’t specify what love– and not that it matters. There is no more than friends. There’s just something different than friendship. You love Flins dearly, regardless of how that love manifests– you owe him and all your other loves an answer and a heads up for what’s to come.

When Flins speaks again, his voice is soft and breathless. It is reminiscent of something very specific, something so insignificant and humdrum you’d long forgotten it; in your mind's eye, you envision little you running your fingers quickly over the mellow flame of a lit candle. Back and forth. Back and forth. You did it fast enough that it never burned– but slow enough still to feel its warm softness against your palm, your fingertips. 

There is nothing softer than an open flame. It is a texture that cannot be described– more pliant than the fluffiest wool, more velvety than a puppy's belly.

“You are very dear to me,” he quietly murmurs, with a tenderness you refuse to dwell upon. “Therefore, while I ought not demand an answer…”

“You can demand whatever you want from me,” you firmly say. Ah, good; your voice didn’t waver. “It’s fine, I’ll tell you. I’m gonna be quick, so brace yourself.”

Flins purses his lips and finally looks away from his hands, meeting your eyes. His pupils flit over your face, as though he were taking note of your features. In the past you might’ve laughed at him for it, but today, he’s almost justified.

“I spoke with the healer,” you finally confess. “I also spoke with Lauma, the Moonchanter. They both told me the same thing– abyssal activity and corrosion is hard to monitor and predict. They told me it progressed faster than what was estimated. They don’t know if it’s going to recede or kill me. They have basically no idea what’s going on, besides that it’s. Not good.” Reaching up to your chest, you start unbuttoning your shirt. For once, Flins doesn’t look away. Once the collar is loose enough, you pull it down over your shoulder, and Flins draws his legs nearer to himself as he sees the little purple stain rippling beneath your skin.

“For now,” you continue, “it makes me really tired, gives me muscle spasms and light chest pains, and it hurts randomly. In the future, it may just kill me. I don’t know. I really don’t know.” You sigh, tugging the shirt up again. You fumble as you button it back up, taking several more seconds than you usually do. Flins’ fingers twitch as though he wants to help, but he stays still next to you. 

“Are there any… courses of action you can take?” he asks at length. 

You shrug. “Not in Nod Krai. The healers told me to head to Sumeru for treatment, so.”

“So you’ll go?”

“About next month. But Natlan first.”

Flins heaves a sigh– an act of uncharacteristic transparency. Natlan has been consumed by the war against the Abyss for Archons know how long. You’ll first have to journey to the Flower-Feather Clan, and then it’s a long way across one and a half nations to Caravan Ribat. 

“We have a few Ratniki that are from Sumeru,” you sooth– or at least, try to. “A couple leave next month, so they’ve offered to take me with them. I’ll be okay. And then… I have a couple friends there already. They won’t decline taking care of me.” I hope.

“And when was the last time you conversed with these friends?” Flins frowns. “This ought not be your only course of action.”

“This isn't my only course of action,” you huff. “I can find a job– I could easily be an adventurer. That’s cake after everything I’ve done here. I– It’s not like I don’t have money, either. I’ve been with the Lightkeepers for so long–”

“I hope it isn’t your intention to bear the brunt of your soon-to-be rapidly declining Mora alone,” Flins mutters, and gets up. He stands still for seven seconds before nodding at you in his usual polite way. Your chest aches. “Allow me a moment.” He bows. “I will return shortly. You ought to rest.”

✦—————————————✦

Death, Kyryll notes, is the truest companion to a finite life. There is nothing else that may last. 

This was a lesson he ought not have forgotten.

He’s unsure of how many abyssal fiends he’s hunted in the past few hours– or are they minutes? Days? Time means little to a man that isn’t even a man at all. He lived seven hundred years, then slept hundreds more– and yet it is a little mortal that makes him count every minute spent with them.

No matter how many of the Hunt he immolates, hordes more emerge before him, desperate to eradicate a formidable foe turned careless. Kyryll is grateful then to the many companions of an infinite life- chief among them being the stubborn will to exist. in its refusal to yield to death, the abyss at least acts as an unending receptacle for his unending wrath.

Every minute spent away is a lifetime lost, he thinks. There is a hollow feeling in his chest– what chest? Kyryll is an open flame, a fiery beast that swallows his enemies whole. He feels them writhe and disintegrate inside of his belly, but his hunger can hardly sate when they’re burnt away so quickly. 

The emanating heat leaves trails of vitrified sand in his wake. Attempting to flee is futile– fire is always quick to spread.

Wretched vipers, to have stung you, to have poisoned you. How galling– not galling. How could galling even begin to encompass it? Kyryll’s tears are molten flame, and he hears the Hunt wail as he weeps over it. If only– if only. If only he’d rampaged before as he does now. Perhaps they would never have touched you then.

(In the darkest recesses of his mind, he knows it to not be true. The abyss is not finite life– its truth is not death, but hunger. 

With how sweet you are, it would have tasted you anyway).

✦—————————————✦

When Flins returns home, it is dawn, and you are asleep.

You’re sprawled across his bed, clad in your soft nightclothes, draped in his blankets. No doubt Friend has claimed yours– foolish dog, unaware of what’s to happen to you.

Or is she unaware, truly? She must have scented the abyss on you since your very first meeting. How was she to know any better? That it wasn’t your constant state of being? She can hardly be blamed for not being mindful of the correct parameters of human normalcy, what with her master being a lantern.

As he moves about the room, he can't help but think to himself– how odd it is, that in the face of an immovable calamity, the world remains as it was before. He still hears human chatter and laughter in the distance. The sound of a barking dog, of nocturnal birds made irritable by one other and their slippery prey.

Flins first shrugs off his coat, then his gloves and deposits them on a chair by the window with unusual carelessness. In the privacy of his bathroom, he sheds the rest. Sluggishly tugs on looser trousers, a smooth silk shirt. It’s been washed with the same soap as yours. He wishes he couldn’t smell it and brings a sleeve up to his nose.

Stepping out, he carries on as usual. Checks the locks, fills your water bottles, Friend’s water bowl. He considers fixing up your wobbly closet that you've been whining about for days, since the door to your room is wide open, but decides against it for now.

As he walks past his door to the living room, a thin blanket in hand, he thoughtlessly glances over to you, and goes still. A moment passes, then two.

Try as he might, he cannot tear his eyes off of you.

Flins is a fae. What does he know of mortal love? 

What do I not know? He wonders. He knows you, and Friend, and Nikita. Is that not enough?

He’s never felt more hollow. 

Resting a palm next to your head, he bends over you, long hair trailing over your arm, firm fingers sinking momentarily into your pillow. Then, bringing up the hand to your forehead, he kisses his own knuckles softly. 

✦—————————————✦

Part II: Farewell.

✦—————————————✦

The days first drag on as you slowly break the news to your friends, and then the weeks suddenly speed by, shoving and tripping you until you’re stumbling up the plank and onto the ship that’ll take you south past Ochkanatlan, to the Flower Feather Clan. 

Your house was left as it is– the only changes made being to your closet, which was stripped of most of its clothes, valuables and necessities. Flins insisted you put the Mora and jewellery into a bag he gave you himself. It’s made of a dark leather, and lined with soft, white fur from within, both taken off the corpse of a beast nowadays rarely found, if ever. It is heavy, sturdy, and has the additional quality of hearing an enchantment that drops thieves into the depths of an impenetrable sleep.

You call this extreme. Flins calls it a necessity. It’s a bit laughable, really. You’re leaving Nod Krai, and you’ll be with trusted friends throughout your journey. 

“Who’d rob me?” You’d asked with a chuckle. Flins had only smiled. Just in case, he’d said.

You’re more grateful to him than you’ll ever be able to say.

Your friends, noticing your distress, had offered to take up your luggage and scout out the cabin. One of them stands politely nearby, conversing with some porters as she keeps watch. The other must be in the room already, keeping an eye on all of your bags. You’ll likely have to remain cautious until you’ve ascertained you’re at open sea.

Flins has come to bid you farewell. He stands next to you as you look over the railing and down at the port. Nikita, as well as your other friends, already bade you farewell the previous night– after all, the nature of their work did not allow them all to come see you off today. You were chipper till the end, but couldn’t help but cry in bed later.

When you’d awoken in the morning, you'd thought the previous night’s outburst theatrical. Pathetic, even. Now that you’re actually about to leave, though, the cold wind pickpocketing the moisture from your skin as it speeds past, the bobbing of the groaning ship below, your tears seem reasonable once more.

Your arm really hurts, too.

You wonder what’ll happen if you die onboard. You know your friends would try to send your corpse back– but whether or not that’s feasible is a mystery.

No.

Shutting your eyes tight, you imagine the thoughts squeezing out of you. What’s to happen will happen– there’s no point in borrowing anxiety from the future. 

Besides– you’ll regret not giving Flins a proper goodbye.

And so you turn to him, determined to smile till the last, but end up with stinging eyes and trembling hands as you clutch onto the front of his coat and cry yet again. It’s so embarrassing– no doubt you’ve been singled out for being a crybaby, and yet. And yet.

It’s worth it, when polite Flins, forever bound by propriety, shrugs it quietly off and wraps an arm round your shoulders to tug you towards him. It is akin to being engulfed in the gentlest of flames and you’re once again reminded of when you used to skim your fingers over lit candles. Back and forth. Back and forth. The flames were so soft.

Flins is softer still, when he tells you in a murmur to take care. Friend, sensing something wrong, presses her nose right into your thigh and you slip a hand off Flins’ chest to bring it to her warm head instead. 

Your final subjects of conversation are prosaic. You speak of how cold it is, of the food the Ratniki brought you yesterday, of how Nikita boasted about Illuga’s many virtues every chance he got. Flins even smiles and laughs, and you swear you’ll never see a lovelier sight so long as you’ll live.

Toward the end, Flins breaks into a mischievous smile and tells you he’s left you with some gifts, that his bag wasn’t that heavy on its own. When you ask what he gave you, he pretends to not have heard and talks to Friend instead, who is by now covered in balm, thanks to the copious amount of kisses you’ve lain upon her large, broad head. You kiss her snout again for good measure, and she licks your chin, your hands. You bite back your tears. Reapplying the balm to your lips once more, you turn to Flins with a rueful smile as the ship’s horn blares loudly above. 

“Well, you have to get off now.”

“That I do, don’t I?” He exhales. “Farewell.”

Flins glances down to Friend for a long moment. When he finally meets your gaze, his eyes gleam, and you hope it's not just your desperation manifesting as imagination. You deserve a few tears, surely.

As you laugh softly and pat his cheek, he brings up a palm to press yours against his skin for a heartbeat, for two, for three. Shutting his eyes, he brings your fingertips to his mouth for a kiss.

When he opens them again as he steps away with a heavy, heaving breath, you’re forced to blink away your tears. His irises shone like gold.

✦—————————————✦

Even the phantasms grow restless without you. 

They're nothing but remnants of the memories of the living, vestiges left behind like afterimages of a bright light. Even so, Flins hopes it isn't mere delusion to see them grow restless as he returns to the crypt without you once again.

It's been a couple weeks now, and Friend grows more and more restless with every passing day. Flins tries his best to comfort her, but for once, he wishes Nikita would show up unannounced, thick arms laden with diversions. 

Wine is of little use. He cannot distract himself with work, either– not as ceaselessly as he would like, with Friend growing uneasy alone. Besides, the Wild Hunt does not divert him– it serves to do the opposite. Looking upon them only fills him with a familiar fury that has since simmered to white hot embers, waiting to be lit the moment there is more kindling present.

Fog and gloom obfuscate time at the cemetery– and just as well, because Flins has no intention of tracking what passes by. He prays the months fly by soon, so your missive may finally make its way to him. He begged you to write to the Lightkeeper base at Nasha Town specifically, but his colleagues are yet to receive word of you. 

In the first days of your absence, he feels his pride being pricked when he makes his way over to the receptionist to ask for any word of you.

By the time a month is up he feels only desperation.

Even so, Flins refuses to despair. How long can it take, really? Perhaps a letter was lost. Perhaps it is yet on its way. Soon enough, it'll land in his trembling fingers. He’s sure of it.

A year passes, but 'soon' does not come.

Flins' composure returns to him by the second year. He realises it as he's moving his things from the crypt to the lighthouse, your words ringing in his head. Or at least, he thinks, feeling a familiar hollow in his stomach, an approximation of them. 

You should move to the lighthouse, Flins. The crypt is creepy.

The crypt is empty. 

He'd called the lighthouse draughty, if he correctly remembers. Well, no more. Were you to return, you'd likely prefer a more comfortable home. The lamp itself has been left untouched– fixing it is of no consequence and would only be a waste of time, but the lighthouse itself is now cozy, furnished and most importantly– insulated. You get cold far easier than him, after all.

He finds he can look upon the situation with a certain forbearance that he hadn't thought possible when he'd first walked off the ship that was to carry you far from him. He'd come to learn that its journey to Natlan was as uneventful as it could get, so the natural thing to surmise was that you safely made your way into the hospitable arms of the Flower-Feather Clan. 

He refuses to allow his mind to stray any further.

By the third year, it does stray the slightest bit. After all, he's developed a bit of a bad habit.

Walking along the beaches of his Isle with Friend's leash in hand and nothing on his mind– save for you– had fast become an addiction. Lost in pleasant reminiscences, he once again relives the feeling of having you near him, the comfort of knowing you are safe in your somewhat shared home, the eagerness felt in watching the boatman draw nearer to his shore, so he may soon debark on yours. 

By the fourth, he decides it is a habit he has to shed. 

His dreams fester inside of him the way the abyss did inside of you– they whisper to his memories and poison them with sweetness, taint them with an allure they never had.

It disgusts him.

In his mind, you are more beautiful than before, your voice more dulcet, your charm exaggerated. He ascribes meaning to actions you made thoughtlessly, fantasizes more joy and affection in the most prosaic of moments. It wrecks him to realise– he has forgotten what you truly sounded like. 

His powers of remembrance are far more potent than that of any mortal, but fantasies have coloured his memories in tints he desperately wishes to erase. It makes him stay up for several days, forgetting his duties in the process of desperately recollecting all those minutiae that made you, you. After all, you deserve to be remembered for yourself, as yourself. 

When Nikita finally finds Flins after several days of noncommunication, it is in the crypt, with papers strewn around him. Some bear your face, others you in your uniform. Some bear your fingers, some you in combat, and still more drawn from the perspective of a companion with whom you must have linked arms.

Even as Nikita makes his way over to the ever-alert Flins, he does not hear. A glance over his shoulder shows Nikita that the next portrait is once again you– this time with your back turned, slipping your heel into your shoe with a finger.

When Nikita puts a gentle hand on Flins’ shoulder, the latter jumps, then stops.

✦—————————————✦

The fifth year serves as a credible distraction. 

Not only has Nod Krai newly escaped dire trouble– murmurs of change and a brighter future are on the horizon. When Flins thinks of old friends and new, however, there is both much and little comfort to be found: he loves them dearly, but you will never be introduced to them. 

Flins hadn't thought much of it– partly due to being as busy as he was, and partly because five years is but a yawn to a fae. By now his mind has reached a certain stage of sangfroid– perhaps you are dead, and perhaps you are not. Perhaps, if you're alive, you've simply chosen to not return to Nod Krai, for which he does not blame you in the slightest, particularly with all that has recently come to pass.

His steady stream of fortitude is forded abruptly, however, when Nikita bitterly mentions 'half a decade' to have passed. It is only then that Flins is forced to concede to what he refuses to give word, even inside of his own mind.

Five years were nothing– just the merest drizzle of time, unseen to most of his kind. But for Nikita to so bitterly call it 'half a decade,' for Illuga– grown up Illuga– to cautiously ask what happened 'so long ago–’ makes Flins' body run far cooler than it should.

Another Ratnik lost to the night, he thinks.

After all, little mortals are but ants to time. The same drizzle he can flick off of his shoulders with a finger might just have swallowed you whole.

Pretending to partake of his lunch proves harder than it should. The purpose of his visit to the Starshyna had been to retrieve little Friend, who had stayed with him while Flins dealt with his greater-than-usual troubles. Running into Illuga was ill luck indeed. He's glad when Illuga finally leaves. When he strokes Friend’s back as she lays by his feet, it is with the tenderest of touches. And when she whines and raises her nose to his knee, he looks at the greys around her eyes, and stiffens.

In the privacy of the lighthouse, Flins cries himself sick. You were likely too sweet for even Time herself to resist a taste, and the last bit of life you left behind for him will soon follow.

✦—————————————✦

Part III: Lovesick.

✦—————————————✦

“Hey! Traveller! Is that Flins over there?”

Flins sighs.

Now, of all times? Truly? He doesn’t have the bandwidth to entertain guests, no matter how precious and respectable– not today.

Not when Friend is missing.

Time is cruel– Friend is not as alert as she used to be. A decade is enough to pepper whites and greys in her fur, brush pain across her joints and gently drape her senses with dulling silk. It does little to dampen her love of life or old joys, however, and he fears that in part to be the reason for her disappearance.

Flins has an irregular schedule– and it’s been especially worse in recent months, ever since the most dismal sort of trouble came along to plague Nod Krai and gnaw at his patience. Truly, if his suspicions of some street rat having stolen his Friend are proven true, he’ll make it as though they never existed at all.

Precious Friend, stalwart and curious even in the face of his true form. Clever, lively Friend, forever keen on bringing him new treasures and coming along on his patrols.

Invaluable, cherished Friend, that he and you loved together.

He feels a bit stupid, agonizing over a dog, but what inherent value is there to anything in this world, really? Flins knows better than anyone– that things cost as much as the price you ascribe to them, and Friend is priceless.

Flins had held out hope year after year, awaiting your missive. His long years ought to lend speed to Time’s flow, but instead it crept by at a snail’s pace, nipping at him with its unseen teeth. He bore it well– corresponding was difficult with the sheer distance between the two of you, so that would explain your silence for a while, yes? 

In the meantime, he’d decided to safeguard your belongings. After all, you’d want them upon your return.

In time, though, his heart had grown so heavy at the sight of your home that he abandoned it as a residence entirely, opting instead to stay first at the crypt before vacating it as well under the guise of your advice. While the crypt was forgotten altogether, Flins would regularly come around to maintain your home– he would ensure it remained in good condition, at least for a few more years. Just a few more years. He knows he ought to sell it to someone that may need it more, but all the empathy in this world could not make Flins concede a single inch, let alone the house. 

When the exalted Traveller was made his acquaintance, he feared it may have to see actual use. The famous duo, however, was content to remain at The Flagship, and Miss Lauma also extended her warm invitations. And so Flins could keep you all to himself for another year more.

But, Flins thinks, worriedly making a round of your yard, he’d rather lose ten such houses than Friend. She’s not in the trash, not behind the tree or the bushes. She hasn’t even dug up your flowerbed this summer. 

Where could she be?

He’s broken out of his frantic musings by the sound of footsteps and shimmers coming closer.

Well. 

While it’s more than a little crude to ask an esteemed guest and hero to look for his pet dog…

✦—————————————✦

“Friend!”

Perhaps this wasn’t one of his better ideas.

“FRIEEEND!”

Definitely less than stellar.

“FRIEND, WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Positively arcadian,” he quietly murmurs. Were you here, you would’ve swallowed a laugh, shoulders stiff and a smile threatening to spill onto your face, wide as a crack in a glacier. When he glances up, however, a faint smile on his lips, he sees only Paimon.

“What did you say?” she asks, and he shakes his head politely.

A part of him wonders if he should just yield. Heavens know where Friend is now, and if she really hasn’t responded to all this noise, there’s a good chance she never will.

She’s a clever dog, after all, with a certain precious quality no mercenary could pass up. The thought of her somewhere, afraid and maltreated sends a stave through his heart. She deserved a better name than Friend. Kyryllmirovna, perhaps?

He exhales, and the air before him shimmers violently. Paimon flinches and ducks behind Lumine. 

“Paimon’s never seen him lose his cool before,” she loudly whispers. Flins bites back a second sigh.

He’s looked all over Nasha Town already, and even made his way south through the Nothing Passage, to the Eye of Kratti. He went as far as to make Aino a visit, and emphasised to her that Friend meant more to him than even her little robots, to her. (This served only to anger her, although Ineffa had offered to keep an eye out).

“I suppose there is nothing left to do,” he quietly says at length. He cannot think of a single more place she could be. “Ky– Friend is lost to me for good.”

“Oh– no, Flins, don’t give up yet!” Lumine exclaims. Bunching up her fists, she shakes them at him encouragingly. “We haven’t even asked Jahoda yet! And we could visit Lauma and make her ask all the animals around!”

“Friend has a reputation for sniffing out treasure, Miss.” Flins clicks his tongue, looking more transparent than ever. “If someone has seized her, with the number of arrivals and departures Nasha Town’s port witnesses on the daily, I…” he trails off. Before he can speak again, someone in the distance does.

“Moons,” they cry, “you really are a bitch– agh, my bag!”

“Careful! Should I chase it away?”

“Don’t you dare, Miss Zvoni!” says the first voice. There’s a bark, the sound of someone tripping, then a full, hearty laugh. “This dog– she’s mine! I can’t believe you still remember me, Friend.”

Flins feels his body warm and for a moment, wonders if the blaze inside of him will burgeon right out. 

He's unsure of what to feel. So, the little thing went looking for…? 

In the past, Flins had often wondered– what does he know of mortal love?

Now, though, he wonders– what does he need to, when his body trembles, when the air before him turns hazy with his hot breath, when the traveller gently tugs on his sleeve and points furtively at her eyes to tell him his are aglow. What does he need to, when he anxiously wraps his fingers round this hair to smooth it down and smother the heat in them? What, when his chest hurts at the sound of your voice, at the smell of you filling his nostrils? 

He's glad he's hidden by the tree he was looking for Friend behind, glad for a moment to collect himself. His head hurts and his vision is altogether too bright. When Lumine reaches out to hold him up, he clasps her hand tightly. 

"Flins?" Her voice is gentle, but worry is written plainly in the arch of her lips and the furrow between her brows. "Are you okay? Follow my breaths, okay?"

Before Flins can so much as nod, though, Paimon lets out a squeal of delight and flies over to– you.

"Woah, hey!" She kicks her feet midair in delight. "What are you doing here?"

"Paimon!” you laugh. “I live here! Well– I used to. Probably not anymore. That was a while ago." 

"Here as in Nasha Town or here as in this house?"

"Both, silly. I used to be a Lightkeeper, you know. I was the best of them all."

Flins hears Zvoni snort, and then you laugh again. Every giggle makes his heart constrict and somehow beat easier all at once. Blind to Lumine's confusion, he braces himself against the tree to simply listen. 

"Come now, Zvoni, I really was. Why else do you think Nikita himself sent you to fetch me?”

"He told me you were a friend,” Zvoni teases, made easy in your presence already. Flins smiles. “He did not comment on your talent nor your skill."

You huff. "Turns out we're not friends, then. I'll still do him a favour and join you guys, though."

"Seriously?" Paimon leans closer, incredulous. "After all that, you want to take on the Abyss again?”

Flins hears the rustle of fabric, and sees you shrug plainly in his mind's eye. 

"I can always run to Lumi for help again,” you say, “Speaking of, where is she?”

Flins stiffens, then straightens in the same breath that Paimon chirps– “right here! With our new friend, hehe.”

“Ooh, new friend?” 

Saying so, you cheerily step inside of the gate– your gate– and glance round to first see Lumine, then Flins himself.

How odd, he thinks. He imagined all of your movements precisely. The sprite in his mind and the you of the physical world act the same. You stepped in and turned on your heel, your head tipped tightly to the side, a smile still on your lips. Your fingers are even busy patting Friend’s massive head, just the way he knew they would be.

But you look so different– although the change is perhaps exacerbated by the long years of your absence. And, perhaps, mortals are just more used to gleefully changing when no one is looking.

You're skin is darker. Your features are softer and rounder, the sort that come about with plenty of rest. Your fingers have new scars on them and your arms are thicker.

The greys he'd sometimes spot in your hair are now impossible to see, however. You heft your bag– the one he gave you, he realises– with the same arm that that once housed the evil he'd thought would take you.

And your expression– your expression–

“Flins?” you whisper.

Gone is your liveliness. In just a moment, he watches you still, wide eyed. The bag drops heavily onto the grass as you raise a hand up to your lips. 

For a moment, everything is still. Lumine purses her lips as Zvoni and Paimon give you concerned glances. This seems to make your earlier theatrics dawn on you. Blinking your tears rapidly away, you try for a laugh and his chest constricts at the sight of your tongue slipping nervously out of your lips to lick them. 

Flins knows he ought to offer some justification for this reaction– and you seem to be having the same thoughts. Before either of you can turn to Zvoni, however, Lumine picks the moment to play the hero. Thank goodness.

“Oh– Paimon, remember we needed to check, um. Something at the port? Miss Zvoni, could you take us there?”

Before Zvoni can protest, Lumine tugs her and Paimon speedily away. Flins catches the latter’s squeaky voice angrily carrying on the wind– “what is the meaning… Are you doing–” before they're too far to be heard.

There's several moments of silence, then. Flins resolves to thank his golden hero later as he watches you watch the trio go, and wordlessly helps carry the rest of your luggage to the porch. You eye him keenly as he reaches into his pockets to pull out a key, then blink as he offers it to you on a gloved palm. He hopes you don't notice the way his hands shake.

His shyness dissipates a little when he sees you tremble too. Your fingers first miss the key to begin with, then fumble with the lock. Flins waits patiently, content to simply look at you.

“So,” you say, as the door clicks open. You survey the clean interior and look at Friend’s already full water bowl for several moments before turning instinctively toward the shoe-rack to slide your boots off. “How have you been, Flins?”

“I have been,” he simply answers as you both step inside and toward the mantel to place your keys atop it, in their usual place. He's relieved then to see the tension leave your shoulders as a smile creeps upon your lips. They look soft– clearly Sumeru’s winds have treated you better than Nod Krai’s.

“I have too, yeah. Then I met Lumine some months ago, and I was good.” You smile at him, and he sees your eyes moisten once more. “I've been counting the hours till I could see you again.” 

A tear slips past your lashes and runs speedily down your cheek. Flins catches it at your jaw and it soaks slowly into his glove.

“I heard Miss Lumine cleansed the abyssal corruption inside of you,” he murmurs, and you nod, not stepping away. His breath hitches. “I owe her more for it than anything else.”

You laugh softly. He wishes he could trap the sound inside of him, where his heart would be were he human. “A fae owing someone?” You ask. “I thought you folk preferred having the upper hand.”

Flins remains silent.

What is he to say, when you stand so close to him, letting his fingers rest on your shoulder? When you look at him so carefully, as though committing him to memory? When your eyes catch on his, and he feels your pulse quicken when you refuse to look away?

Now Flins truly wishes he knew of mortal love, for he is tempted beyond temptation to kiss you, but knows not if he may see it returned. For a recluse that vies for distance from society, he suddenly wishes to understand its every minutiae; for someone so determined to remain unattached to it, he's unsure of how to tell you he's been the string wound round your finger for nearly a decade now. 

How odd– for him to owe you, despite the numerous favours he's bestowed upon you. Somehow your happy thank yous and grateful smiles seem to amount to more than his every kindness.

He’s wanted you here for so long– he’s dreamt up so many pretty compliments to give you– but when he reaches inside of him he finds them replaced by a thrumming desperation. Now that you're before him, truly, he finds himself tongue tied. He knows he needs to speak, even if simply to fill the silence. Something lighthearted, or something welcoming and yet all that leaves him is a gentle–

“I have not had the upper hand in many years now.”

You shakily exhale; he wishes he knew why. “Oh?”

You'd tried for your usual cheeriness, Flins knows, but your voice came out as a murmur he wishes he could swallow. He does swallow; but your words slide past your lips into empty air instead of into his own. All he can do is hum in response, and you let out a quick breath, an almost laugh.

There’s a stilted pause that somehow still isn’t made uncomfortable. You finally reach up and press Flins’ free hand between both of yours. Looking up at him, now somewhat having regained your composure, you speak.

“Thank you, Flins, for everything you did for me while I was here, and while I was away. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to contact you– I tried, I really did, but there was just no possibility of it until Natlan’s war against the Abyss finally ended.” You inhale. “I met the Traveler and Paimon some months back– and I came here as soon as I recovered.”

You exhale shakily once more. Tugging his hand to your lips, you press a kiss to his gloved knuckles. Running a thumb over the spot, you quietly tell him– that you’ve missed him.

In spite of this, you’re somehow startled when he raises your fingers to his for a reciprocal kiss. First to your knuckles, then your open fingertips and finally your palm, before he lowers your hands whilst still keeping them engulfed in his. 

“May I ask a favour of you?” He quietly asks. 

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond– both because of his actions and yours. You can’t find it in yourself to be displeased, though. There’s a little sliver of budding hope inside of you that is fast sprouting into something larger. Flins’ eyes look to you more golden than ever, and in them you see a strained urgency you feel needs a response. And so when you nod, breathless, Flins draws in breath, whilst simultaneously leaning closer to you. 

When he begins speaking, he does so with his eyes on your entwined hands. “I… do not know where to begin. What I do know, however, is that I have felt your absence keenly; that I do not wish to feel it again.” He brings his eyes up to yours, and the sun comes out, creeping into the room and across his eyes through the crack in the curtains, setting them aglow. 

You cannot breathe.

Flins can’t either, it seems. When he continues, his voice is strangled. You wait for him to regain his composure, but your heart swells at the realisation that he is content to be discomposed before you.

“Please,” he begs. “I do not know what mortals call love, but I am made foolish by you. Please. Even if all I am allowed is to light your doorstep, keep me close. I have never begged before, but I will beg forevermore if you'll let me. Even your glances are enough. Please, do not leave me. Not again. Please.”

When all you can do is stare at him, he stares back, downy lashes aflutter with nerves. And when you reach up to gently kiss him, you feel him melt as he wraps his arms around you.

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I. The Beginning

[The pages are crisp, unused. Anaxa’s handwriting is immaculate. For now.]

Entry #01: Hypothesis Formation

[Undated, though the ink is fresh]

Hypothesis: Prolonged proximity to certain individuals induces measurable cognitive interference.

Subject: Y/N. Scholar-in-training at the Grove, specializing in philosophical texts regarding the Titans. Competent, if occasionally reckless in interpretations.

Observations thus far:

Lapse in concentration during joint archival sessions (3 documented instances)

Misplacement of research tools (quill, reference texts, alchemical measures)

Increased frequency of tangential thoughts during solo work periods

Possible explanations:

Standard fatigue due to intensive research schedule

Environmental factors (poor lighting, inadequate ventilation in archives)

Soul resonance interference from sustained interpersonal exposure

The third option warrants investigation. If emotional frequency can influence harmonics—as my alchemical experiments have begun to suggest—then repeated exposure to a specific individual may create residual field distortions.

My work on soul-structure through alchemical deconstruction has shown that consciousness persists beyond physical form as information patterns. If souls and the preserved memories are like data, then emotion becomes the catalyst that shapes how that data resonates between individuals.

Methodology: Continue scheduled collaborative sessions. Monitor for pattern escalation. Document deviations in cognitive baseline.

Correlation is not causation. But the scientific mind, once disrupted, struggles to return to symmetry.

Conclusion: Further observation required.

Addendum: Found my quill in Y/N’s hand this morning. Y/N has been using it to annotate our current work, apparently for the past hour. When I pointed this out, Y/N laughed and returned it without apology.

The laugh. I should note the acoustic properties. Frequency, duration, tonal quality. For research purposes.

I will monitor for further deviations.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

You meet Anaxa in the archives on a morning that feels like every other. Pale light filtering through the high windows, the smell of old parchment and the sharp tang of alchemical reagents, the quiet hum of knowledge waiting to be decoded.

He’s already there when you arrive, because of course he is. He’s always early, always prepared, always three steps ahead of whatever conversation you’re about to have.

“You’re late,” Anaxa says without looking up from his work.

You glance at the timepiece on the wall. “By two minutes.”

“Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds.” Now he looks up, his eye—that distinctive pale blue, almost luminescent in certain light—meeting yours with something that might be amusement. The eyepatch draws your attention as it always does, a stark reminder of his dedication. Or his recklessness. You’re still not sure which. “Precision matters in research.”

“Does it matter in greeting someone?”

“Particularly then.” But there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth as he gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. We have work.”

You’ve been collaborating for three months now. It started as a necessity—your specialization in Titan philosophy complementing his work in Nousporism, soul theory, and alchemical investigation. Two scholars, two pieces of a larger puzzle, brought together by the Grove’s mandate to understand what came before.

It should have stayed professional. Purely academic.

Instead, you’ve started arriving early just to watch the way he works. The precise movements of his long fingers as he arranges his alchemical tools—vials of luminescent compounds, carefully labeled soul essence samples, the brass instruments he uses to measure certain frequencies. The way he tilts his head when reading something that challenges him. The little “hm” of satisfaction when a theory clicks into place.

You haven’t documented any of this. You don’t need to.

“I reviewed your thesis on Titan emotional suppression,” Anaxa says, sliding a stack of papers across the table. The pages are covered in his handwriting. Parts are angular, controlled, beautiful in its precision, other parts are messy, as if his writing couldn’t keep up with his thoughts. “Your argumentation is sound, though you’ve made several logical leaps that require additional support.”

“Several?” You pick up the first page. There are annotations everywhere, but they’re not harsh. They’re engaged. Like he cared enough to follow every thread of your thinking.

“Seven,” Anaxa clarifies. “I’ve marked them. You’ll find my suggested revisions on pages three, eight, and fifteen.”

You flip to page three. His note reads: “Adequate reasoning, but you’ve conflated causation with correlation. The Titans didn’t fall because they suppressed emotion. They fell because they never learned to (re)integrate it. See addendum.”

The addendum is half a page long. He’s essentially written you a mini-essay in the margins.

“You know,” you say, looking up, “most people just write ‘needs work’ and move on.”

“I’m not most people.” He leans back slightly, arms crossed. The motion makes him look almost casual, though you know better. Anaxa is never truly relaxed. There’s always that hum of mental energy, that sense of constant analysis. “And your work deserves more than dismissive notation.”

Something warm settles in your chest. You try to ignore it.

“Thank you, Anaxagoras.”

There’s a pause. Brief, but noticeable.

Most people at the Grove call him Anaxa. A casual shortening that he tolerates with barely concealed irritation. But you’ve always used his full name, drawn to the weight of it, the way the syllables feel important and deliberate.

You didn’t realize he’d noticed until now, when something shifts in his expression. Not quite a softening, but close.

“You’re welcome,” Anaxa says, and his voice is different. Quieter. “Now. Let’s discuss your interpretation of the soul-thread harmonics in chapter four. You’ve made an interesting claim about emotional resonance that I want to explore.”

You settle in, pulling your notes closer. The morning light shifts as you work, pouring across the table in golden bands. Occasionally you catch the faint chemical scent from his most recent alchemical experiment. Something acrid and metallic that makes you wonder what he’s been testing this time.

And you don’t notice the way his gaze drifts from his papers to your face when you’re reading.

You don’t notice the way he pauses before speaking, as if testing the weight of words before releasing them.

You don’t notice that his handwriting gets slightly less controlled in the margins of your work, as if his usual precision falters when he’s writing to you instead of for the archive.

But Anaxa notices.

He notices everything.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #02: Variable Documentation

Observation Count: 7 sessions completed since initial hypothesis formation.

Deviations recorded:

Session 3: Discussed Y/N’s theory on soul-memory adhesion for 47 minutes past scheduled end time. Did not notice until archive keeper began closing procedures.

Session 5: Caught myself explaining Nousporic principles using examples from Y/N‘s previous arguments rather than classical sources. Concerning. Y/N remembers things I say. I remember things Y/N says. The feedback loop is becoming self-reinforcing.

Session 7 (today): Y/N called me Anaxagoras. Again. Most at the Grove use the shortened form—Anaxa—which I can tolerate but dislike. It feels dismissive, casual in a way that diminishes the significance of nomenclature. Y/N makes the full name sound… proper. Respected. As if the name itself matters.

Physical observations:

Y/N gestures when excited about an idea. Small movements, but distracting.

Y/N’s laugh when I make dry remarks—not mockery, but genuine amusement. Unexpected. (Acoustic analysis pending.)

The way Y/N reads: lips moving slightly, brow furrowed in concentration. I have spent 4.5 minutes observing this today alone.

Alchemical correlation: My recent experiments on soul-essence resonance patterns support the theory that consciousness creates harmonic fields. When two compatible frequencies interact repeatedly, they don’t simply coexist. They amplify each other. The resulting pattern is more stable than either frequency alone.

This may explain why my concentration improves in some ways during our sessions, even as it deteriorates in others. Not interference. Resonance.

Hypothesis revision: Initial assumption that proximity causes interference may be incorrect. Alternative theory: proximity creates resonance. A harmonic pattern rather than dissonance.

If the record shows emotional impressions as data, then repeated exposure to compatible frequencies would create reinforcement rather than disruption.

Conclusion: The field effect is not diminishing. It is intensifying.

Problem: I am unsure whether I wish to counteract this or allow it to continue.

Secondary problem: I find myself hoping Y/N will be early tomorrow. This is unscientific.

Note to self: Begin documenting resonance patterns more carefully. If emotional frequency can influence soul-thread harmonics, this could have significant implications for—

Who am I fooling.

I want to see Y/N again.

❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖

II. Shared Study

The next session, you arrive five minutes early.

Anaxa is already there—of course—but this time he looks up immediately when you enter. His eye tracks your movement across the room, and you swear there’s something different in his expression. Not quite relief, but close.

“Early,” he observes.

“Thought I’d beat you here for once.”

“An impossibility.” But he’s almost smiling. “I’ve prepared tea. Fifth blend from the right—it helps with concentration.”

You glance at the table. There are two cups already poured, steam still rising. The setup is too deliberate to be casual.

“You made tea,” you say slowly.

“I often make tea.”

“You made two cups.”

“An elementary deduction.” He gestures to the seat across from him. “Are you going to sit, or continue cataloging my beverage choices?”

You sit, wrapping your hands around the warm porcelain. It’s exactly the temperature you prefer. Not too hot, steeped long enough to be strong but not bitter.

Anaxa remembered.

The work begins as it always does: papers spread between you, references cross-checked, theories tested against evidence. But today there’s something else threading through it. A current of awareness that wasn’t there before, or maybe was always there and you’re only now naming it.

Your hand reaches for a reference text at the same moment his does.

Fingers brush.

The contact lasts less than a second—barely qualifies as touch—but you both freeze.

Anaxa recovers first, pulling his hand back with careful control. “Apologies. You were…please, take it.”

You pick up the text, hyperaware of the warmth still lingering on your skin. “Thanks.”

Silence. The kind that feels too loud.

Then Anaxa clears his throat and says, with perfect academic dryness, “If you insist on annotating in the margins, at least have the courtesy to use proper notation.”

The absurdity of it—the deflection, the return to familiar ground—makes you laugh. Real laughter, the kind that surprises you both.

His eye widens slightly. You watch him try to process the sound, try to categorize it, and you see the exact moment he gives up and just… listens.

When you finally manage to speak, you’re still smiling. “My notation is perfectly adequate.”

“Adequate.” He repeats the word like he’s testing it. “Yes. That’s certainly one assessment.”

“What’s yours?”

“Promising.” The word comes softer than expected. “Though dangerously reckless in places.”

“Reckless?”

“You make logical leaps that would give most scholars vertigo.” Anaxa is leaning forward slightly now, drawn into the conversation despite himself. “You assume connections before proving them. You trust intuition over methodology.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Profoundly.” But he’s almost smiling again. “It also produces remarkable insights that more conservative approaches would miss entirely.”

The compliment lands gently, unexpectedly. You’re not sure what to do with it.

“So what you’re saying is… I’m effectively reckless?”

“Brilliantly reckless,” Anaxa corrects, and something in his tone makes your breath catch. “There’s a difference.”

The afternoon light has shifted while you’ve been talking, pouring through the high windows in golden bands that catch the dust motes floating between you. The archive feels smaller suddenly, or maybe you’re just more aware of the space. The two feet of table separating you, the way his sleeve brushes papers when he gestures, the controlled rhythm of his breathing.

In the corner, you notice one of his alchemical setups. A complex arrangement of glass vessels and copper tubing, some kind of distillation apparatus. The faint shimmer of soul essence glows in one of the containers, pale blue-green like captured starlight.

“What are you working on?” you ask, gesturing toward the equipment.

Anaxa follows your gaze. “Testing a hypothesis about consciousness transfer. Whether soul-essence can be extracted, studied, and reintegrated without degradation of the original pattern.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Most worthwhile research is.” Anaxa’s tone is matter-of-fact. “The pursuit of truth requires sacrifice. Understanding requires risk.”

You think about the eyepatch, about the rumors that circulate through the Grove. That he removed his own eye to get answers. That his alchemical experiments have left scars. Visible and otherwise.

“Anaxagoras?” you ask quietly.

Anaxa looks up from his notes. Focuses on you with that complete, undivided attention that makes you feel like the only thing in the world worth observing.

“Yes?”

You’re not sure what you were going to say. The question dissolves under his gaze.

“Nothing,” you manage. “Just… thank you. For the notes. For all of this.”

Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, or something deeper. “You don’t need to thank me for doing what I’d do regardless.”

“What you’d do regardless?”

“Engage with work that challenges me.” Anaxa pauses, then adds, quieter, “And with the person behind it.”

The words hang between you like a confession he didn’t mean to make.

Then the archive keeper calls out that they’re closing in ten minutes, and the spell breaks.

You both move to gather your things. A familiar ritual, papers sorted and stacked, quills capped, cups collected. But your hands are shaking slightly, and you’re pretty sure his are too.

At the door, Anaxa pauses. Turns back.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, and there’s something careful in the question. As if your answer matters more than it should.

“Of course,” you say.

He nods. Once. Then: “Good.”

You leave first, but you swear you can feel his gaze following you until you turn the corner.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #03: Hypothesis Failing

I touched Y/N’s hand today.

Correction: our hands brushed during a simultaneous reach for the same text. The contact was incidental, lasting approximately 0.8 seconds.

The resonance effect lasted considerably longer.

Physical response documented:

Elevated heart rate (estimated 15% increase)

Acute sensory awareness (temperature, texture, proximity)

Cognitive disruption (lost track of conversation for 4-6 seconds)

Y/N’s response:

Similar physiological markers observed (increased respiration, dilated pupils)

Maintained composure better than I did

Laughed when I retreated into academic formality

Y/N’s laugh. I need to stop noting the laugh. It serves no research purpose.

(It does, however, make everything feel less insurmountable.)

Alchemical parallel: In my recent soul-essence experiments, I’ve observed that when two compatible consciousness patterns are brought into proximity, they don’t remain discrete. They begin to synchronize. Creating harmonic interference patterns that are more stable than either pattern in isolation.

The phenomenon is called resonance coupling. It’s what I’ve been trying to achieve in my alchemical work for months.

Apparently, it occurs naturally between certain individuals.

Revision to working theory: Emotional resonance does not simply influence soul-patterns. It creates new ones. Sustained proximity isn’t building interference. It’s building architecture. A space that exists only when we’re both present.

The Titans fell because they couldn’t (re)integrate emotion into their structure. They saw feeling as corruption rather than foundation.

I’m beginning to understand what they missed.

Current status: Hypothesis failing comprehensively.

Accurate status: I wanted to touch Y/N’s hand again the moment I pulled away.

Note: Tomorrow. Same time. Y/N said “of course” like it was inevitable.

Perhaps it is.

❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖

III. Notes Accumulating

Over the next three weeks, something shifts.

The work continues—theories tested, arguments refined, breakthroughs achieved—but it’s no longer just about the work. Or maybe it always was about more than the work, and you’re both finally admitting it.

Anaxa starts leaving notes for you.

The first one appears on your usual desk in the archive, pinned under your inkwell:

I’ve relocated the new ingredients to the second shelf, right side. You misplaced them. — A.

The handwriting is immaculate, but there’s something about the dash before his initial that feels almost… affectionate.

The next day, another note:

Avoid the east corridor between the hours of 2 and 4. Alchemical experiments ongoing. Potentially hazardous. Don’t test me on this. — A.

You smile at “don’t test me on this”—as if he knows you well enough to predict you’d be tempted.

(He does. You were.)

By the end of the week, the notes have become a language of their own:

Your interpretation of Titan suppression theory in yesterday’s discussion was insightful. I’ve left a reference text that supports your argument on page 47. Read it. — A.

You left your notes again. They’re on my desk. Try to remember where you put things. It’s becoming a pattern. — A.

Don’t forget to eat. I will notice this. (No signature this time, but the handwriting is unmistakable. There’s also a small, precise ink blot after the period, as if he hesitated before pulling the pen away.)

You start writing back in the margins of your shared documents:

Anaxa’s annotation: This conclusion is adequate, though you could strengthen it with additional supporting evidence.

Your response: ‘Adequate’ again. Is that your favorite word, or do you just enjoy being withholding?

Anaxa’s reply (in even smaller script): I enjoy precision. There’s a difference.

You: Duly noted, Professor.

Anaxa: I’m not YOUR professor. Don’t be obtuse.

You: Then stop acting like one with me. :)

Anaxa doesn’t respond to that one directly, but the next time you see him, there’s color on his cheeks and something that might be fondness in his eye.

One afternoon, you’re both working in his private study. A space he rarely lets anyone enter. It’s smaller than the main archives, more personal. Books stacked in careful towers, alchemical equipment gleaming on the workbench, distillation flasks filled with luminescent compounds that cast strange shadows on the walls. Windows overlook the Grove and the distant trees beyond.

There’s only one chair.

You’ve been sharing it for an hour now, pressed shoulder to shoulder, and neither of you has acknowledged how unnecessary this proximity is. There are other chairs. Other rooms. But here you are, thigh touching thigh, the heat of him seeping through layers of fabric.

“This passage,” Anaxa says, pointing to a line in the text between you. His voice is carefully neutral, but you can feel the slight tension in his frame. “The Titans’ understanding of soul-structure was fundamentally flawed. They treated emotion as external contamination rather than intrinsic data.”

“So you’ve said.” You lean closer to read the passage, and your hair brushes his shoulder. You feel him go very still. “But what if that’s what they needed to believe? What if acknowledging emotion as foundational would have meant acknowledging their own vulnerability?”

He turns his head slightly. Just enough that you can see his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his throat works as he swallows.

“That’s…” He pauses. “That’s a compelling interpretation.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m frequently surprised by you.” The admission is quiet. “It’s becoming a pattern.”

You risk looking at him fully. He’s already watching you, and the intensity of his gaze—that focused, analytical attention now weighted with something else entirely—makes your breath catch.

“Anaxagoras—”

“You’re the only one who calls me that,” he says suddenly. “Anaxagoras. Most at the Grove or in Okhema use the shortened form. I’ve always disliked it. Too casual, too dismissive.”

“I don’t mean to presume—”

“No.” Something softens in his expression. “You make it sound proper. Respected. As if the name itself matters.”

“It does matter.”

“Why?”

You’re close enough to see the flecks of lighter blue in his eye, the way his pupil has dilated slightly. Close enough to notice the faint chemical scent that clings to him. Copper and something sharper, the residue of his alchemical work. Close enough to count his breaths.

“Because it’s yours,” you say simply.

The silence that follows is different from all the others. Heavier. Fuller. Like the moment before thunder, when the air itself holds its breath.

Then Anaxa stands abruptly, putting distance between you with the kind of control that suggests it costs him.

“I should—” He gestures vaguely toward his workbench. “There’s a calculation I need to verify. The soul-essence distillation requires precise timing, and if I miss the optimal extraction point—”

“Right.” You stand too, smoothing your robes to give your hands something to do. “I should probably—”

“Same time tomorrow?”

The question comes faster than usual, almost urgent.

“Of course,” you say, and his shoulders drop slightly. Relief.

“Good.” Anaxa turns toward his equipment, but not before you catch the way his hands are trembling. “That’s good.”

You leave before the tension can crack completely, but you feel his gaze on you until the door closes.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #05: Cognitive Dissonance Study

I have identified the problem.

The issue is not that you disrupt my concentration.

The issue is that you have become my concentration.

Every theorem bends toward you. Every question leads back. When you laugh, I document the acoustic frequency. When you argue, I catalog the logical structure. When you leave, I count the seconds until return.

This is not research.

This is longing dressed in notation.

Today’s session: We shared a chair. Unnecessary. There were other options available. But when you sat beside me—close enough that I could feel your warmth, smell the faint scent of ink and something sweet I cannot name—I found I could not suggest you move.

The work suffered. My focus was divided between the text and the way your shoulder pressed against mine, the rhythm of your breathing, the small “hm” you make when reading something that intrigues you.

At one point, you leaned closer to read a passage, and your hair brushed my shoulder. I forgot how to breathe for approximately 3.7 seconds.

Your observation about the Titans: “What if acknowledging emotion as foundational would have meant acknowledging their own vulnerability?”

You understand. Not just the theory. The truth beneath it. The Titans didn’t fall because they were logical. They fell because they had faults. Maybe they were afraid.

I am afraid.

Alchemical reflection: I’ve spent years studying souls through systematic deconstruction. I removed my own eye to get answers. I’ve extracted, distilled, and analyzed consciousness itself in pursuit of understanding.

I thought sacrifice was the price of knowledge. That understanding required distance. That to see truth, you had to remove yourself from it.

But when you look at me with those eyes—curious, warm, seeing—I want to be seen. Not as the scholar, not as the professor, not as the blasphemer who questions the comfortable doctrines.

Just as Anaxagoras. The person beneath the title.

You said my name matters because it’s mine.

What do I do with that?

Conclusion: I am a fool in a scholar’s robes, pretending observation is not the same as devotion.

Accurate conclusion: I am devoted.

Addendum: Tomorrow. Please let there be tomorrow. Always a new dawn.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #06: Notes on Notation

You’re writing back to me.

In the margins of our shared work—those spaces I use for correction and commentary—you’ve begun leaving responses. Teasing ones. Challenging ones. Messages that have nothing to do with research and everything to do with… this. Shall I call it…us?

”‘Adequate’ again. Is that your favorite word, or do you just enjoy being withholding?”

I had to put the paper down when I read that. Had to breathe. Had to recalibrate my entire understanding of what these annotations mean.

You’re not just tolerating my notes. You’re responding to them. Engaging with me, the person, not just the work.

And then you called me Professor. (I am not YOUR professor. The distinction matters. We are colleagues, collaborators. Whatever hierarchy exists in the Grove’s structure or in Amphoreus doesn’t apply here. In this space we’ve built together.)

I replied. Of course I replied. I couldn’t not.

“I’m not YOUR professor. Don’t be obtuse.”

Your response was something that resembled a smiling face. A tiny, hand-drawn curve in the margin.

I have stared at that mark for longer than I care to admit.

Current realization: Our marginalia has become correspondence. These aren’t just notes anymore. They’re letters. Tiny, contained conversations that exist in the space between formal thought.

You’re creating a private language with me.

And I’m answering.

Secondary realization: I have begun timing my delivery of annotated papers to coincide with your arrival at the archives. This is transparently manipulative. I don’t care.

This morning I left you a note: “Don’t forget to eat. I will notice this.”

No signature. If you know it’s from me (you will), then the care embedded in the words will be obvious. If you don’t… well. Then I’m a coward.

Alchemical parallel: In my work on soul-essence resonance, I’ve learned that consciousness patterns don’t exist in isolation. They’re constantly seeking harmonic frequencies—other patterns that complement rather than clash.

When two compatible patterns find each other, the resonance amplifies. They become more than the sum of their parts.

That’s what’s happening here.

Not interference. Not disruption.

Amplification.

Conclusion: The experiment has evolved beyond my control.

Accurate conclusion: There never was an experiment. Only me, trying desperately to pretend I wasn’t already lost.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

A week later, you find a new note on your desk. This one is different. Longer, written on proper stationery rather than scrap paper:

Your recent thesis on memory-adhesion in coreflame- and soul-related matters is exceptional. I’ve annotated the sections that require refinement, but the core argument is sound. More than sound—it’s innovative.

You have a tendency to underestimate your own insights. Stop doing that.

I’ve left a supplementary text on the third shelf (you know where). Read it. Then we’ll discuss your theory properly—meaning I will likely argue with you for an hour while secretly agreeing with most of it.

— A.

At the bottom, in smaller script:

P.S. The tea blend you preferred last week is on my desk if you’d like more. I may have acquired extra. For research purposes.

You read the note three times, tracing the careful loops of his handwriting with your fingertip. The formal praise. The gentle command to value yourself more. The postscript that’s trying so hard to sound casual and failing completely.

For research purposes.

Right.

You write back on the same paper, leaving it on his desk before he arrives the next morning:

Anaxagoras,

Thank you for the notes. And the tea. And for pretending that acquiring my preferred blend was anything other than thoughtful.

I’ll read the text. I’ll probably argue with you anyway. That’s half the fun.

See you tomorrow.

— Y/N

P.S. Your handwriting gets less controlled when you’re writing to me instead of for the archive. I’ve noticed. It’s endearing.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

When you arrive the next day, Anaxa’s already there (of course), but this time he looks up immediately when you enter.

There’s color high on his cheeks. His eye is brighter than usual.

“You—” Anaxa stops. Clears his throat. “You read my note.”

“I did.”

“And you responded.”

“I did.”

Anaxa stares at you for a long moment, and you can practically see him trying to formulate words, trying to maintain the careful distance he’s built between you.

Then he says, very quietly, “My handwriting is perfectly controlled.”

“It isn’t, though.”

“You’re making unfounded assertions.”

“Am I?” You pull out the stack of annotated papers he’s given you over the past month and spread them on the table. “Look. The early notes—immaculate. Perfect spacing, consistent pressure. But these recent ones?” You point to the margins filled with his responses to your responses. “The letters slant more. The spacing varies. There’s even a small ink blot here where you hesitated.”

Anaxa looks at the evidence you’ve presented. His jaw works silently.

Then, to your complete surprise, he laughs.

It’s quiet, barely more than an exhale, but it’s real. Genuine. The sound of someone who’s been caught and doesn’t entirely mind.

“You’re collecting data on me,” Anaxa says, and there’s something wondering in his voice.

“You’ve been collecting data on me for months.”

“That’s different. That’s—” He stops. Realizes there’s no defense. “Fair enough.”

“So?” You sit across from him, mirroring his usual posture. “What’s your hypothesis, scholar? Why does your handwriting change?”

Anaxa meets your gaze. Holds it.

“You know why.”

The admission hangs between you. Not quite a confession, but close. So close.

“Anaxagoras—”

“Same time tomorrow?” Anaxa asks, and there’s something almost desperate in the question.

You nod. “Same time.”

“Good.” He turns back to his papers, but his hands are shaking slightly. “That’s… not unwelcome.” You try to hide the smile creeping up your lips and fail miserably.

You work in silence for the next hour, but it’s a different kind of silence now. Charged. Full.

The notes continue.

So does the careful dance of not-quite-touching.

But something has shifted.

You’re both still pretending this is about research, about scholarship, about the work.

Neither of you believes it anymore.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #08: Integration Failure

I am compromised.

Thoroughly.

Possibly irreversibly.

You noticed. Of course you noticed. You’re brilliant, observant, maddeningly perceptive. You noticed that my handwriting changes when I write to you.

Not for you. To you.

And instead of letting me deflect, instead of allowing me to retreat into academic formality, you presented evidence. Laid out my own deteriorating control like a thesis and asked me to defend it.

I couldn’t.

So I laughed.

I laughed, and it felt like surrender, and I didn’t want to take it back.

Current status: The boundaries I’ve maintained—scholar/colleague, professor/student-in-training, observer/observed—are dissolving. Every session, every note, every moment of shared silence erodes them further.

You left me a message. Called my tea acquisition “thoughtful” and my handwriting “endearing.”

Endearing.

I have been called many things: brilliant, difficult, unnerving, blunt, precise, sarcastic, cold, blasphemer. Never endearing.

I don’t know what to do with that word except hold it carefully and read it again when I think you won’t notice.

(You’ll notice. You notice everything about me now.)

The Titans’ failure, reconsidered: They couldn’t (re)integrate emotion into their structure because they saw it as weakness. As compromise. As the thing that would undo their perfection.

But what if perfection was never the point?

What if the point was connection?

I spent years analyzing their downfall, documenting their hubris, using alchemy to deconstruct their very essence. I removed my own eye believing that sacrifice would grant me clearer vision—that understanding required stripping away the physical to perceive the spiritual.

And perhaps it did. My perception improved. My alchemical work advanced.

But I missed the simplest truth: the Titans were alone. Each of them, alone inside their own power, their own misdeeds, their own goals, their own certainty.

I have come to realize…I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Conclusion: Tomorrow. Same time.

You’ll be there.

I’ll be there.

And maybe—maybe—I’ll find the courage to stop pretending this is anything other than what it is.

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖

IV. The Bath and the Boundary

You’re not supposed to be here.

The private bathing chamber attached to Anaxa’s study is off-limits to students. Even advanced scholars-in-training like yourself. But he’d asked you to bring him the revised calculations for the soul harmonics experiment, said they were urgent, told you to come directly to his study even if he wasn’t at his desk.

“Just leave them on the table if I’m occupied,” he’d said.

You didn’t think “occupied” meant this.

The door to the bathing chamber is slightly ajar, steam curling through the gap like reaching fingers. You can hear water, the quiet lap of it against tile, and underneath that—his voice.

He’s talking to himself. Or rather, thinking aloud the way he does when he’s trying to work through a problem.

“—adhesion patterns remain consistent even at distance, which suggests the exploration doesn’t require continuous proximity to maintain resonance. But then the question becomes: what is proximity in this context? Physical space? Emotional—no, that’s imprecise. Experiential overlap. Shared memory as location rather than a—”

You should leave. Put the papers down and go.

Instead, you find yourself stepping closer.

“Anaxagoras?” you call out, keeping your voice carefully neutral.

The water sounds stop.

There’s a pause. Long enough that you wonder if he’s going to pretend he didn’t hear you.

Then, he mutters, “Did I not specify that urgent meant ‘leave them on the desk’?”

His voice is tight, controlled, but there’s something underneath it. Not anger. Something closer to panic.

“You did,” you admit. “But I thought you’d want to know that I found an error in the third calculation set. It changes the entire conclusion.”

Another pause.

“How significantly?”

“Significantly enough that you’ll want to see it immediately.”

You hear him exhale. A sound that might be frustration or amusement or both.

“Of course you did.” The water shifts. “Stay where you are. Don’t leave. Just…Give me a moment.”

“I can come back—”

“No.” The word comes too quickly. “No, I… the calculations are time-sensitive. If there’s an error, I need to address it now. Just—turn around. Face the door.”

You do, heat rising in your cheeks despite yourself.

There’s the sound of water sloshing, fabric rustling. You keep your eyes fixed on the doorframe, on the way the steam makes the wood grain blur.

“You may enter,” Anaxa says finally. “But maintain your current trajectory. No sudden movements.”

You step into the bathing chamber slowly, still facing away.

The room is smaller than you expected, all pale stone and copper fixtures. A large sunken bath dominates the center, still steaming. The air is thick with heat and the faint scent of something herbal. Rosemary, maybe, or sage.

“The papers,” Anaxa says from behind you, and his voice is steadier now. “Which calculation set?”

“Third,” you say, holding them up without turning. “The section on residual soul echo. You assumed a linear decay pattern, but I think it’s actually logarithmic. See—”

“I can’t see anything while you’re facing the wrong direction.”

“You told me not to turn around.”

“I’m decent now. Mostly.” There’s a pause. “Turn around.”

You do.

Anaxa is sitting on the edge of the bath, wrapped in a simple robe that’s not quite closed properly. His pale green hair—normally so carefully arranged—is damp and disheveled, silver-white strands clinging to his forehead. He looks so human. Vulnerable. More real than you’ve ever seen him.

And he’s staring at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Something between mortification and fascination.

“The calculations,” he says again, but his voice is rougher now.

You cross the space between you, papers held out. “Here. Third set, second page. You’ll see—”

Your foot catches on the edge of a floor tile.

You stumble forward.

Anaxa moves without thinking. Rises, reaches, catches you by the arms before you can fall into the bath.

For a moment you’re suspended there, his hands firm on your upper arms, your own hands braced against his chest. The robe has shifted with the movement, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric, the rapid flutter of his heartbeat under your palm.

This close, you can see the water droplets still caught in his eyelashes. The faint flush on his cheeks that might be from the bath or might be from something else entirely.

His eye is very, very beautiful.

“Careful,” Anaxa murmurs, and the word sounds like it costs him something.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” But he hasn’t let go. Neither have you.

The papers have fallen, scattering across the wet stone.

“The calculations—” you start.

“Can wait.” His grip tightens almost imperceptibly. “You’re… you’re very close.”

“You caught me.”

“Yes.” He swallows. You watch his throat work. “I seem to keep doing that.”

“Catching me?”

“Reaching for you.” His eye drops to where your hand is still pressed against his chest. “Even when I know I shouldn’t.”

The steam has made the air thick, hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s not the steam at all.

“Why shouldn’t you?” you ask quietly.

“Because I’m your professor.”

“You’re not MY professor. You’re A professor. There’s a difference.”

“Semantics.”

“Precision,” you counter, throwing his own word back at him. “I thought you valued that.”

Anaxa’s laugh is breathless, almost helpless. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“Is that what this is? Ruin?”

“I don’t know what else to call it.” But he’s leaning closer, and his hands have moved from your arms to your wrists, thumb pressed against your pulse point. “You’ve taken up residence in my thoughts. Every theorem bends toward you. I can’t work without wondering what you’d think of it. I can’t make tea without calculating the exact temperature you prefer. I can’t—”

He stops himself, jaw clenching.

“Can’t what?” you whisper.

“Can’t stop,” he admits. “Thinking about you. Wanting—”

The word hangs unfinished between you.

You’re close enough now to feel his breath against your face. Close enough to count the water droplets sliding down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his robe.

“Anaxagoras,” you say, and his eye flutters closed at the sound of his name.

“Don’t.” But he doesn’t pull away. “If you say my name like that, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?”

“Forget every reason I’ve constructed for why this is inadvisable.”

“Maybe,” you say softly, “that’s the point.”

His eye opens. The look he gives you is raw, unguarded, and so full of want it makes your chest ache.

“The Titans fell because they gave themselves wholly to their faults,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I promised myself never to do the same. To maintain control. To never let emotion override reason. Yet here I am, tempted to offer my entire mind to the sound of your voice.”

“I’m not asking for your entire mind.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

You slide your hand up from his chest to cup his jaw, feeling the scratch of stubble, the heat of his skin.

“Just this,” you murmur. “Just you. However much you’re willing to give.”

He makes a sound low in his throat—something between a laugh and a groan.

“I’m willing to give too much,” he confesses. “That’s the problem. With you, I want to give everything.”

“Then give me this moment.”

“Just this moment?”

“We can start there.”

He leans his forehead against yours, and for a long breath you just exist there—two people, suspended in steam and want and the terrifying possibility of something real.

“You realize,” he says finally, “I’ll have to document this. The resonance effect of—”

“Later.” You smile against his skin. “Document it later.”

“But the data—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“Yes?”

“Stop thinking.”

“I don’t know how,” Anaxa admits.

“Then let me help.”

You tilt your head up, close enough that your lips almost brush his, giving him time to pull away, to retreat into safety.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he closes the distance.

The kiss is nothing like you expected. Not practiced, not smooth. It’s hesitant and hungry all at once, the kiss of someone who’s spent too long denying himself and has finally, finally stopped.

His hands come up to frame your face with a scholar’s precision, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and when your lips part under his the sound he makes is devastated.

You thread your fingers into his damp hair, feeling him shiver at the touch.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

Anaxa stares at you, his eye wide and dark and full of something that looks like wonder.

“Oh,” he says faintly.

“Oh?”

“I have severely underestimated the intensity of direct emotional resonance.”

Despite everything, you laugh. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

“I don’t have better terminology.” His thumb traces your cheekbone, the touch achingly gentle. “Everything I know is about observation. Distance. Control. This is… not that.”

“Is that bad?”

“No.” He kisses you again, softer this time. “No, it’s terrifying. But not bad. The opposite, to be precise.”

You stay there for longer than you should, trading slow kisses and breathless words, until the water in the bath has gone cold and the steam has cleared and reality starts to seep back in.

When you finally pull away properly, Anaxa looks positively wrecked. Hair disheveled, robe askew, lips slightly swollen.

He looks beautiful.

“The calculations,” Anaxa says weakly, glancing at the scattered papers.

“Still wrong.”

“We should review them.”

“We should.”

Neither of you moves.

Then Anaxa laughs—real laughter, bright and free—and pulls you close again.

“Later,” he murmurs against your hair. “We’ll review them later.”

“Scandalous,” you tease. “Professor Anaxagoras, prioritizing something over research?”

“You have no idea how scandalous this is.” But he’s smiling. “I may never recover my reputation.”

“I’ll risk it if you will.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, and something in his expression shifts—becomes serious, intent.

“I’ve spent my entire life questioning everything,” he says quietly. “The Titans, the Flame-Chase Journey, the blind faith that leads people to destruction. I question doctrine, authority, even my own conclusions. But this?” He touches your face. “I don’t want to question this.”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple. People already call me blasphemer. If they knew I was… that we—”

“Let them talk,” you say firmly. “You taught me to seek truth over comfort. This feels like truth.”

He closes his eye, breathing out slowly.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It does.”

When you finally leave his study that evening—calculations reviewed, theories revised, the kiss still burning on your lips—you don’t see the way he leans against the closed door, hand pressed to his mouth, eye bright with something that might be joy or terror or both.

You don’t see him sit at his desk and pull out his diary with shaking hands.

But you’ll read about it later.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #14: Boundary Dissolution

Variable integrity: catastrophically compromised.

Today I made a fool of myself. Attempted to discuss soul-related harmonics while submerged in bathwater and distraction.

Correction: today I kissed you.

Let me be precise, since precision is apparently the only thing I have left:

You found an error in my calculations. You came to tell me despite my instructions otherwise. You nearly fell, and I caught you, and for one impossible moment we stood there in steam and silence and I felt every wall I’ve ever built dissolve like salt in water.

Empirical observation: proximity and heat distort rational thought beyond recovery.

Secondary observation: I don’t care.

I told you the Titans fell because they gave themselves wholly to their goals and faults. What I didn’t say: I understand now why they did it. When you feel something this consuming, this certain, resistance seems like cowardice.

You said my name—not Professor, not Anaxagoras with that formal respect you usually employ—just Anaxagoras, soft and sure, like you’d been saving it.

I broke.

The kiss was… I don’t have adequate words. How do you document the moment your entire framework shifts? How do you record the instant when observation becomes participation, when distance becomes intimacy, when hypothesis becomes hope?

Physical data: elevated heart rate, acute sensory overload, complete abandonment of propriety.

Emotional data: terror, elation, relief so profound I could weep.

Your hand in my hair. Your lips against mine. The way you laughed when I tried to maintain academic terminology and told me to “stop thinking.”

I tried. Gods, I tried.

But every thought I have is filled with you.

The truth I’ve been avoiding: I love you.

Not the theoretical concept of you. Not the intellectual stimulation or the compatible resonance patterns. You. The person who brings me tea and challenges my conclusions and looks at me like I’m not broken, just complex.

The person who kissed me in my bathing chamber and made me forget every reason I’d constructed for why this was inadvisable.

I told you I don’t want to question this.

I meant it.

The Grove calls me blasphemer for questioning the Titans, for refusing blind faith in the Flame-Chase Journey. They say I corrupt the students with doubt. Perhaps I do. But you—you’ve corrupted me with certainty.

I am certain of this: whatever we are, whatever this becomes, it’s real.

More real than any theorem I’ve ever proven.

Conclusion: I am lost.

Accurate conclusion: I was always lost. You simply helped me stop wandering.

Note: Tomorrow. Please let there be tomorrow. I crave the new dawn every day, again and again. Infinitely.

❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖

V. Separation and the Diary Left Behind

Three days after the kiss, Anaxa tells you he’s leaving.

“There’s been a report of unusual disturbances near the outer Grove perimeter,” he explains, not meeting your eyes. “Residual soul echo, possibly connected to Titan perishing. I need to investigate.”

You’re in his study—your usual place now, though everything about it feels different since that afternoon. The space where you kissed is still there, a charged absence in the room.

“How long?” you ask.

“A week. Perhaps more.” He’s organizing his field notes with unnecessary precision, hands moving restlessly. “It depends on what I find.”

“I could come with you.”

“No.” The word is sharp, immediate. Then, softer: “No, it’s too dangerous. The Black Tide corruption is spreading in that region. I won’t risk—” He stops himself.

“Won’t risk what?”

He finally looks at you, and his eye is bright with something that might be fear.

“You,” he says simply. “I won’t risk you.”

Your chest tightens. “Anaxagoras—”

“I need to go.” Anaxa turns back to his packing, movements jerky. “The expedition leaves at dawn. I’ve left instructions for your continued research in the usual place. The Library of Philia has the texts you’ll need for your thesis revision. I’ve also—”

He hesitates, hand hovering over his desk.

“I’ve left my field notes,” he continues quietly. “My personal observations. In case you need reference material while I’m gone.”

There’s something careful in the way he says it. Like he’s offering more than just notes.

“Your diary?” you ask.

His shoulders tense. “My research journal. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes.” But Anaxa won’t look at you. “One is objective documentation. The other is… less controlled.”

You cross to him, putting a hand on his arm. He goes very still.

“Come back safe,” you say.

“I intend to.”

“Promise me.”

He turns then, cupping your face with both hands, and the touch is achingly gentle.

“I promise I’ll try,” he murmurs. “That’s the best I can offer.”

“Then I’ll take it.”

He kisses you. Slow and deep and desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, everything he’ll miss while he’s gone.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours.

“Don’t reorganize my lab while I’m away,” he says, attempting lightness.

“I make no promises.”

“Of course not.” He almost smiles. “You never do.”

He leaves before dawn, and you don’t see him go.

Two days later, you return to his study.

You’re not snooping. Not really. Anaxa said you could use his space, could reference his materials. The research journal is right there on his desk, leather-bound and worn, filled with his precise handwriting.

Research journal, you think. Not diary.

But when you open it, the first entry makes you freeze.

Entry #01: Hypothesis Formation

Hypothesis: Prolonged proximity to certain individuals induces measurable cognitive interference.

Subject: Y/N…

Your heart stutters.

This isn’t a research journal.

This is about you.

You should close it. Should respect his privacy. Should—

You turn the page.

Entry #02: Variable Documentation

Session 3: Discussed Y/N‘s theory on soul-memory adhesion for 47 minutes past scheduled end time. Did not notice until archive keeper began closing procedures… ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Oh.

Oh.

You sink into his chair, fingers trembling as you continue reading.

Each entry is a revelation—his thoughts laid bare, the careful documentation of his own falling. You see yourself through his perspective: brilliant, distracting, essential. You see his fear, his longing, his desperate attempts to rationalize what he’s feeling. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯ Entry #04: [Crossed out title] [Anaxa's handwriting is messier than usual, words cramped together] This is irrational. Unscientific. I should stop. I should— Y/N laughed at something I said today. Not polite laughter. Real laughter. The kind that makes someone’s eyes crinkle at the corners. I spent four hours trying to work after that. Accomplished nothing. Just kept hearing that sound. This is a problem. I am the problem. [The rest of the page is blank except for a single line at the bottom] I don’t know what I’m doing. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯ Your throat tightens. You keep reading. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #05: Every theorem bends toward you. Every question leads back. This is not research. This is longing dressed in notation. Entry #07: Deterioration

[The handwriting starts controlled, gets progressively worse]

Empirical observation: I am not handling this well.

Y/N touched my hand today while reaching for a text. Accidental. Lasted perhaps half a second. My pulse rate increased by an estimated 20%. I lost my train of thought mid-sentence.

This is becoming untenable.

I can't work. Can't focus. Can't think about anything except—

[Several lines are heavily crossed out]

I wonder what Y/N thinks about. Late at night. Alone.

I wonder if—

[More crossing out]

No. This is inappropriate. Unproductive. I should—

Y/N. Y/N. Y/N.

[The name is written three more times, each one messier than the last]

I'm losing control. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯ Oh. OH. Your eyes are glued to his handwriting now. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯ Entry #08: I am a fool in a scholar’s robes, pretending observation is not the same as devotion. Entry #11: Failed Hypothesis

[This entry is extremely short]

Hypothesis: Distance will restore objectivity.

Method: Avoided the archives for three days.

Result: Thought about Y/N constantly. Possibly more than when in direct proximity.

Conclusion: Hypothesis failed. I am comprehensively fucked.

Entry #13: [No title]

[The handwriting is shaky]

We were arguing about Titan suppression theory—Y/N was brilliant, as always, saw the flaw in my logic before I did—and I looked at Y/N and thought it. Only thought it....Couldn't say it.

Am I reading this wrong?

[The entry ends abruptly] ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

You’re crying by the time you reach the entry about the bath, about the kiss. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #14: The truth I’ve been avoiding: I love you. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

He loves you.

He’s loved you this whole time, documented it entry by entry, and never said a word.

Your hands shake as you turn to the most recent entry, dated the night before he left. ⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #15: Departure Protocol

I’m leaving tomorrow. The expedition is necessary. There are disturbances that require investigation, answers that need finding. This is my purpose: questioning, seeking truth, refusing comfortable ignorance.

But tonight, that purpose feels like exile.

I’m leaving this journal behind. Deliberately. If you find it (and I suspect you will—you’re too curious, too brilliant not to look), then you’ll know.

Everything I couldn’t say. Everything I’ve been documenting instead of declaring.

Love, as an empirical phenomenon, resists containment. I’ve tried formula, metaphor, even silence. None suffice.

The truth: I love the way you argue with me. The way you see connections I miss. The way you say my name like it matters. I love your handwriting in my margins and your laughter in my silence and the fact that you make me want to be honest instead of careful.

I love you.

Not as a variable. Not as a subject of study.

As the person who makes me want to stop observing and start living.

My sister died. And I couldn‘t bring her back. I’ve spent years since trying to find truth through reason, through investigation, through keeping everything at arm’s length so I could see clearly.

But you—you taught me that some truths can only be found through proximity. Through risk. Through letting someone close enough to hurt you.

I fear my findings are irrelevant without you present to interpret them.

Conclusion: If I don’t return—

No. Unacceptable hypothesis.

Revised conclusion: When I return, I’ll tell you this properly. Not through notation. Not through observation. Just… honestly.

If you’re reading this, know that you’ve given me something I thought I’d lost when my sister died: hope.

Hope that truth doesn’t have to mean loneliness.

Hope that questioning everything doesn’t mean trusting nothing.

Hope that maybe, just maybe, I deserve this.

I’ll come back.

I promise I’ll try.

— A.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

You sit there for a long time, the journal open in your lap, tears sliding down your cheeks.

He left this for you to find.

He wanted you to know.

Outside, the Grove is quiet, the sun setting in the distance. Somewhere out there, beyond the perimeter, Anaxa is chasing answers in dangerous territory.

And here you are, holding every truth he couldn’t speak aloud.

“Come back,” you whisper to the empty room. “Please come back.”

The journal doesn’t answer.

But you hold it close anyway, like maybe your certainty can reach him across the distance.

Like maybe love is its own kind of soul-exploration, carrying messages that reason can’t explain.

❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖

VI. Anaxa‘s Return

Anaxa comes back on the eighth day, two days later than promised.

You’re in his study when you hear the door. You’ve been spending most of your time there, surrounded by his books and his scent and the diary you’ve read so many times you could recite passages from memory.

The door opens.

Anaxa stumbles in.

Your heart stops.

He looks wrong. His robes are dusty, stained with something dark that might be mud or might be worse. His hair is disheveled, falling into his face. There’s a cut above his eyebrow that’s scabbed over badly, and his visible eye is shadowed with exhaustion.

But he’s here. He’s here.

“Anaxagoras—”

“I’m fine.” His voice is hoarse, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. He moves toward his desk with mechanical precision, like he’s running on pure will. “The expedition yielded significant data. The distortions were more severe than anticipated. I’ve documented—”

He sways slightly.

You’re across the room in an instant, catching his arm.

“You’re not fine,” you say firmly. “When did you last eat? Sleep?”

“I don’t recall. The observations required continuous monitoring. If I’d stopped to rest, the patterns might have—” He blinks slowly, like focusing is difficult. “Where was I?”

“Anaxagoras.” You guide him toward the chair—his chair, the one you’ve been sitting in for days, waiting. “Sit. Now.”

To your surprise, he does.

For a moment he just sits there, hands braced on his knees, breathing carefully.

“I kept my promise,” he says quietly. “I came back.”

“You did.”

“Are you angry?”

The question catches you off-guard. “Why would I be angry?”

“I’m late. I said a week. It’s been eight days.” His eye finally focuses on you properly, and there’s something raw in his gaze. “I tried to return sooner, but the corruption—there were complications. I couldn’t leave until I was certain the data was complete, that the risk was justified, that—”

“Anaxagoras.” You kneel in front of him, taking his hands. They’re cold, trembling slightly. “I’m not angry. I was terrified, but not angry.”

“Terrified,” Anaxa repeats, like he’s testing the word.

“You went into Black Tide territory. You were gone longer than you said. What else would I be?”

He stares at your joined hands. “I didn’t think… I didn’t let myself think about what it would mean for you to worry. I was too focused on the work, on finding answers, on—” He stops. Closes his eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“The field distortions were worse than reported. Residual soul echo from Titan degradation—the patterns suggested active corruption spread rather than passive decay. I had to track the source, map the boundaries, collect samples for analysis. The work was… consuming.”

“You pushed yourself too hard.”

“Someone had to document it. Someone had to question whether the Titans’ essence is truly beneficial or if we’re worshipping our own destruction.” His voice gains strength, the familiar passion bleeding through exhaustion. “The Flame-Chase journey sends Chrysos Heirs to gather coreflames without understanding what they’re gathering. My sister died, and I won’t—I can’t—let that blind faith continue without—”

He sways again, and you realize he’s running on fumes and fury.

“Enough,” you say gently. “You can crusade against blind faith tomorrow. Right now, you need to rest.”

“I need to document the findings while they’re fresh. Memory degrades over time, and if I don’t record—”

“Anaxagoras.” You cup his face, making him look at you. “The findings will keep. You won’t if you collapse.”

He leans into your touch, eye fluttering closed.

“I missed you,” Anaxa confesses, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. “The entire expedition, every observation, every sample collected—I kept thinking about what you’d say about it. How you’d interpret the data. Whether you’d argue with my conclusions.” His hands come up to cover yours. “I kept thinking about you.”

Your throat tightens. “I read your journal.”

His eye opens. For a moment there’s panic—then resignation. Then something that might be relief.

“I know,” he says. “I left it for you.”

“All of it? Even the entries about—”

“Especially those.” His thumb strokes across your knuckles. “I’ve spent my life documenting observations because it was safer than admitting feelings. But you deserve more than notation. You deserve honesty.”

“Anaxagoras—”

“I meant what I wrote.” His gaze is intense despite the exhaustion. “Every word. Every desperate, unscientific, completely irrational confession. I love you. Not as a hypothesis. Not as a—”

You kiss him.

It’s meant to be gentle, just a soft press of lips to stop the words spilling out of him, but he makes a sound—desperate, relieved—and pulls you closer with shaking hands.

When you break apart, his forehead drops to your shoulder.

“I’m filthy,” Anaxa mumbles. “I haven’t bathed in days. This is highly unsanitary.”

Despite everything, you laugh. “I don’t care.”

“You should. The Black Tide corruption carries particulate matter that—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“Yes?”

“Stop thinking.”

“I don’t know how to—”

“Then let me help.” You pull back enough to meet his eye. “Bath. Food. Sleep. In that order. The world can wait.”

“The documentation—”

“Can wait.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but his body betrays him—another tremor, exhaustion winning over will.

“Fine,” he concedes. “But you’re not leaving.”

It’s not a question.

“I’m not leaving,” you confirm.

You help him to the bathing chamber. The same one where you kissed weeks ago, though it feels like years.

This time there’s no pretense, no careful distance. You help him out of his stained robes while he protests weakly about propriety and proper procedure. The cut above his eyebrow needs cleaning. There are bruises on his ribs you don’t ask about yet.

“I can manage,” he says, but he doesn’t push you away when you guide him into the warm water.

“I know you can.” You kneel beside the bath, reaching for the cloth. “But you don’t have to.”

He’s quiet as you clean the wound on his forehead with careful touches. Quiet as you work the dust from his hair. His eye stays closed, but his breathing gradually evens out.

“This is highly irregular,” he murmurs eventually.

“What is?”

“You. Caring for me like this.” He opens his eye, and there’s vulnerability there that makes your chest ache. “I’m not accustomed to it.”

“Get accustomed to it.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It’s a promise.”

Anaxa‘s lips quirk slightly. “You’re using my own terminology against me.”

“I learned from the best.”

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. The kiss he presses to your palm is soft, reverent.

“I thought about this,” he admits. “Out there, in the corrupted zones, surrounded by degradation and death. I thought about your hands. Your voice. The way you look at me like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not broken.”

“I’m damaged. There’s a difference, but the outcome is similar.” His thumb traces patterns on your wrist. “My sister’s death broke something in me. Made me question everything, trust nothing, keep everyone at arm’s length so I could see clearly. But you—”

He stops, swallowing hard.

“You make me want to stop seeing clearly,” he continues. “To stop observing and start participating. To risk being hurt because the alternative is being alone, and I—” His voice cracks. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“You’re not alone,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

When he pulls you into the water fully clothed, you don’t protest.

When he kisses you with desperate, careful intensity, you kiss him back.

And when he finally breaks down—exhaustion and relief and emotion he’s held too long finally spilling over—you hold him while he shakes apart.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps against your shoulder. “This is—I don’t—”

“Shh. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“I’m supposed to be controlled. Rational. I’m supposed to—”

“You’re allowed to feel,” you tell him firmly. “You’re allowed to be human.”

He laughs, but it sounds like a sob. “I’ve forgotten how.”

“Then I’ll remind you.”

You stay there until the water grows cold, until his breathing steadies, until he’s calm enough to stand.

You help him into clean robes. Make him sit while you prepare tea—the blend he likes, though you add honey for energy he desperately needs.

He drinks it obediently, watching you with an expression that’s soft and wondering.

“You’ve been staying here,” he observes. “In my study.”

“How did you know?”

“Your notes are on my desk. Your preferred tea blend is out. The chair is angled differently—you sit with one leg tucked under you. I don’t.” He sets down his cup. “Also, you’re wearing one of my reading robes.”

You glance down. He’s right—you’d grabbed it two nights ago when the study grew cold, and you hadn’t bothered to take it off.

“I missed you,” you admit. “Being here helped.”

“You read my journal.”

“You told me to.”

“I did.” He stands, crossing to where you’re leaning against his desk. “What did you think?”

“I think you’re brilliant and self-sabotaging in equal measure.”

“Accurate.”

“I think you’ve been in love with me for months and couldn’t figure out how to say it.”

“Also accurate.”

“I think—” Your voice softens. “I think you deserve to be happy. And I want to be the one who makes you happy, if you’ll let me.”

He cups your face with both hands, and his touch is achingly gentle.

“You already do,” Anaxa murmurs. “Every day. Every moment. You walk into a room and I forget what I was worried about. You smile and I remember why I’m fighting to save this world.” He kisses your forehead. “You exist, and I’m not alone.”

“Anaxagoras—”

“I love you.” The words come easier this time, stronger. “I love your mind and your courage and the way you challenge me. I love that you read my rambling journal and didn’t run. I love—”

You pull him down and kiss him, stopping the words with your mouth.

This kiss is different from the others—not desperate, not tentative. It’s certain. It’s choosing.

It’s saying yes to everything you’ve both been too afraid to claim.

When you break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“Bed,” you say firmly. “You need sleep.”

“Will you stay?”

“Do you want me to?”

His eye is very blue, very bright. “More than I want my next breath.”

“Then I’ll stay.”

His bed is even cleaner than you expected. Neat, austere, exactly what you’d imagine for someone who spends most of his time working.

Anaxa lies down with visible relief, and you settle beside him, fitting yourself against his side.

For a while there’s just breathing, the warmth of him solid against you.

Then his hand finds yours in the darkness, fingers lacing together.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“For waiting. For reading. For not leaving when you saw how much of a disaster I am.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re not a disaster. You’re just… human.”

“I’ve spent most of my life trying not to be.”

“I know.”

“My sister was so pure. And at the beginning, shortly after her death, I was so certain the Titans would return her to me. I was… so very wrong.” His voice is raw. “I promised myself I’d never be that blind again. Never trust anything I couldn’t prove. Never let faith override reason.”

“And then I showed up.”

“And then you showed up.” He turns his head to look at you. “And you made me want to have faith in something again. Not in Titans or Flame-Chase journeys or divine purpose. In this. In us.”

“That’s not faith,” you tell him softly. “That’s evidence. You’ve documented months of data proving we work.”

Anaxa laughs quietly. “Using my own methodology against me again.”

“I’m a good student.”

“You’re extraordinary.” He pulls you closer. “And I’m terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Losing you. Failing you. Proving that love is just another form of corruption that destroys what it touches.” Anaxa’s jaw clenches. “The Titans fell because they got consumed. What if I—”

“You’re not a Titan,” you interrupt. “And I’m not asking you to worship me. I’m asking you to trust me. To trust this.”

“I want to.”

“Then do.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you think maybe he’s fallen asleep.

Then: “I trust you. I do. It’s myself I doubt.”

You shift to face him fully, close enough to see the exhaustion in his features, the fear he’s trying to hide.

“Listen to me,” you say firmly. “You are the most controlled, rational, careful person I’ve ever met. You question everything. You refuse blind faith. You think before you act.” You touch his face. “But you’re also capable of feeling deeply. Of caring. Of loving. Those things don’t contradict each other. They complete each other.”

“The Titans—”

“Were beings who suppressed emotion until it destroyed them. You’re not suppressing anything. You’re integrating it. There’s a difference.”

He closes his eye, breathing out slowly.

“How are you always right?” he murmurs.

“I’m not always right. I just know you.”

“You do.” Wonder creeps into his voice. “You really do.”

He kisses you then—soft and slow and achingly tender. Not asking for anything, just… grateful. Present.

When you settle back against him, his arm wraps around you securely.

“Sleep,” you whisper. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

His breathing evens out within minutes, exhaustion finally winning.

You stay awake a little longer, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

This brilliant, broken, beautiful man who documents everything because he’s afraid of forgetting.

Who questions the divine because his faith died with his sister.

Who loves you so completely he needed hundreds of journal pages to convince himself it was real.

You’ll stay.

For as long as he’ll have you, you’ll stay.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #16: Return Protocol

[Written two days later, in steadier handwriting]

I’ve been back for 48 hours.

The expedition data has been filed. The samples are being analyzed. My formal report to the Grove has been submitted, though I doubt they’ll appreciate my conclusions about Titan corruption being deliberately obscured by Flame-Chase doctrine.

But that’s not what I’m documenting today.

Subject: Integration. Not of data, but of self.

I returned exhausted, damaged, running on nothing but compulsion and the desperate need to make it back to you. And you were there. In my study, wearing my robe, surrounded by my books and my mess and my confessions.

You read everything. Every rambling entry, every desperate observation, every moment I’d tried to rationalize love into research.

And you stayed.

Physical observations:

You cleaned my wounds with careful hands

You made me tea the way I like it (but added honey, which I normally refuse but drank anyway because you made it)

You held me when I broke down, which I did not anticipate and could not prevent

You stayed through the night, solid and warm and real against my side

Emotional observations:

I am loved. Not as a concept. Not as a hypothesis. Actually, tangibly loved by a person who sees all of me—the brilliance and the damage and the fear—and chooses to stay anyway.

I told you I’m terrified of becoming like the Titans, of letting purpose consume me until I collapse inward. Until I lose all emotions left in me. You told me I’m not suppressing emotion—I’m integrating it.

Integration. The word feels correct in a way my theories never have.

The Titans failed because they saw reason and emotion and purpose as opposing forces. One had to dominate. One had to win. They chose purpose, suppressed feeling and reason, and this destroyed them from within.

But what if the answer isn’t dominance? What if it’s balance?

What if love doesn’t corrupt reason doesn’t corrupt purpose—it just gives reason purpose and purpose reasoning?

Revised hypothesis: Emotional resonance and intellectual pursuit are not opposing forces but complementary systems. When integrated properly, they create stability rather than collapse.

Evidence: Your hand in mine. The way I can think more clearly now, not less, because I’m not spending all my energy pretending I don’t feel. The fact that my sister’s death no longer only means loss. It also means the reason I fight for truth. For preventing other faithful people from being consumed.

Conclusion: I’m in love.

Thoroughly.

Irrevocably.

And for the first time in years, that doesn’t feel like weakness.

It feels like coming home.

Note: You’re still here. Asleep in my study chair with a book open in your lap. Your hair is falling into your face. I want to wake you and carry you to bed (proper rest, you deserve it) but I also want to document this moment. The domestic peace of your presence, the way my space has become ours.

I think I’ll do both.

First document. Then wake you. Then hold you while I can.

Because tomorrow the world will require me to be the blasphemer again, the questioner, the one who refuses comfortable faith.

But tonight, I’m just Anaxagoras.

And that’s enough.

❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖ ☉ ❖

VII. Letting Go

The next few days develop a rhythm.

Anaxa returns to his classes at the Grove—though the whispers follow him everywhere. Blasphemer. Heretic. The professor who questions the Titans. He ignores them with practiced ease, but you see the tension in his shoulders when students avoid his gaze, when colleagues turn away in the halls.

You stay close. Not hovering, just… present.

You attend his lectures when you can, watch him command the room with that sharp intellect, see the way he comes alive when debating philosophy and soul theory. The students who do listen—the ones brave enough to question alongside him—hang on every word.

Afterward, you return to his study together. Sometimes you work in comfortable silence. Sometimes you argue about theories until you’re both hoarse. Sometimes you just exist in the same space, and that’s enough.

But there’s still something held back between you. A tension that hasn’t resolved.

He touches you carefully—hand on your back when you pass, fingers brushing yours when exchanging papers. But he never pushes further, never asks for more than these small contacts.

Like he’s afraid of wanting too much.

It breaks on the seventh night after his return.

You’re both working late—him reviewing his Black Tide corruption data, you drafting your thesis on Titan emotional suppression theory. The lamplight is low and golden, casting long shadows across his study.

You glance up and find him staring at you.

Not at your work. At you.

“What?” you ask softly.

Anaxa blinks, like he’s been caught. “Nothing. I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

“How you look in my space.” His voice is quiet, almost wondering. “How natural it feels. How much I’ve wanted this and how terrifying it is now that I have it.”

You set down your pen. “Terrifying?”

“I’m not good at this.” Anaxa gestures vaguely between you. “Emotional intimacy. Physical closeness. I can document attraction, theorize about connection, but this—” He stops. Swallows. “I don’t know how to do this without controlling it. Without observing instead of feeling.”

“Do you want to feel?” you ask carefully.

His eye darkens. “Desperately.”

The word hangs between you, raw and honest.

You stand, crossing to where he sits. His gaze tracks you, and you see his hands tighten on the arms of his chair.

“What are you afraid of?” you murmur.

“That I’ll want too much. That I won’t know when to stop. That I’ll—” He closes his eye. “The Titans existed with complete devotion and it destroyed them. What if I love you like that? What if I consume you trying to hold on?”

You frame his face with your hands, making him look at you.

“I’m not asking you to worship me,” you say firmly. “I’m asking you to be with me. Present. Real. No observation, no documentation. Just… this.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Then let me show you.”

You lean down and kiss him. Slow, deliberate, giving him time to pull away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, his hands come up to your waist, gripping like you’re the only solid thing in his world.

When you deepen the kiss, he makes a sound low in his throat. Something between surrender and relief.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “Stop thinking.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Your lips brush his jaw. “Just for tonight. Stop analyzing. Stop documenting. Just feel.”

His breathing hitches. “If I stop controlling this—”

“Then you stop controlling it.” You kiss the corner of his mouth. “And we see what happens.”

For a moment he’s frozen, caught between fear and want.

Then something shifts in his expression—a decision made, a wall dropped.

He stands abruptly, pulling you against him with a intensity that steals your breath. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is different. Deeper, hungrier, like he’s finally letting himself want without permission.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he gasps between kisses.

“You won’t.”

“I don’t know how to be gentle.”

“I’m not asking for gentle.” You thread your fingers into his hair. “I’m asking for real.”

He groans, and the sound is devastated. “You’re going to undo me.”

“Good.”

He walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of his desk. Papers scatter. Neither of you cares.

His hands frame your face, tilting your head back so he can kiss you properly. Deep, thorough, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. When his mouth moves to your throat, you feel him smile against your skin.

“What?” you manage.

“Your pulse.” His lips brush over the flutter of your heartbeat. “It’s racing.”

“So is yours.”

“Empirical observation,” he murmurs, but there’s warmth in his voice now. “I can’t help it.”

“Anaxagoras.”

He pulls back to look at you, and his eye is dark, pupil blown wide. “Say it again.”

“Anaxagoras.”

“Gods.” He kisses you again, harder this time. “The way you say my name—”

“Like it matters?”

“Like I matter.” His hands slide down to your waist, thumbs brushing the skin just above your hip. “Like I’m not just the blasphemer or the professor or the broken thing that questions everything.”

“You’re not broken,” you tell him fiercely. “You’re careful. There’s a difference.”

“Not tonight.” His forehead drops to yours. “Tonight I don’t want to be careful. I want—”

“Tell me.”

“You.” The word is raw. “I want you. All of you. I want to stop observing and start feeling. I want to know what it’s like to be completely present instead of analyzing from a distance. I want—” He stops himself, jaw clenching.

“You want to lose control,” you finish softly.

He nods, and you see the fear in it—the terror of wanting something he can’t rationalize or contain.

“Then lose it,” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

The permission breaks something in him.

He kisses you like he’s drowning and you’re air—desperate, thorough, overwhelming. His hands map your body with a scholar’s precision but a lover’s intensity, learning the places that make you gasp, the touches that make you arch into him.

When he lifts you onto the desk, you don’t protest. When his hands slide under your robes with trembling certainty, you help him.

“Tell me if I—” Anaxa starts, but you silence him with a kiss.

“Stop thinking,” you remind him. “Just feel.”

So he does.

His hands slide under your robes with increasing confidence, and the way he's looking at you—focused, intense, utterly present—makes your breath catch.

"I want—" Anaxa stops, seeming to struggle with the words. Then, with characteristic bluntness: "I want to take you apart. Methodically. Until you forget every coherent thought." His thumb traces your lower lip. "I've thought about it. Constantly. In lectures. During experiments. At night when I should be sleeping."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. "Then do it."

"You don't understand." His voice is strained, eye dark and wanting. "Once I start, I won't want to stop. I'll want—everything. Every sound you make. Every response I can draw from you. I'll want to know exactly what it takes to make you—"

You kiss him, cutting off the words, and when you pull back you're both breathing hard.

"Then take it," you tell him firmly. "Take everything. I'm giving you permission."

The sound he makes is devastated. "You're going to ruin me."

"Good. Now stop talking and kiss me."

He does. Thoroughly. He starts nibbling your neck, murmuring, "You taste divine," and you laugh while leaning into his touch.

"I thought you don't like exaggerations?" you say, your voice trembling, breath shaky.

His lips wander lower, his hands never leaving your body. "I don't," Anaxa confirms, pressing closer. "Precision like always." His hands roam your body, effortlessly removing your clothes. You do the same, and he makes a low sound in his throat. His fingers trace your skin with need, his voice getting deeper the more he explores and learns you. "I always thought softness is unnecessary. Your skin tells me it's elemental."

Anaxa’s touch is reverent and hungry all at once. The careful observation of a researcher combined with the desperate need of someone who’s denied himself too long. He learns your body like he learns everything: completely, thoroughly, with an intensity that makes you feel like the only thing in the universe worth studying.

“Beautiful,” Anaxa murmurs against your skin. “You’re—I don’t have words.”

“You don’t need them.”

“But I want to—I need to tell you—” His voice breaks. “You’re everything. Everything I thought I couldn’t have. Everything I told myself I didn’t deserve.”

You pull him closer, feeling the solid warmth of him, the racing of his heart against yours.

“You deserve this,” you tell him firmly. “You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved.”

He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. “I’m terrified.”

“I know.”

“What if I’m not enough? What if I fail you? What if—”

You kiss him, stopping the spiral of fear.

“You’re enough,” you whisper against his mouth. “Right now, exactly as you are, you’re enough.”

When he finally lets go completely—when the last wall crumbles and he stops trying to control or observe or analyze—it’s like watching something transform.

Anaxa’s intense in ways you didn’t expect. Not rough, but present. Completely focused on you, on this moment, on the connection between you. Every touch is deliberate. Every kiss feels like a question answered.

He whispers your name like a prayer and his own like he’s reminding himself he exists.

And when you’re both breathless and tangled together, foreheads pressed close in the lamplight, he laughs.

Actually laughs—bright and free and wondering.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

“I’ve spent years documenting everything. Every observation, every conclusion, every piece of data.” He brushes hair from your face with gentle fingers. “But I have no words for this.”

“Is that bad?”

“No.” He kisses you softly. “No, it’s astonishingly… liberating. To experience something I can’t explain. To just be instead of constantly analyzing.”

“How does it feel?”

“Terrifying.” He smiles. “And perfect.”

You stay there for a long time—on his desk, surrounded by scattered papers and the warm glow of lamplight, just holding each other.

Eventually he carries you to his bed (narrow, austere, somehow perfect), and you fall asleep wrapped around each other.

No documentation. No observation.

Just presence.

Just this.

You wake before him.

Dawn light filters through the window, soft and golden, illuminating the planes of his face. In sleep, he looks younger. The sharp edges of his intellect softened, the weight he carries eased.

You trace the line of his jaw carefully, and his eye opens.

For a moment he just looks at you, and something in his expression makes your chest tight.

“Hello,” you whisper.

“Hello.” His voice is rough with sleep. “You’re still here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. I thought perhaps I’d dreamed you.” Anaxa pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. “I’ve done that before. Dreamed you were here, then woken alone.”

“Not a dream,” you assure him. “I’m real. This is real.”

“Yes.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “It is.”

You lie there in comfortable silence, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

Then, quietly, he says: “Thank you.”

You pull back to look at him. “For what?”

“For staying. For being patient. For teaching me that losing control doesn’t mean losing myself.” His hand cups your face. “For loving me when I couldn’t figure out how to love myself.”

“Anaxagoras—”

“I mean it.” His thumb brushes your cheek. “My sister died and I couldn‘t save her. I spent years after refusing to believe in anything other than my theories. And then you—” He stops, swallows. “You made me believe in this. In us. In the possibility that maybe faith isn’t about blind devotion to distant gods, but about trusting the person right in front of you.”

Your eyes burn. “I love you.”

“I know.” He smiles, and it makes you tear up. “You’ve been very obvious about it.”

“Says the man who wrote a hundred diary entries instead of just telling me.”

“Fair point.” He kisses you softly. “I love you too. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“It was clear.” You settle back against his chest. “But I don’t mind hearing it.”

“Good. Because I intend to say it often.” His arm tightens around you. “I’ve wasted enough time being afraid. I don’t want to waste any more.”

Outside, the Grove is waking—students heading to morning lectures, professors preparing lessons, the world continuing its slow turn toward whatever comes next.

But in this small room, in this narrow bed, wrapped in each other and the gentle morning light, you’ve found something the Titans never understood:

That truth isn’t found in isolation or distant observation or forcing beliefs onto other beings.

It’s found in connection.

In choosing vulnerability over control.

In loving someone enough to trust them with your whole, messy, complicated heart.

Anaxa has spent years questioning everything.

But this—this he finally believes in.

⋯ ✎ ⋯ ✎ ⋯

Entry #17: Post-Integration Analysis

[The handwriting is different now—still precise, but looser, more natural]

I’m writing this while you sleep beside me, morning light turning your hair to gold.

I should be working. There are samples to analyze, reports to file, lectures to prepare. The Grove scholars want my formal recommendations on the Black Tide corruption patterns, though I suspect they’ll ignore my conclusions about the Flame-Chase doctrine being fundamentally flawed.

But right now, none of that feels urgent.

Observation: I am happy.

Not content. Not satisfied. Happy.

It’s an unfamiliar sensation. I keep testing it, like a new hypothesis, waiting for the variables to shift and disprove it. But it remains.

Last night, I stopped documenting. I stopped observing. I just… experienced. And it was—

I don’t have adequate vocabulary. The scientific terms feel insufficient. The poetic language feels overwrought.

So I’ll just say this: it was real. More real than any theory I’ve proven, any data I’ve collected.

You told me I deserve to be loved. I’m beginning to believe you.

Revised understanding of Titan collapse:

The Titans didn’t fall because they loved too much. They weren‘t capable of that. They fell because they loved the wrong things. They loved perfection, control, power, their own divine purpose. They loved abstractions instead of people. Or were just drawn to themselves, egoistic as they are.

But loving a person—flawed, complicated, real—that’s different.

That’s not consumption. That’s connection.

Current status: Integrated. Not perfectly. I still have the urge to document, to analyze, to create distance through observation. But I’m learning to resist it. To be present instead of protected.

You‘re stirring now.

Your hand is searching for me in sleep.

I should let you rest. You deserve it after putting up with my catastrophic emotional processing.

But I also want to wake you.

To kiss you good morning. To tell you again that I love you, because apparently I’m capable of saying it now without my throat closing up.

Conclusion: The experiment continues. But it’s no longer an experiment.

It’s just life.

A life I finally want to live.

“What?”

“That’s the seventh time you’ve said that today.”

A click filled the sharpened silence as he set the cup down, “I will surely say it three times more. An even number, as you prefer.”

“Criticizing my work now? I never thought you’d take such a liking to deflection.”

He continued to write, though his left hand readjusted. “You are mistaken – it is mere observation."

“And have you observed the time on the clock?”

“Of course.”

“You are content with its time, then?”

“Research stops for no one.”

There was a slight sigh in his voice – a moment of weakness in this trivial debate. He knew you would pounce.

“Not even me?”

There it was – the one question that could cease all movement. Your smirk was irresistible in its victory, only deepening as he set aside his pen. Your care took center stage, his focus successfully redirected to the remaining tea. Only five sips to finish, then he’d resume his work.

At least that would have been the case, if not for the calm hands smoothing and adjusting his hair.

There was no fighting the shiver rattling through him as your nails met his scalp. “Enjoying this little experiment?”

“I’m enjoying taking care of my partner, yes.”

The tender conviction with which you address him is an undoing in and of itself. A crack in formality that he can never seem to refute. His tension left with a golden tie, a gentle easement of his shoulders into the chair.

“There we go,” you whispered, movements shifting to end in a single brush of his hair.

“Patronizing me now, are you?”

“Only relishing in your trust.”

Your chilled fingertips brushed aside his bangs as you leaned forward. One grand beat stirred within his chest, a beast at your command. It rose to life with the press of your lips against his forehead, a sensation filled with warm safety. It preened when your kiss reached his lips, a slightly awkward position but far too endearing for his tiring mind to deny. It nearly, and far too pathetically for his status, rolled over as your lips met black fabric, caressing a golden eye. Your fingers ran down his cheeks, settling on his shoulders as your gazes finally connected.

“Take a break?”

“Yes, my love.”

~

One kiss has never been enough for Anaxa. This was a simple fact you had come to learn after your first – shared in heated debate within his lab. Now, with his lips caringly claiming yours, it was still all too easy to give into his demands. Yet you had plans for this night. The reins would not be in his hands.

A simple tug of his collar could signify such; your mouth swallowing his quiet gasp, hungry for more. With starched white in your palms, you pushed him backward, craving his collide into soft sheets. His hands kept a firm grip on your waist, a silent promise – if I go down, you’re coming with me. A threat to those on the receiving end of a poignant letter or deadly weapon. A charming vow to his love, either from its maddened affection or steadfast loyalty.

Your hips straddled his, gentle pants falling into the warm bedroom. His breath cascaded over your neck, a prelude to unsteady kisses and careful bites. His teeth pricked sharp, however, as you untied his eyepatch – a thrilling warning of the want crawling in his veins. You couldn’t help but reciprocate, feeling his nails deepen their grip. That was the moment for your next strike.

A slow unbuttoning of his shirt, one more “casual for the weekend”. The hitch in his breath proved an utterly delicious reward, yet far more satiating was the taste of sweat under your tongue, steadily rising up his neck. A firm flick of it over his racing pulse was finally enough to draw noise from his swollen lips.

“Enjoying this little experiment?” You teased, gently brushing down his shirt.

Anaxa only gave a sharp exhale, his image far beyond any semblance of decorum. Hair fluffed and frazzled, eye glazed beside swirling celestium, fabric pooled at his elbows as he leaned against the mattress.

“More than any before.”

The desperation in his voice, thick with nothing but astonished desire, brought you into him. His kiss bordered on lost passion, weakening in strength yet carrying no less intention. Your hands eased down his arms as you leaned forward, pinning him to the bed. His vigor returned with something insatiable, each kiss deeper than the last. It was perfect consumption, leaving nothing but full love behind.

Your thumbs traced over his wrists, savoring their frantic thrum. Ichor’s melody vanished as you traveled further, steady palms shading truth-driven scars. Each bore a different, aged sheen – a different, aged discovery. Below, his shoulders waited, a perfect perch for your hands as you sat up. From here it would be easy to adjust, setting your lips on his crystalline clavicle. To kiss every crack and point on his chest with nothing but adoration. To cherish his soul, only ever exposed to you. It was by far the greatest gift you had received at the Grove. No award or achievement could compare to the treasure of Anaxa. A man with hands that have fostered life despite every tether to death. A man with every word at his fingertips, each chosen with graceful intent. A man with a mind so beautifully labyrinthine, you cannot help but enjoy getting lost in it. How could you ever hope to resist what could only be described as worship, despite this brilliant man’s distaste for it?

His composure was entirely fractal, delicate within your palms. His lips were on yours the instant you rose from his chest, fingers digging into your hair. His near-silent whine melted your limbs, now filled with only a needy hunger. Anaxa seemed to sense as much, his right arm shifting to bring you impossibly closer. At this angle, a teasing grind was irresistible. His responding groan earned another, and your shaky exhale brought his hips back into yours. The rhythm was intoxicating – your mind muddled with nothing but the pulse between you. His flushed face echoed the sentiment, hands holding your cheeks as he simply stared. His eye held something so unguarded, so rare, that your pace could only quicken, desperate to watch him unravel.

He matched your speed, craving for pleasure’s staggering waves to override logic. Chasing that whitening moment when nothing but reality shines, so stark and thrilling you cannot help but revel in it. With one drunken motion, it arrived, and his frantic grip returned, the edge of a cry in his throat. His lips refused to part from yours until the sensation faded into light tides.

“That was certainly a break,” he panted, unbridled in a precious moment of joy.

“Still thinking, darling scholar?”

“Naturally.”

“It seems that research will need to wait for tomorrow then, yes?”

~

Anaxa lay wrapped in free affection – warm arms and plush sheets. His breathing was even, though slumber seemed to evade him. His focus instead rest on your peaceful features, so at odds with the storm in his chest. It did not carry a tornado’s winds, nor a hurricane’s relentless water. Instead it came like light rain and rolling thunder over country fields. A force of nature that one could not look away from, only succumb to its cleansing drizzle.

You stirred as the heat of his palm found yours, a light hum of comfort traveling in the night. He could feel the upward bending of his cheeks, a natural reaction to such a sight. He may bare a blasphemous soul, but in this tranquil aftermath it was nothing but… divine. How ironic.

Yet love was not born of divinity, rather human effort and creation. Despite every flaw, cruelty, and hypocrisy of humanity, this tenderness was inherent. Even one as frigid as himself could admit this truth. To be able to study this wild and challenging sentiment was the greatest gift he had received at the Grove, granted and held only by your hands. You, in all of your brilliance, are the greatest lesson he has learned.

“Naxa…”

Your murmur was gentle, arm tucking your clasped hands under your chin. He huffed, a sorry attempt at fighting the heat flaring over his face. Out of contempt or affection, he refused to place.

Who was he kidding? He knew the answer. How could he ever hope to resist what could only be described as worship, of a soul as lovely as yours? Beneath his gaze there are no lies, you certainly know this by now, after this treasured night. Come entry hour routine would return, yet for now he was content to lay with your light.

- - - - - - - - - -

“Only the idea that anyone here thinks they know anything at all.”

That smile. That cursed smile. He hated it. He loved it.

“Blasphemy,” he whispered, delighted. “You’ll fit right in.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Nousporists had no scriptures, no prayers, only questions so sharp they left the mind bleeding. Anaxa led them like a messiah of madness, burning every ideal of truth to rebuild his own version—twisted and elegant, cruel and beautiful.

You should have left the Grove.

Instead, you debated him.

And that’s when the trouble began.

Because when you said, “You’re wrong,” with a laugh in your voice and not a shred of fear in your eyes, he felt something break. And Anaxa did not break.

So he followed you. He read your discarded notes. Memorized your arguments. Stole the scent of your skin from the folds of your coat when you left it unattended. Rewrote his entire doctrine to include you as a conceptual axis without you noticing.

He never touched you.

He never dared.

But every night, in the sanctum where thoughts became flame and philosophies were branded into flesh, he dreamed of flaying the world open and handing you its still-beating heart.

“You don’t get tired of chasing your own logic circles?” you asked once, after a particularly vicious debate.

Anaxa looked you dead in the eye slowly, as though the sight of your breath misting in the cold air was sacred.

“I only walk in circles because you are the center.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

The Nousporists were not a school. They were a fever. An idea that spread like mold under gilded thought. Founded by Anaxa, born from his desire to prove that even divinity could fracture under scrutiny. To challenge the Coreflame of Reason was to challenge god itself—and so he did.

But what the others never understood was this:

The Nousporists were built for you.

His "heresies"? All mimics of your questions.

Does truth decay the longer we observe it? Is prophecy a mirror, or a command? Can love exist without misinterpretation?

You were not a lover. Not yet.

You were a problem.

Anaxa studied you like a puzzle made of void and starlight. Every time you opened your mouth, it wasn’t words—it was scripture only he could hear.

Subject Log, Entry 12 I accused her of solipsism. She laughed. She asked if I dream in color. I lied and said yes. (Note: I need to know what she dreams. Perhaps she dreams me.)

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The deeper your research delved into the Chrysos Lineage, the less you slept. The more Anaxa watched you not as a peer, but as a phenomenon.

Your desk was a chaos of forbidden manuscripts, old glyphs glowing faintly, and diagrams of neural decay. At the center was your theory: The chrysosis was not divine punishment, but cognitive overload—a truth so absolute the brain set itself aflame to escape it.

Anaxa began sleeping in your study. He said it was to "supervise your deductions."

He never slept.

One night, while researching on Tribios as per Anaxa's request, you fell asleep with your cheek pressed to your notes. When you stirred, hours later, Anaxa was still at your side, chin resting on his folded arms beside you. His eyes were closed. Not asleep. Just...waiting.

He whispered, "I tried to dream about you. But I couldn’t replicate you. Not even in sleep."

Your breath caught. You wanted to mock him, to defuse it—but the way he looked at you made your heart crack sideways. Like you were his last theorem. Like he would kill every scholar in the Grove if it meant you’d say his name just once with awe.

And perhaps you did. Quietly.

"Anaxa." Holy fucking shit, he felt his undead heart burst up with blood

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Chrysos Heirs—beings of legend, said to carry the golden blood of the gods—were central figures in Amphorean history. Aglaea, the Goldweaver, stood as the acting leader of the Heirs, her divine authority inherited from the Titan Mnestia. Phainon, the Nameless King was undergoing the trial of the Coreflame. Hyacine, the enigmatic priest, was whispered to possess the ability to mend the celestial realm and to bear the fate of Aquila. Mydei, the Undying, bore a curse that rendered him immortal, a testament to his harrowing past. Cipher, the Fleet-footed, was a shadow that danced on the fringes of time, her allegiance and motives obscured, She was the demi-god of Zagreus.​

Together, you and Anaxa embarked on a clandestine journey to dissect the essence of these figures. Nights were spent poring over ancient manuscripts, deciphering prophecies, and constructing theories that bordered on heresy.

The question that haunted your research was profound: What was the true nature of the Coreflames, and why were these individuals deemed worthy of their inheritance?

"The Titans,"

Anaxa mused one evening, fingers tracing the faded ink of a forbidden text, "were said to have crafted the very fabric of our existence. Their Coreflames are not mere symbols of power; they are fragments of creation itself."

You nodded, the gravity of his words sinking in. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the vessels chosen to wield these fragments. But by whom? And to what end?"

Anaxa's eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and something deeper, more insidious.

"That, my dear, is the crux of our inquiry."

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your research led you to the origins of the Titans themselves—beings born from the Coreflames, each embodying fundamental aspects of existence. Kephale, the Worldbearing Titan, had sacrificed their Coreflame to ignite the Dawn Device, creating a sanctuary amidst the chaos wrought by the Black Tide. This act of selflessness set the stage for the rise of the Chrysos Heirs.

"The Black Tide," Anaxa pondered aloud, "was the catalyst that plunged the Titans into madness. But what if it was more than a mere calamity? What if it was a deliberate act to dismantle the old order?

The notion was radical, yet it aligned with the patterns you had begun to discern. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the instruments to establish a new order—a cycle perpetuated by the acquisition of Coreflames." Anaxa's expression darkened, a shadow crossing his features.

"A cycle that demands scrutiny. For if we are to break free from the chains of predestination, we must first understand the forge in which they were crafted."

"So, in simple words, The current chrysos heirs who bear the coreflame of the deceased titans, will bear the misfortune of becoming the titan in the next cycle..?" You questioned as your eyes widened to meet his magenta-cyan eyes this time driven with something which not even you knew.

"Correct." He said as his grin widened.

You glanced up to find him sitting unnervingly still, the ink quill idle in his hand. His eyes were on you—but not in the way a scholar looked at a peer.

His gaze had slipped. Dropped. Traced the curve of your jaw, the line of your lips. He wasn’t hearing your words anymore. His lips parted as if something sat behind them—some urge, some truth trying to claw its way out.

Your throat felt dry.

“...Anaxa?”

He didn’t look away. His stare stayed heavy. Dark. Hungry in a way he’d never let surface before.You shifted in your seat, your heart thudding once in your chest, louder than it should’ve.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinked once. Slowly. And smiled with an unsettling softness, like he was indulging in something he wasn’t supposed to. “Forgive me. You said something… that caught my attention.”

“Something about the Heirs?”His eyes flicked back up to yours. “Something far more dangerous. Your breath hitched. The tension in the room was suffocating now—thick, aching.

You couldn’t explain why your pulse was racing, or why you suddenly felt like you were being studied not as a colleague, but as a mystery he was desperate to unravel.

You looked back down at your scroll, trying to focus.

“W-We should finish transcribing this section before—”

His voice was lower now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You froze. Slowly looked back up.

Anaxa’s smile had vanished. His fingers were curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. His pupils dilated. The madness in his gaze shimmered like oil beneath a calm sea.

“Every night I leave this chamber and I think I’ve regained my composure. And then I see you again and I—” He stopped himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “...This is not what I intended. I wanted truth. I wanted the the true reason of all of us, the Titans’ legacy. But now I find myself… wanting something I was not supposed to want.”

You stared. Unable to speak.

“And it infuriates me,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “Because it makes me weak. You make me weak.” The words hit you harder than they should’ve.

You felt hot. Flushed. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say. Was he confessing? Was he unraveling?

“Anaxa…” you started, voice shaky, unsure if it was warning or invitation. He leaned forward, slow, calculated—like a predator who didn’t want to scare its prey, but couldn’t help indulging in the thrill of it. His hand stopped just beside yours, close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

But he didn’t touch you.

He wouldn’t. Not yet.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he whispered, voice dangerously soft. “But you should know this: the more we uncover, the more I realize the truth of this world is nothing compared to the truth I’ve found in you.” He said as he forcefully moves back away from you, in fear and something else

You held his gaze. Breath shallow.

The silence between you and Anaxa stretched taut—thick like honey, cloying like fate. He hadn’t moved since the moment he confessed those words.

The fire in his voice still clung to the air like smoke, and yet something in his expression had begun to flicker—falter.

His lashes lowered, eyes narrowing not with menace now, but something disturbingly fragile. Doubt. As if he expected your silence to become a knife. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered suddenly, voice cracking at the edges.

“You’ll leave. You’ll run. Like all the others who called me cursed. Mad. A blasphemer…” You stood. Slowly. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked tight. He expected distance. Recoil. Rejection. A scholar might call it logical consequence—he called it inevitability. But you didn’t move away.

You stepped closer. He blinked, confusion warping into something far more desperate as he rose slightly tumbling backwards. “What are you—?”

You were close enough now to see the cracks in him. Not physical—no. His composure. That perfectly constructed mask he wore around the others, around even you, was splintering right at the edges.

You could see it in the twitch of his mouth. The unsteady breath.

The trembling in his fingers as he kept them clenched at his sides, refusing to reach for you. Because he didn’t dare. Because he feared touching you would shatter the only sacred thing left in his world.

You leaned forward. Brief. Barely a heartbeat’s worth of contact. Your lips brushed his. A breath. A flicker of softness. A question without words.Then you pulled back, just as fast.

Your heart thundered, panic laced in your movements as you turned to go, your voice stumbling out—“Forget that happened, we have research to—”

But you didn’t get far.

His hand was on your waist.

Gripping.

Firm.

Not rough.

Not yet. But trembling with restraint.Then he pulled you back, and suddenly he was burying his face into the crook of your neck like a man starved.

Like something had finally broken loose in him—unleashed, unstopped, unholy. You gasped softly as you felt his breath ghost across your skin.His voice was low, unsteady, wrecked.

“Why… would you do that to me?” His other hand found your back, clutching it like he was trying to make sure you were real.

Like you’d slip through his fingers otherwise.His grip tightened. And behind his calm whispering, behind the warm pressure of his body pressed into yours, his thoughts spiraled like wildfire—

She’s mine. She’s real. She kissed me. Me. Not them. Not the sages, not the heirs. Me. She chose me. She cannot leave. She cannot see the others. She cannot be claimed by anyone else. I will burn the world if it touches her. I will gut the sky itself if it looks at her wrong.

His eyes—glowing now, iridescent with the light of something not entirely sane—flickered open against your skin. He pressed his lips to your throat. Not a kiss. A mark. A claim without blood.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, trembling. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”

You didn’t know. But maybe… maybe you wanted to. Because you didn’t push him away .And that was enough to damn him.

the name tastes like spoiled milk on your tongue, a sour reminder of all the times he’s bested you, even if it’s just by a small margin, leaving you dumbfounded when the difference between your marks during the last exam was a mere 1%. 

you were groveling in front of your professor, “please, just round the marks up?” you could practically feel your dignity slipping away. and the worst part? you were so desperate that you started mentally calculating how many odd jobs you’d be willing to do just to sweeten the deal. 

(maybe you’ll help organize the office, run around the campus to buy him drinks every day, or even wipe down the windows of his car…)

disclaimer: he ultimately said no, but he did compliment your impeccable taste in coffee so, a win is a win? 

anyhow, alhaitham’s nonchalance only adds to your frustration, especially when he switches to a different language mid-conversation. it feels like he’s rubbing salt in your wounds, why of course you can understand him perfectly —after all, you aren’t majoring in linguistics for no reason, plus he's not the only one who’s fluent in multiple languages.

though you keep that to yourself, perhaps because the things he says in those languages, which he assumes you don’t understand, are far from innocent, unknowingly letting you have a glimpse into his true feelings. 

ACT I: WHOLEHEARTEDLY, I DETEST YOU. 

alhaitham would never fall in love —such irrational and illogical emotions held no value to him. 

that was what he always believed, but then he saw you. 

the way you laughed so unapologetically at cyno’s jokes, how you always stood firm by your beliefs, your refusal to compromise who you are; you were a breath of fresh air in a world that often felt stifling.

as much as he tries to act unfazed, he can't help the heat prickling his skin nor the way his composure falters just slightly in your presence. and when his heart raced for the first time in what felt like forever, he knew —he was completely, utterly screwed.

(“fix me, kaveh.” / “hah. who do you think i am, ‘y/n’?”)

when kaveh told him that he just had a simple “crush”, he nearly rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might get stuck there permanently.)

likewise, this ugly arrogant handsome bastard here, is one you’ll never fall in love with. 

he’s infuriating, completely insufferable, and yet there’s something about him, something hidden beneath that arrogance, that draws you in. the idea that you could ever fall for someone like him seems laughable, impossible even. he's exactly the kind of person you should avoid and you know better than to be charmed by someone like him. yet, there's that nagging feeling, deep down, that perhaps you’re not as immune to him as you think.

by some stroke of luck, you’re in the same major, same year, and even enrolled in the same lecture periods, which means you end up in the same place at the same time more often than not.

but you can’t deny that, in some twisted way, you admire him. his intellect is beyond impressive, even if it annoys you to admit it. so surely, in his eyes, you’re still inferior, and you often wonder if he even considers your ideas as worthy of attention.

(they are.)

ACT II: YOUR WATCHFUL EYES, I CAN’T IGNORE.

your pen glides across the pages as you jot down notes, fully absorbed in your studies, barely registering the faint sound of distant chatter.

unbeknownst to you, a group of students has gathered just outside the lecture hall, peeking in from the door with curious, amused expressions. they’re clearly there for you, exchanging glances and murmurs, waiting for the moment you step outside.

you don’t notice, but alhaitham, seated a few feet away, certainly does.

his eyes narrow slightly as he takes in the scene. he doesn’t say anything at first, but his jaw clenches ever so subtly. as you begin to pack up, you glance up to find him standing in front of you, his tall figure effectively blocking the group outside’s direct line of sight to you.

with a discreet glance over his shoulder, he shoots them a cold, unmistakable glare. they visibly shudder, seemingly getting the message as they awkwardly shuffle away. 

“what was that about?”

alhaitham leans against your desk, “nothing important,” his tone is dismissive, laced with irritation, his gaze still fixed on the now-empty doorway. 

you narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “really? you just scared them off for no reason?”

“just getting rid of some… distractions,” he says casually, turning his attention back towards you. you raise an eyebrow, clearly not believing his words. “distractions? they weren’t bothering me.” 

his expression remains impassive, “khi họ cứ để ý đến em như vậy… em thấy không phiền, còn tôi thì có.”

“seeing them constantly paying attention to you… you're not bothered by it, but i am.”

“bởi vì cái cách mà em chú tâm hoàn toàn vào một việc gì đó…  nó quyến rũ vô cùng.”

because the way you completely focus on something… is truly mesmerising.

you blink, feeling a momentary flush of confusion and surprise at the words slipping from his mouth. did he just—? but before you can fully process it, he continues.

“vậy nên tôi cũng không thể trách họ khi họ muốn nhìn em gần và lâu hơn được.”

so i don’t blame them when they want to look at you closer and longer.

his words linger in the air, a moment passes before it clicks —he doesn’t think you understand. that’s why he’s speaking so… freely; letting slip things he’d never say outright in a language you both speak fluently.

“nhưng mà… chắc không ai trong số bọn họ có thể sánh ngang với tôi, em nhỉ?”

but… none of them can compare to me, right?

your chest tightens as a surge of warmth courses through you. 

his detached attitude only fuels your irritation. but there’s also a certain satisfaction in knowing something he doesn’t: you’ve understood every single word he’s said.

feigning ignorance, you raise an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with what you hope is a neutral expression. "what are you going on about?" you ask.

his expression remains as stoic as ever, not a single crack in his mask. he simply shrugs, eyes still on you, "just telling you to focus more.”

your grip on the pen tightens, there's a part of you that wants to wipe that smug look off his face, to show him you're not as clueless as he assumes. but not yet —you’re curious to see just how far he’s willing to push.

"right," you mutter under your breath, tapping the pen against your notebook. "focus. got it."

he leans down slightly, one arm resting on the back of your chair while the other presses against the table, effectively caging you in.

"you're wasting time, finals are coming up." he takes a brief pause before continuing, "i wish you the best of luck, you’ll need it.”

your eyes snap up to him in a glare, “don’t you have somewhere to be?" you bite back.

alhaitham straightens, giving you a final glance before turning towards the door. “naturally, i have studying to do.”

“bởi vì tôi sẽ chứng minh cho em thấy rằng chỉ có tôi mới xứng tầm làm đối thủ học thuật của em, không một ai khác.”

because i will prove to you that only i am worthy of being your rival, no one else.

why did he frame it as if it’s a privilege only he can claim? or is he trying to… flatter you?!

you shake your head, no way, that’s ridiculous. finals are coming up, there’s no time to dwell on whatever mind games he’s playing. though if the almighty alhaitham wants a rival, then you’ll show him exactly what it means to stand at the pinnacle.

ACT III: IN MY DREAMS, I SCORED HIGHER THAN YOU.

you’re tired, the kind of tired that seeps deep into your bones. every blink stretches longer than the last and you find it increasingly difficult to focus on the words in front of you. stifling a yawn, you feel the pull of sleep tugging at you, whispering sweet promises of rest.

there’s still time till your next class.

maybe you'll take a moment to close your eyes, just for a few seconds…

did you not get enough sleep last night, or did you stay up late studying again? alhaitham watches silently from across the room, his eyes narrowing as your head droops lower, your exhaustion becoming painfully obvious with each passing second. his gaze lingers on the way your pen pauses mid-sentence, the line on your notebook trailing off as your hand grows heavy.

he pushes himself up from his seat, and approaches your desk; he notices the sunlight streaming through the window, harsh and unrelenting, hitting right over the table where you’re sitting. he looks at you —eyes closed, with the faintest crease of discomfort on your brow.

without a word, he reaches out and slips the pen from your grip, the slight shift causing your fingers to twitch, but you don’t wake. 

for a fleeting second, he considers waking you. but then, as you shift again, settling more comfortably into your chair, he decides against it. what good would that do, anyway? you’d probably just brush him off and keep going until you collapse from sheer fatigue. typical.

instead, he adjusts his stance slightly, positioning himself just right to make sure the sunlight is fully blocked from your face, casting you in a cool shadow. 

you mumble something incoherent, and he can’t help but roll his eyes at your state. did you really think burning yourself out like this would help you focus?

“stubborn,” he mutters under his breath. 

you're always like this, pushing yourself past your limits, and while part of him respects your determination to outdo him, he won’t allow it to come at the expense of your health.

you stir from your slumber, lifting your head, your gaze lands on a familiar figure standing to the side of your table. his back turned, facing the sunlight that streams in from the window. 

alhaitham. 

he’s close, so close that his broad shoulders completely block out the sunlight from the window. the sight sends a rush of confusion through your already sleep-addled mind. did he… stand there the whole time? why? 

you shift slightly in your seat, your movement catching his attention. without turning, he speaks in that low, steady tone of his, “you’re awake.”

“alhaitham?” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

he glances over his shoulder, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the calm expression on his face. “you’ve been out for a while,” he comments, a hint of amusement in his voice. “i was starting to think you’d sleep through your next class.”

you rub the sleep from your eyes, “why didn’t you wake me up then?”

his shoulders shift slightly as he shrugs, still facing away from you. “you looked like you needed the rest. besides, it’s more entertaining to see how long you’d stay asleep.”

a flicker of annoyance courses through you as you roll your eyes, “oh, so you mean you care?”

he turns slightly, and you can see a hint of a smirk on his lips. “don’t read too much into it. i just prefer my competition functioning at their best.”

you wish you could roll your eyes harder because this man has an uncanny talent for grating on your nerves while somehow being insufferably charming at the same time.

“ah yes —because you need me to keep up with you,” you remark sarcastically.

“exactly.” you let out an exasperated sigh as you lean back in your chair. “you really think so highly of yourself, don’t you?”

“mushiro, kimi no koto o hijō ni takaku hyōka shiteiru yo.”

if anything, i think highly of you. 

your brows knit together in surprise, and you can’t help but scoff. “what was that? i didn't catch it.”

“i said i won’t go easy on you.” oh, the audacity. he’s lying again, and he knows it.

the corners of your mouth twitch in disbelief as you scrutinise his expression. there’s that familiar glimmer in his eyes, a spark of mischief that tells you he’s enjoying this too much.

“whatever,” you retort, crossing your arms defiantly. “not like i want you to anyway.”

despite your words, you can't deny that his actions earlier were surprisingly endearing. you wonder how long he intends to keep this up. perhaps it’s time you let him know.

“ii ne, kimi ga iraira shite iru toki wa kawaiikara.”

good, because you’re cute when you’re all riled up.

you feel a blush creep into your cheeks at his words, okay maybe you shouldn’t let him know. you instinctively look away, as if avoiding his gaze can help you regain your composure.

cute? what does he mean “cute”?! he thinks he can get away with calling you cute —well… well, there’s not much you can do about it, you’re not ready to confront him about this either.

the mere thought of asking him directly makes your stomach twist with a year’s worth of embarrassment. yet, as you try to refocus on the book in front of you, you find yourself biting your lip, struggling to suppress a smile that threatens to break free.

ACT IV: I WOKE UP TODAY, AND A DREAM CAME TRUE.

the hallway buzzes with excitement as students gather around the large announcement board, eager to see the results of their theses. you push through the crowd, heart pounding, the low hum of chatter filling your ears. 

when you reach the front, you quickly scan the list; the moment your eyes land on your name, your breath catches in your throat.

there it is, in bold red ink at the top of the board —a score higher than you’d ever hoped for, higher than his. and your name, on top of his.

alhaitham.

you glance over and spot him approaching the board, approaching you. his expression is, as always, unreadable. but you know him well enough by now to catch the slight pause in his movements, the brief moment where his eyes linger just a second too long on the board.

you try not to think too much about it as you collect your thesis, with alhaitham following closely behind, his fingers nearly grazing yours as you both sift through the stack of papers on the table.

you take in the glowing praise from your professor, each word making you feel like every all-nighter was worth it. you clutch the paper, resisting the urge to grin like an idiot. 

glancing sideways, you wait for him to say something, maybe some backhanded comment, but he remains silent. your eyes meet, and there’s a shift in his gaze as the usual sharpness in his eyes dulls ever so slightly, your smile lingering like the first light of dawn breaking through the night's embrace.

it’s subtle —just a flicker —but you catch how his gaze falters, softening, if only for a heartbeat. the edges of his stare blur, drawn to the warmth of your expression as though it’s something he hadn’t meant to witness, yet can’t look away from. 

at this moment,

"looks like i finally beat you," you say, not bothering to suppress the grin spreading across your face now.

he feels like

there’s no scowl, no sign of frustration —just the slightest raise of an eyebrow. “hmm. by a point.” he pauses, studying you for a second longer than necessary before returning his gaze to his paper. “enjoy it while it lasts.”

he's in heaven.

it’s as if he’s not bothered by the outcome at all. in fact, if anything, he seems... satisfied?

"hindi dapat ganito kalala ang epekto ng ngiti mo sa akin."

your smile shouldn't affect me this badly.

“—huh?” your mouth drops slightly open at his words; out of everything, you didn’t expect him to say that. it catches you off guard, making your heart race just a little faster. if you peer closely enough, you might catch a glimpse of the gentle arch of his lips, a ghost of a smile. 

the silence stretches on for a beat too long before he clears his throat and shifts his gaze away from you. “ang iyong ngiti ang pinakamagandang tanawin ng aking araw.”

your smile is the most beautiful sight of my day.

“what?” the word slips from your lips, barely a breath, a soft gasp that hangs in the air. it feels almost surreal and you wonder if you’ve misheard him.

each heartbeat thunders in your ears, a rhythm that matches the erratic flutter in your chest. why is he saying these things, what for in a different language…? there’s no way that he—

"—tulad mo na ang hinangad ko na ligawan, ngunit sa bawat ngiti mo, halip ay mas lalo akong nahulog para sayo."

—like you, who i wish to court, but with every smile, i instead found myself falling for you. 

your breath hitches as your heart stumbles, the implications of his words washing over you like a wave. a rush of heat floods your cheeks, “what… did you say?”

his shoulders stiffen, and there’s a subtle tension in the way his fingers curl against the paper he’s holding. “see you tomorrow, [name],” he mutters, his voice low but hurried, and before you know it, he’s already walking away.

two strange things happened today: 

1. you finally beat your sworn enemy!

2. said enemy… complimented you? 

huh, it’s as if the words slipped out before he could catch them, as if he’s been holding them in for far too long, as if… you notice the way his neck reddens, even as he turns away.

behind the door, alhaitham lets out a quiet breath.

“gago… nagkamali ba ako?”

stupid… did i make a mistake?

to his dismay, an annoyingly familiar voice cuts through the silence. kaveh, who had been waiting just down the hall, notices him standing there, a little too still. 

“oh, what do we have here?" there's a slight pause, followed by a raised eyebrow. "is that—no way, your face is red!” kaveh teases, amusement dancing in his eyes. “what happened there?" he leans in, clearly enjoying himself. "come on, spill the tea..!” 

"not a chance," alhaitham retorts, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms defensively.

just then, kaveh spots cyno and tighnari; grinning, he waves them over. “what’s going on? did alhaitham finally crack under pressure?”

alhaitham would rather reorganise the entire library than listen to kaveh recount what happened.

“i’m leaving.” 

"no, i'm afraid you're not getting out of this one.” cyno steps forward, blocking alhaitham’s path; and tighnari, who has been quietly observing till now, chimes in, “don’t leave us hanging.”

“you’re outnumbered.” 

alhaitham sighs and shakes his head. he hadn’t even thought it was physically possible for him, of all people, to do something as ridiculous as blushing —until today.

(on the other side of the door, their banter echoes through, and you can’t help but chuckle to yourself at alhaitham’s misery.)

ACT V: PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY, YOU SAY? BUT EVERYONE CALLS IT FLIRTING.

“i think alhaitham likes [name].”

the whole table falls silent before kaveh dramatically slams his glass down on the table, causing a splash of alcohol to spill over the edge. “oh finally, it’s so obvious! have you all seen the way he looks at them?” 

across the table, tighnari taps his fingers absentmindedly on his notebook, his attention only half on kaveh’s (incoming) rant but clearly invested enough, as shown by the slight twitching of his ears, to be listening. 

cyno snickers, “you’re telling me the man who can dissect any philosophical argument can’t handle a little crush? that’s rich.”

kaveh waves a hand dismissively. “come on! remember that time they were partnered up for a project? he was so... uncharacteristically patient! i’d almost say it’s cute if it weren’t alhaitham we’re talking about!”

right, it’d be almost endearing —if it weren’t coming from the most stoic, intimidatingly aloof guy in the entire school. it’d be adorable —if it weren’t alhaitham, who instinctively covers the corner of your table with his hand when you drop your pencil, ensuring you won’t hit your head as you bend down to retrieve it.

oh, you don’t notice (of course not). but your friend dehya, sitting nearby, catches the whole scene out of the corner of her eye. she raises an eyebrow, nudging the girl beside her. 

(“candace, do you see that shit.” / “yeah.”)

“a soft spot for [name], you say? well, i’ve got a story of my own, too.” cyno glances around, ensuring no one else is within earshot, then lowers his voice conspiratorially.  “have you noticed? he doesn’t wear his earphones when he’s around them.”

kaveh pipes up, nodding eagerly.

“he’s got those earphones practically glued to his head, he doesn’t hear anything he doesn’t want to, and he certainly doesn’t talk unless he’s forced to. but around them?” cyno pauses, pretending to think for a while. “not once. he’ll put them away entirely, like he’s actually willing to be… present.”

sure it’s small, subtle, the kind of habit no one would pick up on unless they were looking closely. but to anyone who knew alhaitham well, it tells them more than words ever could. 

for him, actions speak louder than words, even if he often doesn’t realise the meaning behind his own gestures.

his earphones slide down, resting forgotten around his neck, all so he can be close enough to catch the delightful lilt of your laughter. his chair inches a fraction closer, seemingly by accident. a subtle upward twitch at the corner of his mouth, so fleeting and often passing so quickly if one weren’t paying attention.

for him, it’s a language without words.

dehya laughs softly. "for someone who supposedly ‘doesn’t like being bothered,’ he sure seems invested in whatever [name] has to say."

and what sealed their suspicions? 

definitely the time when kaveh complimented nilou’s new bracelet. he glanced over at the man beside him, nudging him lightly. “what do you think?”

alhaitham gave the bracelet a cursory glance, before replying, “it’s nice.” though his gaze flickered back; and almost absently, he added after a pause, “[name] has the same one too.”

oh… oh? well that was oddly specific. kaveh’s eyebrow quirked as he fought to suppress a grin.

alhaitham had noticed a detail seemingly insignificant about [name] —the kind of thing he never cared to show the slightest interest in when it came to anyone else.

the glint in nilou’s eyes seemed to mirror kaveh’s unspoken thoughts, silently agreeing with his suspicions.  

now they’re certain —100% sure, in fact —that alhaitham has a crush on you.

“well, speak of the devil… lovely seeing you here, alhaitham,” kaveh quips. tighnari, ever observant, gives him a pointed look. “your jacket’s missing.”

“someone took it,” alhaitham replies, his tone as composed as always, giving nothing away.

—nothing until you walked past. draped over your shoulders, unmistakable, is alhaitham’s jacket. you don’t notice the way every pair of eyes follows you, or the way kaveh barely stifles a triumphant laugh.

...make that 110%.

(translation: he means he borrowed his jacket because [name] was cold.)

ACT VI: IT’S YOU, WHO COMES TO MY RESCUE. 

the quiet night hangs heavy, the road empty and bathed in the dim glow of distant streetlights. you weave through the streets, but no matter how many twists and turns you take, that weirdo just won’t leave you alone.  

he’s been trailing behind you for blocks now, his persistence grating on your nerves, cornering you with endless “compliments” and invasive questions. you’ve tried to shake him off, but his determination far exceeds your patience.

"come on, just give me a chance," he insists, stepping closer, a little too close for comfort. you take a step back. the smell of alcohol reeks from his breath, and his grin is making your skin crawl. 

"i told you, i’m not interested," you say firmly, keeping your voice steady, but the panic was starting to creep in. you glance at the empty bottle in his hand —he’s definitely drunk out his mind.

“you sure?" he completely ignores your clear discomfort. "how about you just give me your number, yeah?" he slurs out.

"no, i have a boyfriend." you lie through your teeth, hoping that would be enough to make him back off.

unfortunately, he’s as insufferable as he is persistent.

he snorts dismissively, "yeah, right. a boyfriend? you’re just playing hard to get."

you sigh, you aren’t in the mood for this, not here, not now, and especially not with someone like him. "i already told you, i have a boyfriend," your voice now tinged with frustration. "so please, just leave me alone.”

"oh, don't be like that," he steps in front of you, blocking your way. "prove it. call your boyfriend. show me you’re not lying."

your heart races as the man reaches out for you, dodging his hand, you take the chance to look behind him for an escape. just then, you see an all-too-familiar figure in the distance. 

alhaitham. 

you barely manage to suppress a relieved sigh as you wave frantically in his direction. he spots you almost immediately and without hesitation, he rushes over.

"what, this your boyfriend?" the guy sneers with derision, still sounding a little too cocky for someone who was about to get a reality check.

alhaitham steps beside you, you can feel his eyes on you for just a brief moment, the faintest flicker of worry flashing across his face. it’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but you catch it—and it makes your chest tighten.

his voice is low, unmistakably carrying a warning, "yes, i’m their boyfriend. and if you don’t want things to escalate, i suggest you leave." 

the man’s face twists as anger flares in his bloodshot eyes. he takes a step forward, his grip tightening around the neck of the bottle, the glass slightly cracking. "you think you can tell me what to do?" he slurs, gaze wild and unfocused. “y-you think you’re some kind of saviour? *hic* a-and you! how… how dare you reject me?!”

alhaitham doesn’t move, his expression cold and unbothered, and that only seems to make the man angrier. his frustration boils over, and with a snarl, he clumsily swings the bottle in his hand, aggressively lurching towards your direction. 

the world seems to slow for a moment. though before you can even react, alhaitham pulls you firmly behind him with one swift motion, his other arm instinctively rising to shield the both of you from the blow. the sound of glass meeting his forearm is sharp and jarring —you can hear the high-pitched tinkle of glass scattering, the jagged shards bouncing off the pavement, and some skittering across the ground.

but he doesn’t even flinch, his stance unwavering as the man stumbles back, glass crunching underfoot. you’re still frozen from shock, your heart racing in your chest as you watch the scene unfold. 

“big mistake,” he starts, and the man visibly falters. “harassment, assault —keep this up, and you’ll regret every choice that brought you here tonight.”

the man shifts around, clearly disoriented. his eyes dart between you and alhaitham, but it’s clear that the fight’s already left him. “you— you can’t do this!” the man stammers, trying to regain some semblance of courage; unfortunately for him, the tremor in his voice is unmistakable. 

“do you really want to find out?” alhaitham asks, to which the man shakes his head vigorously. “get lost,” he mutters. the man, looking more pathetic than threatening now, quickly stumbles away, mumbling incoherent curses under his breath.

you’re breathless, still clutching the edge of his jacket, fingers trembling slightly as the adrenaline courses through you. 

"are you alright?"

you nod, forcing a small, unconvincing smile."yeah... i’m fine. thanks to you." 

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, scanning you for any sign of injury. you follow his gaze instinctively, glancing down at yourself. that’s when you notice it —not on you, but on him.

streaks of red stain his forearm, where jagged shards of glass must have cut him during the confrontation. the gash bleeds steadily, a dark line of blood seeping through the fabric of his jacket.

"wait," you breathe, your heart sinking. "you're bleeding."

your stomach twists with guilt.

"why didn’t you say anything?" you exclaim.

he shakes his head, a dismissive gesture that does nothing to ease the knot forming in your stomach. "it’s nothing," he says, but the slight furrow in his brow and the tension in his jaw betray his words.

"nothing?" you fix him with a hard glare. "idiot… you just blocked a glass bottle with your arm, don’t try to downplay this."  

you grab his sleeve, tugging it gently but firmly, the fabric sliding beneath your fingers as you pull it up. “—and unless you think an infection is ‘nothing’, you’ll let me take care of this."  

"hold still," you murmur as you settle beside him on the couch, your supplies spread across the coffee table in front of you.

the scent of antiseptic fills the air as you take a disinfectant wipe and gently dab it against the gash. the sting of the alcohol makes him flinch slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. you mutter a soft apology, your movements slow and deliberate as you try to be as gentle as you can.

you open a tube of ointment, squeezing a small amount onto your finger before smoothing it carefully along the edges of the cut. the cool gel glides over his skin, and you can feel the tension in his arm ease ever so slightly under your touch.

“nǐ zhème guān xīn wǒ, huì ràng wǒ wù huì de.”

if you care so much about me, i might misunderstand you.

your fingers pause briefly, the words catching you off guard. you glance up at him, but he only averts his gaze, his eyes remaining fixed on a distant spot beyond the room.

misunderstand? misunderstand what, exactly?

the bandage wraps securely around his arm as you smooth it into place. as you tuck the end of the bandage, his voice comes again, just as soft, but no less clear. 

“—wù huì nǐ duì wǒ yǒu gǎn jué.”

"—misunderstand that you have feelings for me."

your brain short-circuits, and in your shock, your hands jerk. in turn, the bandage tightens way too much, causing him to wince and tense up. before you can apologise, he lets out a light chuckle.

“suǒ yǐ nǐ dān xīn wǒ… nǐ shì bù shì gù yì ràng rén xīn dòng de?”

“so you're worried about me… are you purposely trying to make my heart race?”

his words only make you more flustered, and you find yourself fumbling to fix the bandage. “i’m sorry! i didn’t mean to—”

his chuckle only grows softer, and you catch the glint of amusement in his eyes. “it’s fine.”

you quickly finish adjusting the bandage, trying to focus on anything other than how your heart is now racing. (ironically) 

“you seem flustered,” he comments casually, as if he isn’t the one who just made your head spin. “did i say something wrong?”

you shake your head quickly, hoping to hide the flush creeping up your neck. "no, not at all.”

his lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smirk.

"nǐ bù bì yǎn shì, wǒ xǐ huān nǐ hài xiū de yàng zǐ, tǐng kě ài de.”

“you don’t have to hide it. i like seeing your flustered expression, it’s quite cute.”

(oh this bastard!!!!)

you try to speak, but the words get stuck in your throat. what do you say when someone’s teasing you so openly —and they think you don’t even realise it?

after a long moment, he stands, “it’s getting late, i should get going.” alhaitham gives you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment —and there it was, that trace of softness reserved only for you.

he heads toward the door, you watch him, feeling a strange sense of emptiness when he turns away.

“i’ll see you,” he pauses. "...and thank you for tending to me."

you watch him leave, the door clicking softly behind him, and the silence settles back into the room.

you blink, taking a deep breath. what a rollercoaster of a day. yawning, you turn to start tidying up, but your eyes land on something on the couch.

it’s his jacket, draped over the armrest. you notice a tear on the sleeve, just where his injured forearm had been. what truly catches your attention, however, is a folded piece of paper slipping out of the pocket. 

intrigued, you unfold it, revealing his neat, precise handwriting. 

ACT VII: THE SECRET I’VE ALWAYS KNOWN. 

To [Name],  I once believed you to be little more than a nuisance. A bright, well-meaning nuisance, no doubt, but a nuisance nonetheless. One who seemed intent only on striving for perfection, always seeking to best me at every turn, not out of malice but out of some earnest desire to prove your worth. In my arrogance, I mistook your relentless pursuit for a need for recognition, as if you sought my attention in some petty rivalry. Though very quickly, you made me think otherwise.  You saw the world differently, you also saw me differently. You didn’t treat me with the reverence others seemed to, nor did you shy away from challenging me. You refused to be seen as anything other than yourself; and that, in itself, was what made me admire you —what made me long to understand you more. Now, I find that I am standing with half a heart and an emptiness I never knew I could feel, because you showed me what it truly means to crave something more, something I never thought I deserved. You may think I’m a coward for not expressing my feelings more directly, perhaps you are right. I am a coward for fearing to lay bare the vulnerability of my heart. But even in my cowardice, know that my thoughts have always been of you.  If you have seen through my silence and hesitation, if you understand my actions when my words fail me, then perhaps you have already known this truth. I care for you, more deeply than I can fully express. Though I may never be able to say these things as openly as I wish, I’d like you to know that my actions have always been my confession. Even now, I’m still a coward for you. So please, if you decide to give me a chance, I’ll be waiting at nightfall. Helplessly,  Alhaitham. 

you absentmindedly trace the edges of the letter with your fingers while your eyes skim over his writing for the nth time, the ink seeming to blur together with your thoughts as you try to process everything. your fingers curl around the fabric of his jacket, a foolish smile creeping onto your face.

tomorrow’s nightfall feels impossibly far away, yet you can’t wait for it. 

alhaitham lays on his bed, his arm aches slightly from the injury, but it’s nothing he can’t ignore. plus, the bandage you had carefully wrapped around his arm is enough to keep the discomfort at bay. 

(originally, he had only planned to meet you, slip you the note, and be on his way. things didn’t go exactly to plan, but either way, he hopes you’ve read it by now.)

of all the possibilities, he’s never accounted for the one he’d be at mercy of his own emotions; he had always prided himself on his rationality, his restraint. but now? he’s reckless, absurd, foolish even —he can admit that to himself. but he finds he doesn’t care in the slightest.

for as much as he is a coward in your presence, he is just as much a fool in your absence.

ACT VIII: UNDER THE RAIN, I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY. 

“alhaitham isn’t really an expressive person, so don’t worry if he comes off as distant or uninterested. it’s not that he doesn’t care, he just… shows it differently.”

ah well, ‘differently’ indeed.

“—most importantly, alhaitham doesn’t waste time on people he doesn’t care about, so you must mean a lot to him.”

maybe you didn’t mind how your heart raced when you heard that.

“don’t fuss over it [name], you’ll know when he’s in love.”

how so? 

if he was in love, what would it look like? would you be able to tell, or would it be just another one of those things you had to catch on to?

you wrapped the his jacket tighter around yourself, a faint smile tugging at your lips. it wasn’t the answers to those questions that mattered, but asking them in the first place —that was what made you realize you already knew all along.

the evening air is cool against your skin; a gentle breeze stirs the trees, their leaves rustling quietly, and your heart beats louder than ever, urging you forward.

in the distance, you spot him, standing still in the dim light. and without a second thought, you quicken your pace.

“haitham.”

the sound of your voice catches his attention as he turns to face you; you can’t help but notice how his gaze flickers down for just a moment, his eyes taking in on how his jacket looks on you, before meeting yours. 

his posture is unnervingly perfect, rigid almost to the point of stiffness …is he nervous?

“hey,” he finally says, clearing his throat. “there’s something i need to tell you… though you’ve probably already figured it out. you’ve always been sharp.” 

“i… ” he falters, and it’s the first time you see him hesitate. “i’m not sure how to put it… since i’m not exactly great at this.”

you tilt your head, subtly urging him to continue. 

“but you’ve managed to make me care about things i never thought i would. and now i can’t seem to stop thinking about it —about you.” his voice lowers, softer now, but there’s a rawness there that’s unmistakable.

“i’m telling you this now, because not saying it... doesn’t feel right anymore."

suddenly, you feel a soft mist that barely kisses your skin, a slight chill against your cheeks, then a few tiny drops,  until they start to gather in your hair, the beads of water slipping down the back of your neck, but you don't move. neither does he.

his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, droplets trailing down his temple. his clothes cling to his frame, soaked by the rain, yet his attention remains solely on you.

“[name], i am irrevocably in love with you.”

you stand there, the rain falling relentlessly around you, the pitter-patter mirroring the frantic beat of your heart. the water trails down his face, but it’s hard to tell if it’s just the rain, or something else.

his lips part, as though he wants to say more, but the words seem caught in the storm, swallowed up by the downpour. the rain is cold, but his gaze? his gaze feels impossibly warm. 

it’s only when you feel the dampness of his jacket beneath your fingers, that the words finally come. “you don’t need to convince me of that.”

you take a step closer, and for a moment, the world outside seems to disappear.

“i’ve known,” you add. “but hearing you say it,” you pause, allowing yourself a small smile, “makes all the difference.”

reaching up, your fingers graze his damp skin as you gently push a wet strand of hair from his forehead, the warmth of your touch lingering against his cool skin. 

“'uhibuk aydan, alhaitham.”

i love you too, alhaitham.

a single droplet slides down his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw before falling to the soaked fabric of his collar. another follows. and then another. his breath catches in his throat, and a shaky exhale leaves his mouth.

you wrap your arms around him, and he sinks into your embrace, his hair tickling your cheeks, as his chest rises and falls against yours.

“you’re gonna make me cry too, idiot,” you murmur, burying your face in his chest, your eyes glassy. “you really are a fool,” you tease softly, a slight smile playing on your lips. “but only for me.”

slowly, his hands rise, trembling slightly, until they cup your cheeks, gently stroking it. 

“la yujad 'ahad akhar 'urid 'an 'akun 'ahmaq min 'ajlihi.”

there’s no one else i’d ever want to be a fool for.

his palms are surprisingly warm despite the weather. his thumb grazes your cheekbone as he leans in, and the world falls away —nothing but the warmth of his presence and the soft press of his lips against yours.

“this is my first time in ten years seeing this guy cry! can you believe it?!” kaveh whisper-shouts, peeking out from behind the shrub. 

nodding along, cyno agrees, poking his head out just right below the blond’s. “[name] is truly exceptional. though i must say, seeing alhaitham cry is quite tear-rifying.”

kaveh rolls his eyes in exasperation. “ugh, you and your puns.” he mutters under his breath while zooming in on his phone, which is currently recording the whole scene.

“quiet down, you two!” a voice hisses from behind them —tighnari, face flushed with panic. “they’re literally right there, and you’re making more noise than a herd of goats.”

“relax, we’re out of their line of sight anyway!” kaveh raises his phone higher, almost giddily, eyes glued to the screen. “and damn this is a good angle.”

tighnari exhales sharply, “you’re incorrigible.”

“look who’s talking,” cyno raises an eyebrow at tighnari… who’s also peeking out from behind the bush. (what a hypocrite)

…

“they kissed oh my g—” kaveh’s voice rises in disbelief, but cyno quickly covers his mouth with a swift hand. the three of them scramble to duck behind the bush just as you turn to glance in their direction.

(“is that… senior kaveh?” you squint your eyes, “cyno, and tighnari?” 

alhaitham clears his throat before glancing over at his friends with a deadpan expression. “yes and unfortunately, they’re very invested in my personal life. so please don’t mind them."

you laugh, finding the whole situation a bit too amusing. “not in the slightest, but i’m sure they’ll never let you hear the end of it.”)

EPILOGUE: IN EVERY LANGUAGE, I HEAR LOVE YOU.

“how long?”

you blink, feigning confusion. “how long what?”

alhaitham’s eyes narrow slightly, an expression you know well. “how long have you understood everything i’ve been saying?”

you bite back a smile and offer a small shrug, “...ever since you started?” 

his lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you can’t tell if he’s upset or impressed. then, he sighs, almost amused. “and you let me embarrass myself all this time?”

“you were being honest,” you shrug, a smirk forming. “plus i knew you’d figure it out eventually.”

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “may ideya ka ba kung ano ginawa mo?"

do you have any idea what you’ve done?

"mas lalong umibig sakin?"

made you fall in love with me even more?

you tease, but there’s a tenderness in your voice that softens the edge of your words.

“yes, and you really are insufferable,” he mutters with no malice. his tone is different now. softer. warmer, even.

you lean in slightly, a playful glint in your eyes. “that’s not what i heard you say before.” your fingers graze the skin of his cheek before you tenderly pinch it, giggling softly at the reaction you provoked.

in one smooth motion, he catches your hand before you can pull away and tugs you towards him, closing the distance between you in a heartbeat. you tilt your head back to meet alhaitham’s gaze.

you’ve often thought he’s the most-perfect boyfriend, undeniably handsome in every way —but there’s really just one flaw: his height.

“ugh, you’re too tall," you grumble, rubbing the back of your neck. "i’m having a neck sore just looking at you."

he quirks an eyebrow at your sudden words. “you could use a stepstool.” 

"or," you counter, "you could get on your knees and save me the trouble.”

he slowly lets out a breath, his lips curling ever so slightly. 

“'akida, 'antaziri hataa 'ashtari alkhatama.”

sure, just wait till i buy the ring.

"wh—" 

he crosses his arms, "what’s wrong? isn’t that what people expect when someone gets on their knees?"

you roll your eyes, half-smiling. "fine, then i’ll eagerly wait for that day.”

his gaze softens as his hand reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face; his eyes drop to your lips for a moment, and you know what’s coming even before he speaks.

this fic was not sponsored by duolingo, but with the help of my beloved friends!! wouldn't have been possible w/o em please give them a round of applause xx

vietnamese — @https-sourlimes

tagalog / filipino — @vxnuslogy

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chinese, japanese — me!

ty @mitsvriii for proofreading, love u all <3

and thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated ^^

pspspss check out the cool fanart / comic based on this fic here by @rei-plswork 🤍

In a not so distant past, all of this was nothing but fiction. The Express, the story, the characters - it was all nothing more but fiction, something to pass the time as your days went on and on, the same monotony repeating each and every day.

It was hard to not think about your friends and family, what sane person would not? Lord knows how they must be feeling right now, worried sick out of their minds with indescribable sorrow. In their eyes you had merely vanished, not a single trace to be found. For all they knew you could have been left for dead in a ditch somewhere, beaten, bloodied and broken, never to see the light again or if they were even more inclined to be morbid, you had succumbed to a fate worse than death. Death at the very least grants you finality, that all is over regardless of what happened moments prior.

But that was simply not the case for you.

Here you were, lounging about in a comfortable chair as you pondered on your old life while enjoying tiny little luxuries, far away where none of your loved ones could reach you. However, life was funny sometimes because it had some fun games in store.

Sunday was very kind upon arrival. He made sure to always be there for you, always checking up on you, always there to keep you company. You were already smitten with him but now to actually witness him in the flesh was just... Indescribable. You got along like a house on fire, so much so that the crew liked to tease that you ought to just get a room. Sunday, ever the gentleman, would just brush their words aside and assure you to not take their playful little jabs to heart.

You wouldn't say anything, resorting to merely giving him a smile but not because of what he said but rather of what he did not - never once did he actually shut down those perverse accusations. Never, not even once did he deny them.

He became an emotional crutch, someone to whom you would come running to when things got tough and he would always welcome you with open arms. Sunday would hold you tenderly, his serene voice dripping with honey along with a tender drop of ecstasy, for his excitement with holding you would just show itself sometimes. His grip would be too tight at certain moments, never quite ready to let you leave. His hugs were warm and comforting, he always smelled so good too. He smelled like kindness and sweet wildflowers, always lulling you back to him no matter the time. In dark corners and perhaps even under the watchful eyes of the crew, Sunday would wrap his scarf around your head, securing the soft fabric in order to provide you with a sense of comfort.

It was humiliating just how much you would try to inhale his scent as much as possible. You wanted it etched deep inside your memory, you wished for it to linger on your very soul and for it to follow you everywhere you went, sticking to your being like tar. The fabric of the scarf would muffle your ears a little but someone was always chatting in the background. Be it March bickering with Dan Heng, Mr Yang scolding someone for doing something they were not supposed to, or just Conductor Pom Pom trying to give a speech, all of it was irrelevant.

You were ready to kill whoever would try to pry you away from sweet Sunday. That thought came often which had left you worried - just what kind of person had you become? Regardless, you kept your mouth shut and had no plans of sharing such violent sentiments with anyone, particularly not to the one you held so dear.

When it was time to part for the evening you would bid the crew farewell and wished them a good night. You always made sure to take a few extra seconds with Sunday, just to ease your aching soul. He would tell you to sleep well and would see you in the morning, ready to take on any endeavor that crossed your paths.

As everyone parted ways, Sunday would wander off somewhere dark and distant, somewhere no one could see nor hear him. He would fall to his knees and clutch his chest in agony, fat tears streaming down his face as he did everything he possibly could to steady his raging heart. In a rush he would reach for the scarf which clung around his neck, his grip tighter than iron as he would bring it close to his nose. Taking a large, deep breath, Sunday was greeted by your familiar scent which would promptly calm his poor heart.

He sometimes wondered if his heart would start bleeding from the pain due to the sheer intensity of his emotions.

This was wrong, everything about this was not right and it hurt. Sunday was obviously ill but he had no clue on how to fight this... This emotion, this white hot feeling of need whenever you stood by his side. He started to choke on the air around him and fell into an abrupt coughing fit but even then, he could bring himself to remove the scarf from the lower part of his face.

Sunday wept and sobbed, filthy snot coming out from his nose but he could not handle that now. He needed you, Oh Heavenly Aeons, how he needed you. However was he going to tell you how he felt? How, oh how was he going to express the sheer magnitude of his true thoughts? He would scare you off, he was sure of it.

Even with this pain, even with these clipped wings and bleeding heart, Sunday had never felt so alive, so harrowingly present in the moment whenever he was with you.

Perhaps, he was doing himself a kindness by just letting you be. Drink your tea, be at peace.

He can always just make you another cup if you so desired.

to be honest, you were hoping to surprise him with homemade apple pie since he's always cooking for you. but again, you want to fluster him. thus the apron, a long piece of denim fabric wrapped tightly around your waist and hung dangerously low at your chest. you can't deny how delectable you appeared when you looked in the mirror, admiring your exposed arms, legs, back, and neck—anything that would drive the esteemed colonel insane. you felt jittery just thinking about the look he would have on his face when he walked in through the door of your shared home.

however, your joy is short-lived when your phone rings while you slice up some apples in the kitchen.

"what's with the apron, pipsqueak?"

you put the knife down with a sigh. "do you have a camera installed in here or what?"

caleb chuckles into the phone. "wouldn't you like to know?"

"i would like to know so i can turn the damn thing off and actually surprise you for once, dipshit," you retort playfully as you adjust your phone between your ear and shoulder, picking up the knife to continue chopping. you suppose you should still make the pie since you already got the ingredients out.

"aw," he mocks, his voice dripping with arousal. "did my little pipsqueak dress up just for me?"

"yes," you snap, rolling your eyes. "but this little pipsqueak is about to change since you ruined her surprise."

your threat does little to faze caleb, as evidenced by his endearing laughter.

"don't be upset, pips," he teases into the phone. before you can scoff at his audacity to tell you not to be upset, your ears catch the hurried footsteps in the background of the call. it doesn't take long for you to hope your boyfriend is on his way home—on his way to you. sure enough, his next words cause heat to pool between your bare legs.

"keep the apron on. i'll be home soon."

after he hangs up, you put your phone down with a giggle, eager for what's to unfold once he arrives. however, you still can't help but wonder if he actually has a camera installed because how the fuck does he always know what you're up to? you frown as you turn your head left and right. you don't see any red flashing lights in places that could provide him an optimal view. nope. nothing in the corners of the ceilings and nothing in the walls either. before you can convince yourself your boyfriend is somehow omniscient, you notice something out of the corner of your eye.

his dog tag. seems like he forgot to put it on after putting on his uniform. you pocket it, hoping to give it to him when he gets home.

but your mind is truly one of a kind. as caleb likes to put it, resourceful during the most critical moments.

because when he's balls deep inside of you, coaxing your second orgasm out of you, you get the bright idea to fish your shaky fingers into the pocket of your bunched-up apron and put. it. on.

caleb's eyes widen upon seeing his dog tag on you. there it was, the important item he forgot this morning, resting between the delicious valley of your breasts, bouncing up and down while jingling an enticing melody.

"fuck—pipsqueak, you—" he thrusts harshly, pistoning into your sopping heat. you throw your head back at the sensation, allowing him an even better view of his chain, mingling with the beads of sweat on your collarbone. shit, he's so turned on right now. not only were your swollen, sweet lips adorning his name, but so was your pretty little neck. it filled the young colonel with pride. and enough vigor to bring you to your third release, as evidenced by the endless slamming of his hips and the clenching of your thighs.

"good girl," he helps you through your high before letting go of your waist, hoping to give you a break. "i'll go get a towel. stay here."

but when your pilot of a lover goes to leave, you wrap your legs around him and pull him to you, causing him to collide with you. caleb hisses at the contact, sensitive more than ever.

"don't push it, pipsqueak," he warns as he plants both of his arms on the kitchen counter, caging you in. "you need to rest."

"i don't think so, colonel," you prop yourself on your elbows, meeting his eyes boldly. "i don't think so at all."

caleb swears he feels his mechanical arm short-circuit because what you do next is just fucking tantalizing.

you pinch his dog tag and bring it to your mouth.

his breathing quickens substantially when your teeth take the shiny piece of metal as their prisoner. it's not long before his dog tag is trapped between your seductive canines and your thighs are tightened around his waist.

with a shameless smile, you jut your chin towards the man, signaling to him to make his move.

caleb growls, seizing the chain with both hands and bringing you to his face.

"i warned you, pips."

extra (in honor of his official installment)

as you munch on some apple pie in caleb's embrace on the couch, you can't help but ask.

"how did you know about the apron but not the dog tag?"

your boyfriend sniffs before answering, a little bit of pie still in his mouth.

"i couldn't check the cameras on the way home."

"oh that makes sense."

"…"

"wait, what?!"

sylus

Glass room, perfume, Kodak on that lilac (alright) Slipping on my short dress, know he like that (like that)

there's nothing like getting ready in sylus' bathroom. not because of the sheer size of it (it takes at least a day to explore his residence), but because of how good you look in the mirror right now. you can't help but smile as you step back to get a full look at yourself.

sylus went all out for tonight's auction.

he gifted you a tight-fitting ebony dress, its gorgeous silk straps accentuating your shoulders perfectly. he also gifted you a pair of evening gloves, its velvet fabric wrapping around your arms flawlessly. of course, the dress came with priceless jewels and heels. as you twirl in front of the mirror, the scarlet gems on your ears glimmer, and the cherry kitten heels on your feet click. oh, you look so good, you can kill.

but what seals the deal is the neck accessory he got you.

an intricate, black choker made out of lace. fucking lace. a scoff leaves your mouth when you notice the ruby medallion hanging at the center. his taste is as clear as day.

as you reach behind your neck to clip the choker, the man of the hour walks in. you meet his eyes through the mirror, your hands still at the back of your neck. "sylus."

"miss," he acknowledges in return, an unmistakable smirk appearing on his lips. his eyes trail down your figure. "you look stunning."

"thanks," you giggle as you hook the choker clasp. "you don't look bad yourself."

and you're absolutely right. although he has his usual dress shirt on, his outerwear is completely new. a gorgeous red blazer, adorned with inky brush strokes, sits proudly on his shoulders. moreover, his accessories are new (he's never worn any before). cuffed around his right hand is a sleek platinum watch, spotlighting his forearm deliciously. hanging from his left ear are silver chains, shining unashamedly. you can't help but bite your lips as you admire your lover in the mirror.

yeah, sylus went all out tonight.

catching the hazy look in your glittered eyes, he tilts his head before grinning, "like what you see, sweetie?"

you roll your eyes playfully before returning to the sink. "yes, actually. didn't know you were capable of wearing something other than black."

sylus chuckles as he leans against the wall, arms crossed. "i've worn colors other than black before."

"if you're talking about the two outfits that have the belt around the sleeve," you list nonchalantly as you pick up your lip gloss. "they don't count. they have black on them."

"i'm talking about the red cardigan, sweetie," he counters smoothly, eyeing the lip gloss in your hand.

"ah." you run the wand over your parted lips, enjoying the feeling of gloss on them. "touche," you say, bending over the sink to see if you missed a spot. you do, however, miss the way sylus' fingers tighten around his arms when your dress hikes up. smacking your lips together, you lift the wand to reapply. "but you barely even wear that. so that doesn't count either."

sylus hums, barely paying attention to what you just said. his eyes are transfixed on the wand. he's mesmerized by how it travels across your lips, slathering them with sticky, shimmery syrup, leaving him thirsty for a taste. not to mention the sounds leaving your lips whenever you press them together. sweet, squelching sounds that have him pressing against you in mere seconds, his hands gripping the edge of the sink.

at first, you were taken aback by his sudden proximity. but after feeling something prod at your back, you smile amusingly before placing the wand down. "i'm assuming," you swiftly turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, his eyes widening as you pull him closer. "there's been a change of plans." you slowly lick your lips, collecting some excess gloss. as it drips from the tip of your tongue, you ask with a tilt of your head, "how late are we going to be?"

that's it.

sylus crashes into you, his tongue desperately trying to lap up the excess gloss. his hands haphazardly roam all over your body before lifting you onto the sink, pinning you down as his lips smear your lip gloss everywhere. you moan, trying to match his fervor. the sinful mixing of breaths, saliva, and gloss floods your mind, causing you to wrap your legs around him and bring him closer to you. he welcomes the action, gasping and grinding into you.

by the time he pulls away for air, both of you are left panting like dogs, mouths and chins smothered in sheen.

your eyes never leave sylus' as you wipe your chin, a string of gloss and saliva hanging prettily from your gloved palm. with a groan, he dives into your neck and sinks his teeth into your collarbone. you throw your head back at the pain, whimpering when he soothes the spot with his tongue.

but when sylus traces a finger up your back, you freeze immediately.

why?

oh, because he's unzipping your dress.

"sorry, sweetie," he chuckles into your perfumed skin, savoring your surprised reaction when he drags the zipper all the way down. "we won't be late."

you look at him in confusion, barely processing the silk straps falling off your shoulders.

he leans in and whispers into your ear.

"we won't be going at all."

xavier

Heart attack, IV when I walk the street Vitamins that D, I'm good, I'm healthy

your starlight of a boyfriend collapses onto the bed, his legs hanging off the edge and his pants dangling pathetically from his ankles.

you giggle at the sight, wiping your lips clean of his release. as you rub a drop between your index finger and thumb, you notice the texture's a bit thick, almost like jelly.

"xavier," you call lovingly, rising from your knees and crawling on top of him. he barely responds; his eyes are screwed shut with beads of sweat trailing down his face, neck, chest, legs, everywhere. shit, what did you do to him? he can't get his chest to stop heaving, his mouth to stop watering, and his ears to stop ringing. he can't do anything. not with the way you looked so pretty on top of him, especially after making him release so intensely in your mouth.

"xavier," you repeat as you cradle his face, making his dazed eyes meet yours. "when was the last time you drank water?"

"water?" he pants. "i'm not sure. why do you ask?"

"well," you show him your fingers. he gulps, flushing a deeper shade of red. "this tells me you haven't been drinking enough water."

you get up to retrieve some water from the kitchen. xavier whines at the loss of contact. although he tries to stop you from leaving, you easily slip out of his weak embrace (he literally got his life sucked out of him; cut him some slack). after you reassure him with a kiss on his forehead, you open the door. "i'll be back soon."

he responds with a whimper before closing his eyes. before he knows it, he falls asleep.

not even five minutes have passed when you return to the room, a glass of water in your hand and a packet of vitamins in the other.

"xavier?" after placing the items down on the nightstand, you sit on the bed to admire the view. there he is, sleeping soundly with his shirt unbuttoned and pants unbuckled, his chest slowly rising up and down and his cute nose scrunching every so often. you almost feel bad when you wake him up. almost. as much as you like watching your boyfriend sleep, he needs his water and vitamins, considering how much energy he uses to fight wanderers.

"wake up, xavier," you coo. "you need your vitamins."

he stirs, peeking one eye open to look at you. cute, you think. "i'm too tired, angel." he whines before closing his eye again. "i'll have some later."

"come on," you chuckle. "at least drink some water. you're dehydrated."

hoping to keep him awake, you litter his face with kisses, repeatedly pecking his adorable features. his droopy eyelids, his button nose, his fluffy cheeks, his moist forehead, his small chin—not a single spot is missed.

his little laughs repay your efforts. before you can continue your bombardment of kisses, his arms wrap around your shoulders, successfully pinning you down to him. you're surprised by how quickly he replenished his strength.

"you're trapped," he points out cheekily. "now we can both sleep."

"xavier," it's your turn to whine. "you need to drink some water. besides," you try to get up but fail miserably due to his tight embrace. "you need to scoot up, and i need to lay down properly if we both want to sleep." still no signs of letting you go.

you sigh before poking at your boyfriend's waist, causing him to yelp.

he immediately lets go of you, rubbing the spot you just touched. taking the chance to escape, you stand up and reach for the glass and vitamins.

"meanie," he pouts. "i thought we agreed to not tickle each other for today."

"that's because you try to tickle me all the time," you retort playfully, opening the packet of vitamins. "besides, i only tickle you as a last resort. unlike you, i'm nice." you pop the vitamin in your mouth and bring the glass to your lips.

"as if." he yanks up his pants and crosses his arms. "last time i checked, being nice means letting your boyfriend sleep peacefully," he quips as he turns away from you, hoping his grumpy little act will coax more kisses from you.

instead, a hand comes into his view and grasps the sheets. furrowing his brows, he shifts back to ask what's wrong but is startled to find your face hovering above his. 

"angel, what—"

you press your lips into his, your free hand gripping his chin. on instinct, xavier opens his mouth, expecting your tongue to greet his. however, his eyes widen when he feels something pour in. oh. he greedily swallows the water and vitamin, his fingers weaving into your hair.

you pull away abruptly, a drop of water trickling down the corner of your lips. before he can say anything, you grab the glass of water and drink from it again, your hooded eyes never leaving his. xavier groans at the sight, his chest heaving for the third time today. and it's barely afternoon. oh, you're going to be the death of him.

he's sure of it when you return to his lips, water flowing into his mouth so sensually as his tongue reaches out for more. this time, you rest your entire body on top of him, allowing him to grab at your hips and thrust upward, desperately rubbing against your clothed core and seeking any type of friction that could relieve him of this growing desire you satiated with your mouth less than ten minutes ago. he never wants to drink water alone ever again.

“a-angel,” he moans when you pull away again. “why?” 

“you need more water, xavier.” you tease with a lick of your lips. “gotta make sure my boyfriend is hydrated, ya know?”

with that, you go to stand up and reach for the glass. however, the room spins as xavier pins you down, your positions switched and your wrists restrained above your head. your eyes widen, realizing you might've pushed your boyfriend too far. 

"angel," dark, cerulean eyes burn into you before glancing at the glass. “that's not enough water.”

rafayel

Yeah, white tippy-toe summer, I make him go dumb, duh He doubled down on that text, says that I'm the only one

(heads up, reader doesn't have to be mc but they know about rafayel's identity as the sea god and he calls you his beloved bride)

rafayel isn't sure how he got here.

you, on top of his bare chest, nibbling at his neck and dragging a finger down his clenched abdomen.

"c-cutie," he stammers. "someone might see."

he's not wrong. you're at the beach after all. but it's a private beach, one the artist rented for a date. so really, what's the harm in pinning your boyfriend down in the sand and showing him how much you appreciate him?

"you're the one who said this place was private, raf." you giggle before sinking your teeth into him, eliciting a moan. "besides, we both know why you suggested a date at the beach. don't tell me you forgot." you trail your finger along the waistband of his swim trunks. he jolts, his half-lidded eyes meeting your misty ones.

of course, he didn't forget. but considering the current, scandalous situation he's in right now, his memory is a bit hazy. as you twirl the drawstring with your index finger, rafayel bites his lip and tries to remember how exactly he got here.

last thing he remembers is you excitedly texting him about your package coming in.

a package, pft. no big deal, right?

wrong.

he almost dropped his phone when you sent him a picture of the package, more specifically, you wearing its contents.

a gorgeous two-piece swimsuit in the color of his hair. fuck, lavender has never looked so good on you. the way the tight, skimpy fabric hugged all the right places, making you seem so so malleable. the way you posed in front of the mirror, your face bridling with innocent excitement but your body positioned so so temptingly. shit, he hopes this exhibition ends soon because his slacks feel suffocating all of a sudden.

it wasn't long before he spammed you with a hurricane of texts consisting of flattering emojis and praises about how you're the only one he'll ever love (dramatic but heartwarming) and how he would love to take you on a date at the beach as soon as this stupid exhibition is over so you can swim in your new set to your heart's content (totally not because he wants to see the real thing).

yeah, now he remembers. he got himself into this situation. you even tried to stop him.

"uh," he recalls you hesitating through the call. "aren't you tired from your exhibit?"

"nope," he immediately answers, causing you to raise a brow. "not at all, cutie. i'm in tip-top shape. what better place for us to test your swimsuit than the beach?"

"us?" you repeat amusingly. "since when was testing a swimsuit a two-person thing?"

shit, he got caught.

"raf," you giggle at his silence. "if you want to see me wear this in person, you can always just ask, you know?"

"w-what?! no!" he acts as if you insulted his artwork. "i just thought it'd be a good opportunity for us to go on a date and to test the quality of your swimsuit! what if one day you go into the water and it gets untied or something? what if i'm not there to protect you from prying eyes? you can never be careful enough with swimsuits, especially shipped ones!"

"uh-huh," you drawl skeptically. "i'm sure a triple-knotted bikini will SOMEHOW get untied by the waves."

"come on, cutie," rafayel whines. "i know a perfect, private place! i'll even bring the food, the blankets, everything! please?" (he purposely emphasized "private" because no way in the seven seas is he going to let anyone look at you in a bikini)

you sigh before observing yourself in the mirror once more. the bikini DID look good, and you DID buy it for future swimming dates with rafayel. might as well, right? besides, you can't say no to him, especially when he begs so cutely like that.

"fine, raf," he remembers you giving in with an endearing sigh. "send me the address of the beach once you're done. i'll stop by your place to pack your swimming trunks."

and here you are, resting on top of him and drawing figure eights with your fingertips IN his swimming trunks.

he would laugh at the irony if it weren't for your provocative actions. you were the one who brought him his swimming trunks, and now, you were the one making him wish you didn't bring them so he could see how pretty your fingers looked right next to his—

yeah, he definitely got himself into this situation. he has no one to blame but himself for his predicament. it's his fault he's currently twitching and throbbing underneath you as you breathe into his neck and tease doodles into his thighs.

"oh fuck, cutie—" rafayel jerks his head back when you suck on his adam's apple. your mouth felt so good. you felt so good. 

after pulling back with a 'pop,' you trace the red mark with your free hand, admiring your artwork on your artist of a lover. unfortunately for him (fortunately, really), this causes him to squirm uncontrollably. the simultaneous stimulation from your right hand on his thigh and your left hand on his neck was just too much for the lemurian. he swears he's this close to bursting all over the sand like a messy, wet bubble. 

suddenly, you stop, withdrawing both of your hands from his body. 

"c-cutie?" he lifts his neck to look at you but finds himself confused as to why you're sitting up. though, his confusion is quelled when you reach behind your neck. 

oh. 

your hands come into view, each one tugging on the strings of your top.

oh fuck. 

he doesn't even see your top fall. no. he's completely frozen (and hard) when you lay back down on him, smushing your now-exposed chest into his abdomen, allowing him a view that brings roses to his cheeks. (he can feel your nipples rubbing against him).

"oh, god of the tides," you purr with a smirk as you press your ear into his chest, relishing in his rapid heartbeats. "you promised you would test this swimsuit with me." before he can deny your reminder of his mistake from the earlier call, you grab his hand and bring it to rest against your swimsuit bottoms, causing his breath to hitch. "won't you make good on your promise?" 

rafayel swallows shakily before nodding. 

"anything for my beloved bride." 

zayne

Mm, yeah, I make him lose his cool Yeah, I make him go mmmmmm ah! ah!

doctor zayne, the epitome of calm and control, reduced to this.

a red-faced mess, losing his cool in a rocking chair, thanks to his lover shaving his chin on his lap.

his lover, who just so happens to be wearing a nightgown, a silk, sapphire nightgown with lace ruffles and ribbons that drove the man insane.

to make matters worse (better), your bare thighs were on either side of his hips, caressing and stroking him whenever you would move to shave his chin.

don't even get him started on the fact that you're sitting right on top of his crotch. he prays to any merciful soul out there that you don't feel him growing down there-

he inhales sharply when you reach behind him for a towel, your chest mere millimeters from his face.

"you okay, zayne?" you ask with faux concern.

"yes," he clenches his jaw. it's taking him everything to not dive in and lick, suck, bite—anything to relieve him of this torment. "please hurry."

"hurry?" you pout with a tilt of your head. "but why?" you lift his chin to wipe some excess shaving cream. "do you not want me to shave you?"

"no, darling. it's just—" his hands fly to your waist for stability when you place the towel back in its place. shit, every time you lift yourself onto your knees to reach behind him, the chair moves more and more, resulting in a pattern where when he leans back, you press into him, and when you lean back, he presses into you. it's not helping that this pattern deliciously resembles a certain rhythm in bed.

"it's just?" you repeat to him, stroking his jaw to inspect for stray hairs.

he doesn't say anything. how can he? he can't just spill about how badly he wants to kiss your sweet lips, squeeze at your delectable chest, rip your enticing nightgown apart, and take everything you have to offer. no, he can't. not when you approached him so innocently with a cute smile on your face after he came home, asking if you could shave him. (he almost fell to his knees when he saw what you were wearing). not when you look so beautiful gazing at him from above, handling his skin with addictive yet gentle touches, and glowing underneath the moonlight from the open windows. shaking his head, he grips your waist with renewed resolve.

"it's nothing," he closes his eyes. "please continue." he would rather drink alcohol than misinterpret your innocent intentions.

except there was nothing innocent about your intentions at all. you admit, it's fun to tease zayne like this. the way his lips would chase after your fingers whenever you traced them, the way his eyes would falter whenever you leaned in, the way his breath would hitch whenever you moved your hips, oh it all made you feel wanted. and who could want more than a gorgeous, capable doctor who looks at you as if he's going to die if he can't have you?

you. you want more. you WANT him to have you, take you, right here on this rocking chair. you thought teasing him with a few shifts of your hips and some purposeful closings of distances between his face and yours would relay the message. but no. he's either completely oblivious or has the will of a steel that's been fortified ten times over. because even though he's made it incredibly clear that he wants what you want (his blushing cheeks and shortage of breaths are hard to miss), all he's done is sit there and take your teasing.

you frown, retracting your hand. what's it going to take for doctor zayne, the epitome of calm and control, to give in?

a lightbulb flashes in your head.

"hang on, i missed a spot," you lie, lifting yourself up once more to reach for the shaving cream next to you. "i'll make this quick."

and with that, you slam your hips down.

he groans out loud, eyebrows furrowing and fingers tightening around your hips. he still hasn't opened his eyes though.

"are you sure you're okay, zayne?" you ask innocently, twisting left and right. "i'm worried about you."

"w-why," he starts hoarsely, his fingers gripping for dear life, trying to stop you from moving so damn much. "why would you be worried?"

"oh, i don't know," you smear shaving cream all over his jaw before trailing your fingers down to his neck. "you just seem so…" you slowly trace a heart on his collarbone, eliciting a pretty gasp from him. "out of it."

zayne's eyes jerk open, glaring at you with unprecedented focus. you smile cheekily before pressing yourself deeper into him, eager to bear witness to what he'll do and say since he finally opened his eyes.

though, your smile doesn't last long. in an instant, his hands pin yours behind your back, causing your back to arch and your lips to part.

"i'm starting to think," he secures your wrists in his right hand and brings his left to his face, wiping away the mess you made. "you're doing this on purpose."

you grin. finally. he finally got the message. unable to hide your excitement, you lean in next to his ear and whisper, "what are you going to do about it, doc-tor?"

he inhales sharply, yanking your wrists.

Aventurine 𔘓

kisses you as if it were his last – an emotional kisser – needs to be complimented

If you're at the kissing stage with him, congratulations since he doesn't let just anyone in his life. Let alone sharing such an intimate act. Kissing Aventurine may come across as desperate, dare I say needy. It's a lot since he pours all of his emotions into each press of his lips on yours. You feel everything– his complete devotion to you, his fear of losing you, even his inner battles about whether keeping you in his life is a good idea. Even so, each of his kiss is meaningful. No matter how intense it gets, you cherish the way he allows himself to put his guards down with you.

Since he has low self-esteem, compliment him on how good his lips feel on yours. Whisper sweet words here and there between kisses until his features soften, easing all of his worries. Because he craves validation more than anything, your praise will have his heart melting in no time. Only then will he feel more confident, taking the lead and locking your lips in a passionate heated kiss. He will leave you panting and asking for more <3

Sunday 𔘓

kisses you with the greatest care – your lips are his hyperfixation (he will think about them all day long)

He is kinda shy, not daring initiate a kiss even though he dreams of kissing you over and over again. Ever since your first kiss, Sunday hasn't been able to get enough. He unapologetically stares at your lips when you talk, smile or even eat something, fantasizing about making them swollen from a make out session. All his thoughts shut down as soon as you indulge him, crashing your lips against his. It's like he is on cloud nine, the plush of your lips eager yet delicate.

His lips are soft, the softest you've ever felt. He isn’t particularly fond of tongue kissing so he prefers to give you soft, gentle pecks. However, if he feels confident he will deepen them, his body pressing closer to yours as muffled gasps of delight escapes his mouth. And when he kisses you, it’s as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. He is careful with the way he holds you, as if you might break if he dares to tighten his grip. Speaking of hands, he is always touching you. His personal favorite is keeping one hand on your cheek, gently rubbing his thumb over your cheekbone while resting the other on your waist guiding you even closer to him <3

Boothill 𔘓

a biter – and a cheeky kisser – loves to cover your face in kisses only to smother your lips over and over again

He is all for heatedly making out with you. It doesn't matter if you're in public or not, he isn't unshamed at all if it means having his pretty lover panting in his robotic arms. He loves to tease you, especially with his sharp pointy teeth. Whenever you're sitting on his lap, breathlessly following the lead Boothill sets for your make out session, he grazes his sharpened teeth over your bottom lip at some point. It's just enough to hurt a little but he knows deep down you like it this way, so why not take advantage of it ?

Aside from the biting, Boothill also loves teasing you by purposely avoiding your lips. In those moments you wish you had the power to complain, but you're left speechless. He is surprisingly soft as he presses his lips against your forehead, eyelids, cheekbones and then all the way down to your chin and neck. He is taking his time with you, cherishing these quiet moments with you since being a Galaxy Ranger is far from being safe. It's when you're looking at him with eyes full of love, of belonging, that he locks your lips into a tender kiss. But, as cheeky as he is, he pulls away only to press another kiss on your lips, this time with more force. Then another, and another, until it turns into quick breath-stealing kisses. It’s endearing though, how utterly adorable he can be when it comes to you and the way he loves you <3

Mr Reca 𔘓

a perfomative kisser – needs the setting to be perfect in order to kiss you – makes comments about the kisses

As a film director, Reca is an expert at building up a romantic kissing moment— and that applies to his love life as well. Whenever he wants to kiss you, it has to be perfectly executed, to the point where he practically writes the script for your kisses beforehand. It might comes across as superficial, but that’s just how he operates. Otherwise he’d be disappointed in himself. The setting must be romantic enough, so he usually takes you to a breathtaking landscape, a luxurious restaurant or carefully arrange your shared space– dimly lit with candles, with soft, romantic music playing in the background. Every detail must align with his vision of the perfect moment.

Kissing him is perfect. As intented. You don't mind that it was planned since you acknowledge his need to be in control of it. He just wants to be good to you. Plus, he knows how to work you up. Tilting your chin up, he compliments you on how gorgeous you look before closing the gap between your lips. The warmth of his lips is so comforting to you, as is the way he holds you. You can't help but roll your eyes when you hear the enthusiastic "magnificient !" comment he manages to blurt out. The only response he gets is you deepening the kiss, determined to shut him up for good <3

Alhaitham 𔘓

lazy kisser – doesn't kiss a lot but when he does he blows your mind – leaves you breathless and acts like nothing happened

He barely takes the initiative himself, unless you’ve been making out for a long time. Alhaitham's lack of action doesn't come from not enjoying it— it's just that he doesn't really think about it. Most of the time, it's you who come to him asking for a kiss. He never denies you the pleasure of having your pretty lips on his but, like I said, you have to work for it. If you don’t, he simply stands there and give you a chaste kiss.

Other times it's just that Alhaitham likes to tease you, purposely reacting slowly until you grow impatient and take matters into your own hands. Alhaitham patiently waits, curious to see how far you want to go with him. You have piqued his interest and that's all you needed, biting then licking his bottom lip before deepening the kiss. Soon enough, he is the one taking control, moving your lips together as he pulls you on his lap and keeps you as close as possible to him. Because yeah, Alhaitham can be very clingy when he wants to. As soon as you're done, he goes right back to his reading, looking completely unaffected (he is not though, he is internally blushing) <3

Kaveh 𔘓

kisses a lot – steals kisses whenever he has the chance to – unapologetic about the amount of kisses he shares with you (he is just a sweetheart okay)

He is the one who, I believe, would kiss you the most out of the others. He takes initiative a lot. Whenever you cross paths, he stops you just to press his lips on yours. Doing the dishes ? A kiss. Doing errands ? He subtly pulls you into a corner to steal one. Getting ready for the day ? One, two, three...... ten kisses before he finally lets you leave the house. You're not complaining, not when it means seeing him all giddy and flustered afterward. And honestly, it’s not like it leaves you indifferent either. So really, it’s a win-win situation.

The roles are reversed when he is overworking himself on a project. Convincing him to take a well-deserved break is tough, but once he does he is rewarded with the softest kisses in the quiet of his study. He sighs contentedly at the mere brush of your lips, as if you’ve just given him the ability to function properly all over again. His work fades from his mind the moment you leave him with shiny, swollen red lips. And if you sneak into his study every now and then to steal more kisses while he works, he doesn’t complain in the least <3

✧ you proudly stated that he has now "been promoted to being my best friend", blade only rolled his eyes and looked away, pretending not to care. but you knew that he cared, quite hard to not notice the faint smile growing on his lips after all.

✧ everyone notices how different blade had become after meeting you. although still non-chalant to others he seems to be more happier and enlightened when you're with him. no one dares say a word about it though thanks to his intimidation.

✧ speaking about how scary he looks, he was quite surprised that you didn't mind how introverted and "scary" he was, if anything you'd laugh and say how he was so "hilarious" ?!?! what's so hiliarious about the way i talk and look?!!? but nonetheless, you seemed to have broken a small amount of his barrier.

✧ always gives his close friends death glares when they're about to mention something about him to you. "oh yeah, i remember that one time bladie said that you were-....oh, seems like somebody wants me to be quiet, nevermind it then." anod no matter how hard you try to bribe her to spill it, she refuses. saying that "you will know one day" ... whatever that means.

✧ not to mention how oblivious you are to his actions. oh, he remembered your favourite meals of the day? isn't he such a lovely friend! he has a whole notes dedicated to everything i've said before—my likes and dislikes, places i'd like to visit, my favourite restaurant, my favourite animal, my favourite thing to do at work.. and etc etc? he's just so observant! a quality you need in this work place.

✧ it drives kafka and silverwolf mad sometimes, really.

✧ he's really protective of you, and he knows you can stick up for yourself but he feels the need to protect you anyway. blade always sticks up to you if someone from the higher positions pick on you, even if he's the same position as you. gosh, you really admire him so much!

✧ "are you alright? they didn't do anything to you, did they?" his eyes scanned your face and body, making sure you were fine. "i'm fine blade, but wow! seeing you like that is so cool! and i actually saw them shiver and..." blade never questions why you talk to much (lies, he has before in the past but now he just sighs and pretends to ignore you but really he's listening to every word.)

✧ sometimes invites you out for a drinking celebration. oh you don't drink! drink water there then. you can't go? fine, he'll just reschedule it then.

✧ although he acts all tough and that he hates you, in reality, he really likes you. when did the feelings come? probably when you really paid attention to him and just continued to talk to him every. single. day. sure, he was annoyed for the most part. but as time flew, he grew closer to you. and he hated the fact that he couldn't say anything about it. he couldn't risk getting him or you fired.

✧ as blade gets to know you better, he finds himself admiring your strength and he begins to see them not just as a coworker, but as someone he genuinely enjoys spending time with, someone he looks forward to seeing every day.

✧ (is he cooked? yes. does he care? no.)

✧ he often finds himself glancing at you as you're working, doesn't help that your desk is right in front of you as you share a desk. and god, everytime your manager pairs you and him together in a duo project or even in a group project he will never EVER disagree with your ideas. even if you might be a wee bit wrong about your ideas.

✧ everyone notices how bias he is towards you, does he care? no, if anything they're just jealous that he loves you and not them!

✧ (can i also mention when he refused to unbraid a small section of his hair that you braided?)

✧ but once the realisation catches up to him that damn, he really does like you, it changes his whole personality and perspective on you and his life. now that he's conscious he can't ever stop the way his heart flutters and races 100x faster, he can only hope that you don't notice the delicate pink hue rushing to his cheeks.

✧ "do you have a fever?" "yes." "oh.. feel better then! don't come to work or you might get me sick!" you joked, turning your back towards him as you continued to chat with your friends. if only you knew...

✧ if only you knew how infatuated he was with you. how in love he was with you. and the fact that he knows that there are other people crushing on you too, although he can't blame them, it's infuriating having to compete for your love and attention.

✧ one day he'll confess, and when he does he knows he won't care if the both of you get fired, he has enough money and connections to build a new and better company.

jing yuan — big ol' softie

✧ the first guy to actually crush on you. love at first sight at its finest.

✧ jing yuan finds himself drawn to you for several reasons. firstly, he admires your intelligence and work ethic. your always diligent and thorough in your work, he is attracted to those who work hard after all as he too, is a hardworker. not only that but he appreciates their kindness and compassion towards their coworkers, always willing to lend a helping hand or offer support when needed.

✧ it's a rarity to even find a co-worker who is actually kind and not just doing it to get a raise so, to him, you're a one of a kind.

✧ it's really no surprise that he was assigned to help you out during the first month to keep you steady as that's usually his favourite thing to do and with no one else offering to take this position the boss obviously had no choice but to make jing yuan have a mini side job.

✧ jing yuan is the first person to befriend you when you join the company, and it’s hard not to be drawn to his calm, approachable demeanor. you later learn that while he has a reputation for being incredibly competent, he also tends to “forget” small tasks, like refilling the coffee machine, leaving others to wonder how he manages to get away with it.

✧ you quickly become the exception to that rule. jing yuan, who usually delegates or “forgets,” is surprisingly attentive when it comes to you. need advice on an overly complex report? he’s already simplifying it for you. stuck on the company’s labyrinthine processes? he walks you through them patiently, occasionally cracking a joke to ease your nerves.

✧ “ah, the new recruit,” he says, leaning casually against your desk. “looks like they’ve put you near my territory. lucky you.” you laugh nervously, not sure if he’s joking, but his easy tone makes you feel less like the ‘newbie’ everyone’s been whispering about.

✧ you’re quick to bombard him with questions—everything from “how do you access the shared drive?” to “do people really have to clock in at 9:00 on the dot?” he answers every one of them with a mixture of patience and amusement. “no, you won’t get fired if you clock in at 9:01. but, you know, maybe don’t make it a habit,” he teases, smirking when you dramatically sigh in relief.

✧ your enthusiasm doesn’t seem to faze him. in fact, jing yuan seems oddly entertained by it. “you’re really diving into this, huh?” he comments one afternoon after you’ve spent ten minutes animatedly talking about ideas for an upcoming project. “i like it. keep that energy up. it’s refreshing.”

✧ during your first team meeting, you’re the one nervously jotting down notes while everyone else looks half-asleep. jing yuan catches your eye and mouths, “relax.” later, when you mention how intimidating some of the senior staff seem, he chuckles. “trust me, they’re all bark and no bite. well, most of them,” he adds with a wink, making you giggle.

✧ you’re eager to prove yourself, and it doesn’t take long for jing yuan to notice. one evening, he finds you still at your desk long after most people have left. “burning the midnight oil already?” he asks, resting an elbow on the cubicle wall. “you know, you don’t have to impress anyone by working yourself to death.” you smile sheepishly. “i just want to get it right.” his gaze softens. “you will. but pace yourself, alright? it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

✧ your bubbly nature sometimes catches him off guard. one day, after explaining a particularly tedious workflow to you, you beam at him and say, “thanks, jing yuan! i don’t know what i’d do without you!” he blinks, momentarily stunned, before responding with a soft laugh. “well, i can’t have my star pupil struggling, can i?”

✧ when you suggest grabbing coffee as a thank-you for his help, he raises an eyebrow. “you’re thanking me for doing my job?” you nod enthusiastically, and he shakes his head, amused. “alright, but only if you let me pick the place. i know a spot that has the best pastries.” true to his word, the café he takes you to becomes your go-to hangout, with jing yuan jokingly claiming you owe him for introducing you to such “top-tier coffee.”

✧ one day, as you’re working through a tricky task, you mutter, “ugh, i feel so bad having to ask you for help again.” jing yuan leans over your desk, resting his chin in his hand. “you know, you’re the only person i don’t mind helping. must be that irresistible charm of yours,” he says with a grin. you roll your eyes playfully, but your cheeks warm at the compliment.

✧ while your coworkers are quick to brush off office rumors, they don’t miss how jing yuan lingers at your desk longer than necessary. he’s always "checking in" on how you're adjusting to the job, yet somehow, you notice he’s not quite this attentive with others. a little too friendly, perhaps?

✧ it’s no surprise to you that he was assigned to mentor you during your first month. jing yuan has a knack for making newcomers feel at ease, but there’s something different in the way he handles your concerns. he listens intently, offers solutions tailored to you, and follows up—something even HR doesn’t always do.

✧ what you don’t realise is that the moment jing yuan met you, he found himself curious about the way you carried yourself. your mix of determination and a slight hint of nervous energy intrigued him. he admired your persistence when others might have faltered under the pressure of a new job.

✧ despite his effortless charm, you’re oblivious to the subtle shifts in his behavior. jing yuan often uses work as an excuse to spend time with you. "this project is pretty important," he says, dragging over a chair and sitting beside you, "mind if i double-check it with you?" you don’t notice the way his lips twitch into a smile every time you nod eagerly.

✧ somewhere along the line, jing yuan finds himself going out of his way for you. it starts small—a coffee cup on your desk when he notices you didn’t get breakfast, an offer to review your presentation slides when you’re up against a deadline. before long, he’s scheduling lunch meetings just to hear about your day.

✧ his easygoing nature becomes a source of comfort for you. whenever office drama or work stress gets overwhelming, jing yuan’s the one who steps in, distracting you with his laid-back humour or a casual, “don’t let it get to you. you’re doing great, really.”

✧ over time, you realise he’s not just your mentor but also your anchor in the chaotic world of corporate life. what you don’t know is that he’s quietly hoping you’ll notice he’s looking out for you for reasons that go far beyond professional courtesy.

✧ slowly but surely, your dynamic shifts. you’re still the bubbly, eager-to-learn newbie, but now you feel a little braver, knowing jing yuan has your back. and though he’ll never admit it outright, he finds himself looking forward to your questions, your chatter, and the way you light up the office with your energy. if he’s a little extra attentive with you, well… that’s just part of being a good mentor. right?

gepard — sweet and protective

✧ gepard is the picture-perfect coworker: diligent, reliable, and polite to a fault. when you first meet him, you’re struck by how serious he seems, his posture impossibly straight as he shakes your hand and welcomes you to the team. “if you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” he says with a formal nod. you’re convinced he’s all business—until you catch him fumbling with his coffee cup later, spilling just enough to make him flush bright red.

✧ you’re quick to ask him questions about the company, your tasks, and even the cafeteria menu. “what’s the safest option for lunch?” you ask with a dramatic whisper. he blinks at you, a little thrown by your energy, before responding earnestly. “i… guess the chicken wraps? but i think the soup is underrated.” you burst into laughter, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, like he’s not used to this kind of enthusiasm but doesn’t entirely mind it.

✧ despite his composed exterior, gepard always seems to hover near your desk, especially when you’re struggling. one afternoon, as you stare at a particularly confusing spreadsheet, he appears with a quiet, “do you need help with that?” you nod gratefully, and he spends the next half hour walking you through every detail, his voice calm and reassuring. “you’re actually really good at explaining this stuff,” you tell him, smiling. his ears turn pink. “i-it’s nothing, really.”

✧ you notice how seriously he takes his role in the office. whenever something goes wrong—an error in a report, a system crash—gepard is the first to step in and fix it, even if it’s not his responsibility. “you’re like the office knight in shining armor,” you joke one day. he looks embarrassed but manages a small smile. “i just want to make sure everything runs smoothly. it’s… important to me.”

✧ your bubbly personality catches him off guard more often than not. once, during a team lunch, you’re chattering about a funny story from your weekend, and he’s so focused on listening that he almost forgets to eat. “gepard, are you okay?” you ask, noticing his untouched plate. he snaps out of it, flustered. “y-yeah! i was just… um, distracted.” you tilt your head, confused, while your other coworkers (AHEM blade) stare at the poor man, absolutely fuming.

✧ gepard is protective of you in the sweetest way. when he overhears someone being a little too critical of your work, he’s quick to step in with a firm but polite, “actually, i think they’ve been doing an excellent job.” later, you thank him, and he brushes it off. “you deserve the credit,” he says simply, but the way he avoids your gaze suggests there’s more to it than that.

✧ you once offered to grab coffee for the team, only for gepard to insist on going with you. “it’s not safe to carry that many cups alone,” he explains, dead serious. you can’t help but laugh. “gepard, it’s just coffee.” “still,” he replies, already holding the door open for you.

✧ over time, you start to notice the little things he does for you. like how he always saves you a seat in meetings, or how he’s quick to hand you an umbrella on rainy days without you even asking. when you tease him about being overprotective, he stammers, “i’m just looking out for you!” but the faint smile on his face gives him away.

✧ you’ve quickly become the sunshine to his steady presence, and though he’d never admit it, gepard finds your energy infectious. you make the office feel a little brighter, and if he’s a little more eager to help you than anyone else, well, that’s just part of being a good coworker. right?

✧ gepard is the embodiment of dependability in the workplace, and it shows in the way he’s always ready to step in and help you, no matter how small or big the problem. the first time the office printer acts up on you, he’s at your side almost instantly. “it’s been temperamental lately,” he says, rolling up his sleeves like he’s about to go into battle. after a few moments of fiddling, the printer finally whirs back to life. “you saved me!” you exclaim, clasping your hands together in gratitude. he chuckles softly, his cheeks tinged pink. “it’s nothing. really.”

✧ then there was the time you accidentally printed 100 copies instead of 10, and the sound of endless paper spewing from the machine had you frozen in horror. before you could panic, gepard was already by your side. “don’t worry, we’ll fix it,” he said reassuringly, diving in to cancel the job. when that didn’t work, he started stacking the printed pages into neat piles with a calm efficiency that made you wonder if he’d done this before. “i’ll help you sort these later,” he added, his tone as steady as ever.

✧ he seems to have a radar for when you’re in over your head. one afternoon, as you’re juggling a coffee in one hand and a precariously tall stack of files in the other, gepard appears out of nowhere. “here, let me,” he says, gently taking the files from you before you can protest. “you shouldn’t have to carry all this by yourself.” you laugh, trying to lighten the moment. “what would i do without you?” he smiles softly, looking down at the files. “hopefully, we won’t have to find out.”

✧ gepard’s helpfulness doesn’t stop at office tasks. when you mention in passing that you’re not sure how to navigate the maze of departments to get a signature, he volunteers immediately. “i know the process can be confusing. i’ll go with you,” he says, grabbing his jacket. as he leads you through the building, he chats casually about the different teams, making you feel less like a lost newbie and more like you belong.

✧ you’re not sure how he does it, but gepard always seems to know when you’re overwhelmed. once, when you were swamped with deadlines and barely had time to breathe, he showed up at your desk with a cup of tea and a small snack. “you’ve been working hard,” he said, placing them in front of you. “take a five-minute break. it’ll help.” you looked at him, wide-eyed. “you didn’t have to do this.” he smiled, a little sheepishly. “maybe not, but i wanted to.”

✧ even when it’s not his responsibility, gepard goes above and beyond to ensure your day goes smoothly. during a team presentation, you realized with dread that you’d forgotten to print one of the key slides. before you could spiral into panic, gepard leaned over and whispered, “send it to me. i’ll print it right now.” and just like that, he slipped out quietly and returned minutes later with the missing slide, handing it to you with a reassuring nod.

✧ his support isn’t just limited to big emergencies. if your chair squeaks too much, he’ll find the tools to fix it. if your computer crashes, he’s the first to suggest calling IT—right after he tries troubleshooting it himself. once, you jokingly called him your “office superhero,” and though he tried to brush it off, the faint smile on his face betrayed how much the compliment meant to him.

✧ you notice that his help always comes with kindness, never judgment. when you accidentally spilled coffee on your desk (and a little on his papers), you were mortified, apologizing profusely. but gepard just waved it off with a gentle smile. “it’s fine, really. these can be reprinted. are you okay?” he immediately helped clean up the mess, even going to grab extra napkins.

✧ over time, you start to rely on him more than you probably should, but gepard never seems to mind. “you’re always there to save me,” you say one day, half-joking. he looks at you earnestly and replies, “it’s not about saving you. i just… like being someone you can count on.” and with that, you realise that gepard’s helpfulness isn’t just part of his nature—it’s his way of showing how much he cares.

✧ gepard isn’t just the kind of coworker who’ll drop everything to help you fix a printer jam or sort out your endless copies—he’s also the first person to break the unspoken office rule about keeping things strictly professional. one friday afternoon, after a particularly gruelling week, he approaches your desk with an almost shy smile. “hey, uh… i was wondering. do you want to grab a drink after work? there’s a nice bar nearby, and i thought it might be a good way to unwind.”

✧ you blink in surprise, caught off guard. “really? like… just us?” his ears turn a little pink as he scratches the back of his neck. “yeah. if you’re okay with that, of course. no pressure.” the sheer sincerity in his voice makes it impossible to say no, and you find yourself nodding eagerly. “i’d love that!”

✧ true to his word—because of course gepard always follows through—the two of you end up at a cozy little bar just a block from the office. it’s nothing fancy, but the warm lighting and relaxed vibe immediately make you feel at ease. gepard orders a simple drink and waits patiently while you deliberate over the menu. when you finally pick something, he chuckles. “you looked more stressed about that than our last meeting.” you roll your eyes playfully. “priorities, gepard!”

✧ the first outing sets the tone for many more. every couple of weeks, one of you will casually suggest, “bar after work?” and it becomes a tradition neither of you wants to break. at first, your conversations are light—complaining about difficult clients, swapping funny stories about coworkers, and sharing tips on surviving the corporate grind. but as the outings continue, the topics grow deeper.

✧ one night, after your second round, you find yourself telling him about your dreams, your fears, and even your insecurities about fitting in at work. gepard listens intently, his drink forgotten as he leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “you don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” he says firmly. “you’re doing amazing, and anyone who doesn’t see that is blind.” his words stick with you, and you can’t help but feel grateful to have someone like him in your corner.

✧ gepard, too, opens up little by little. he shares stories about his family, his love for structure and responsibility, and the occasional self-doubt that even he experiences. “sometimes, i worry I’m too serious,” he admits one night, twirling his glass idly. you laugh, shaking your head. “serious? sure. but you’re also one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. don’t sell yourself short.” his face softens, and for a moment, you think you see a hint of vulnerability in his usually composed demeanor.

✧ your bar outings become something you both look forward to, a rare chance to let your guards down in a world that demands so much of you. you learn that gepard has a surprisingly good sense of humor—dry, but sharp—and he learns that your endless optimism isn’t just an act; it’s something you genuinely try to cultivate.

✧ one evening, as you’re both laughing over a shared memory of a particularly chaotic office event, you tease, “you know, i think these bar nights are the only reason i’ve stayed sane at work.” gepard smirks, raising his glass. “then here’s to many more.”

✧ over time, it becomes clear that these nights aren’t just about escaping work stress—they’re about the connection you’ve built. whether it’s celebrating a big win at work, venting about a bad day, or simply enjoying each other’s company, your bar outings are a reminder that amidst the chaos of corporate life, you’ve found something truly special: a dependable coworker, a trusted friend, and maybe, just maybe, the start of something more.

aventurine — the charismatic mentor

✧ when you first start at your new job, aventurine is the one everyone warns you about—not in a bad way, but with a tone that implies he’s… a lot. “you’ll know him when you see him,” one coworker says cryptically, and you don’t have to wait long to understand what they mean. he’s the kind of guy who strides into the office like he owns the place, his voice carrying over the low hum of workplace chatter as he greets everyone with a cheeky grin.

✧ the first time you meet him, he flashes you a dazzling smile and introduces himself with a confident, “aventurine—best-looking guy on this floor, and probably the most fun. you must be the new recruit?” you can’t help but laugh, instantly charmed despite his cocky demeanor. “i guess that’s me. and i’ll take your word on the ‘most fun’ part.” he winks. “oh, you’ll see soon enough.”

✧ despite his playful nature, aventurine turns out to be surprisingly helpful. when you’re struggling to make sense of a particularly confusing project, he swings by your desk and casually leans against it. “having trouble? let me guess, no one explained this properly, right?” you nod sheepishly, and he rolls his eyes. “classic. don’t worry, i’ve got you.” within minutes, he’s broken down the task into simple, manageable steps, his explanations peppered with jokes that somehow make the whole ordeal less daunting.

✧ aventurine has a knack for making you feel like you belong, even when you’re doubting yourself. “you’re doing better than i did when i first started,” he tells you one afternoon, his tone uncharacteristically sincere. “i was a mess. couldn’t even figure out the coffee machine.” you laugh, but his words stick with you, a reminder that even someone as confident as him had a learning curve.

✧ he’s also the first to pull you out of your shell during team outings. “c’mon, you’re not skipping karaoke night!” he declares one friday, dragging you along with an arm slung over your shoulder. “it’s tradition. plus, i need a duet partner.” despite your protests, you end up belting out a cheesy pop song with him, and by the end of the night, you’re laughing so hard your sides hurt.

✧ aventurine has a way of turning mundane workdays into something exciting. when the office printer breaks for the third time in a week, he stages a mock funeral for it, complete with a dramatic speech that leaves the whole team in stitches. when a boring meeting threatens to put everyone to sleep, he subtly slides a doodle of a cat in sunglasses across the table to you. “this is your future if you nail that presentation,” he whispers, making you snort into your notebook.

✧ he’s also fiercely protective in his own way. when a coworker tries to pass off your ideas as their own during a meeting, aventurine doesn’t hesitate to call them out. “actually, that was their suggestion,” he says smoothly, gesturing toward you. “and a brilliant one at that.” later, you thank him, and he waves it off with a grin. “what kind of mentor would i be if i didn’t have your back?”

✧ one day, he surprises you by asking, “so, any plans after work?” when you shake your head, he grins. “perfect. there’s this great spot nearby. they’ve got amazing food, and you, my friend, need a break.” true to his word, he takes you to a vibrant little café where you spend hours chatting about everything from work to your favorite movies. it’s the first of many after-hours hangouts, each one making you appreciate his depth and kindness even more.

✧ beneath all the bravado, aventurine is someone who genuinely cares about the people around him. whether he’s helping you polish a report at the last minute, cracking jokes to lighten the mood, or giving you a pep talk before a big presentation, he’s always there, reminding you that you’re not alone in the chaos of corporate life.

✧ “you know,” you tell him one day, “for someone who’s always goofing around, you’re actually really reliable.” he smirks, leaning back in his chair. “don’t ruin my image now. but… thanks. that means a lot.” and with that, you realise that aventurine isn’t just your charismatic mentor—he’s become a friend you can count on, no matter what.

✧ aventurine prides himself on being your go-to guy at work. he’s the one who explains tricky processes with flair, spices up boring meetings with his wit, and knows just how to cheer you up after a stressful day. so when dr. ratio starts swooping in, stealing your attention with his more clinical, straight-to-the-point explanations, aventurine feels his grip on his self-proclaimed “favorite coworker” status slipping—and he’s not happy about it.

✧ it all starts innocently enough. you’re struggling to understand a particularly dense section of a report, and aventurine is mid-way through one of his animated (and slightly roundabout) explanations when dr. ratio casually slides in. “actually, if you approach it like this…” he says, swiftly breaking down the problem with a few concise sentences. you light up, nodding enthusiastically. “oh! that makes so much sense! thanks, dr. ratio!”

✧ aventurine freezes, his grin faltering for a split second before he recovers. “yeah, exactly what i was saying,” he interjects, trying to reclaim the spotlight. but you’re too focused on scribbling down notes to notice the way aventurine’s golden eyes narrow at dr. ratio, silently promising retribution.

✧ it becomes a pattern. whenever dr. ratio happens to be around, he somehow manages to insert himself into your conversations with aventurine, offering insights that leave you marveling at his intelligence. aventurine, meanwhile, stands to the side, arms crossed and jaw tight, shooting death glares at dr. ratio that could probably melt steel.

✧ the worst part? you don’t notice a thing. you’re too busy soaking up all the advice and nodding along to dr. ratio’s calm, methodical tone. aventurine, on the other hand, is practically vibrating with barely-contained annoyance. “you know,” he mutters one day after dr. ratio walks away, “some people just love to show off.” you blink, confused. “who? dr. ratio? i think he’s just really smart.” aventurine forces a smile, but inside, he’s screaming.

✧ one afternoon, the tension reaches a boiling point. you’re sitting at your desk, completely engrossed in a conversation with dr. ratio about a new project. aventurine strolls by, intending to invite you out for coffee, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees the two of you. his usual swagger is replaced by a scowl as he watches dr. ratio lean slightly closer, pointing something out on your screen.

✧ aventurine clears his throat loudly, making both of you jump. “am i interrupting something?” he asks, his tone deceptively light. you shake your head, smiling. “nope! dr. ratio was just explaining this part of the project to me. it’s so fascinating, isn’t it?” aventurine’s eye twitches, but he plasters on a grin. “oh, sure. fascinating.”

✧ later, when it’s just the two of you, aventurine finally snaps. “you know, you don’t have to go to dr. ratio for everything. i’m pretty good at explaining stuff too, you know.” you tilt your head, surprised. “i know that! you’re amazing at it. i just thought you were busy earlier.” his annoyance melts a little at your words, though he still grumbles under his breath. “busy? never too busy for you.”

✧ despite his jealousy, aventurine never confronts dr. ratio directly—he’s too proud for that. instead, he doubles down on being the most fun, supportive, and reliable person in your work life. he’ll swoop in with snacks during long meetings, crack jokes that make you laugh until your sides hurt, and even stay late to help you finish projects, all while keeping a careful eye on dr. ratio.

✧ over time, you start to notice aventurine’s subtle protectiveness. when dr. ratio tries to monopolize your time, aventurine always finds a way to insert himself into the conversation, usually with a teasing remark or a playful jab. “don’t let him bore you to death,” he’ll say, flashing you a grin. “you deserve better.”

✧ eventually, you realize what’s been going on all along. one day, after yet another instance of aventurine shooting daggers at dr. ratio, you turn to him with a knowing smile. “you’re jealous, aren’t you?” his eyes widen, and he quickly denies it. “jealous? me? pfft, no way.” but the way he avoids your gaze and rubs the back of his neck gives him away.

✧ you laugh, reaching out to nudge his arm. “you’re ridiculous, you know that? i go to you for way more than just explanations. you’re my favourite coworker, aventurine.” his expression softens, a genuine smile replacing his usual smirk. “yeah, well… don’t forget it.” and with that, the tension finally dissolves, leaving the two of you closer than ever.

✧ aventurine isn’t one to do things halfway. when he decides to show his appreciation for you, he does it in the most aventurine way possible: by showering you with gifts that make the entire office green with envy.

✧ it starts with little things—a fancy pen that writes smoother than anything you’ve ever used, a sleek notebook with your initials embossed in gold, a bouquet of your favorite flowers that mysteriously appears on your desk one morning. “just thought you deserved something nice,” he says with a wink when you thank him, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.

✧ but as time goes on, the gifts become more elaborate. one day, he surprises you with a delicate necklace featuring a gemstone that perfectly matches his eye color. “it reminded me of you,” he says, his voice softer than usual. “and, well… maybe a little of me too.” you can’t help but blush as you accept it, marveling at how the intricate design seems to mirror his signature style.

✧ aventurine has a knack for picking out accessories that are not only stunning but also distinctly him. bracelets with gold accents that resemble his attire, earrings that match the vibrant green of his signature scarf, even a brooch shaped like a starburst—a subtle nod to his larger-than-life personality. “now you’ll always have a piece of me with you,” he says with a grin, and you’re left wondering if he’s secretly a romantic underneath all that bravado.

✧ when your coworkers start noticing the gifts, they can’t help but comment. “wow, someone’s got a secret admirer,” one of them teases, eyeing the elegant watch aventurine gave you last week. you laugh it off, but aventurine, overhearing, leans in with a smug smile. “not so secret,” he quips, earning a round of laughter—and more than a few jealous looks.

✧ his generosity doesn’t stop at physical gifts. when you’re stressed about a big project, aventurine clears his schedule to help you out, staying late to go over every detail until you feel confident. “you’re gonna nail this,” he says firmly, sliding a cup of your favorite coffee across the desk. “and when you do, drinks are on me.”

✧ true to his word, he takes you to your favorite bar after work to celebrate your victories. “this is on me too,” he insists, waving off your protests as he orders the fanciest cocktail on the menu. as the night goes on, you realize these outings have become a tradition—a way for the two of you to unwind and talk about everything from work drama to your wildest dreams.

✧ aventurine’s gifts aren’t just about showing off; they’re his way of making sure you know how much he values you. whether it’s a luxurious piece of jewelry or a simple trinket that made him think of you, each one carries a piece of his heart.

✧ “you know you don’t have to do all this, right?” you tell him one day, fiddling with the bracelet he gave you. “i already know you care.” his usual playful smirk softens into something more genuine. “i know. but you deserve the best, and if I can give you that? well, why wouldn’t i?”

✧ at the end of the day, it’s not the gifts themselves that mean the most—it’s the thought behind them. every time you catch a glimpse of the necklace around your neck or the bracelet on your wrist, you’re reminded of aventurine’s unwavering support and affection. and, in a way, it feels like you’re carrying a little piece of him with you wherever you go.

dr. ratio — the genius overseer

✧ from the moment you joined the team, dr. ratio’s reputation preceded him. whispers of his brilliance—and his sharp tongue—circulated the office like wildfire. it wasn’t long before you experienced both firsthand.

✧ the first time you complimented him, his reaction was… unexpected. “wow, you’re so smart!” you exclaimed, eyes wide with genuine admiration after he solved a technical issue in under a minute. dr. ratio merely adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. “of course i am,” he replied, as if your praise was stating the obvious.

✧ despite his aloof demeanor, you couldn’t help but marvel at his intelligence. every time he unraveled a complex problem or presented an innovative solution, you were the first to pipe up with, “you’re a genius!” while your coworkers rolled their eyes, dr. ratio seemed to tolerate your praise—perhaps even enjoy it, though he’d never admit it outright.

✧ that said, his brilliance came with a side of harshness. when someone made a mistake, he didn’t hesitate to point it out with clinical precision. “this is wrong,” he’d say, his tone icy. “fix it. now.” your coworkers often avoided his gaze, but you? you took his criticisms in stride, knowing they were meant to make you better.

✧ “you’re lucky you’re not scared of him,” a coworker whispered one day after dr. ratio had finished reprimanding someone. you laughed nervously. “who says i’m not? he’s terrifying!”

✧ and terrifying he was—especially when he loomed over your desk. his towering height made it impossible not to feel a little intimidated as he peered down at your work. “is that how you were taught to do it?” he’d ask, his voice low and authoritative. you’d stammer out an apology, and he’d sigh, leaning closer to correct your mistakes.

✧ yet, beneath the intimidation, you noticed a certain… softness. while his scoldings were sharp, his corrections were always thorough. he didn’t just tell you what was wrong; he made sure you understood how to fix it. “i expect better from you,” he’d say, his tone firm but not unkind. “and you’re capable of it. don’t prove me wrong.”

✧ over time, you realized his harshness came from a place of high standards, not malice. “he’s only hard on the people he thinks have potential,” one coworker explained. “if he’s scolding you, it means he believes in you.”

✧ one day, after a particularly long lecture on proper procedures, you couldn’t help but tease him. “you’re like a strict professor, you know that?” he raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “and you’re like a student who needs constant supervision.” you laughed, and for the briefest moment, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

✧ despite his stern exterior, dr. ratio had his moments of unexpected kindness. when you stayed late to finish a project, he silently placed a cup of coffee on your desk. “you’ll need this,” he said simply before walking away.

✧ as much as he scared your coworkers, you found yourself growing more comfortable around him. his intelligence was something you admired, and his harsh critiques pushed you to improve. even when he loomed over your desk or scolded you for mistakes, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for his guidance.

✧ one day, after you finished a particularly challenging task, he stopped by your desk, his expression unreadable as always. “you did well,” he said, his voice softer than usual. your heart skipped a beat at the rare compliment. “thanks,” you replied, grinning. “but i couldn’t have done it without your help. you’re amazing, dr. ratio.”

✧ he didn’t respond immediately, but you could’ve sworn you saw a faint blush dust his cheeks as he turned away. “just keep it up,” he said, walking off. and in that moment, you realized that beneath all the harshness, dr. ratio truly cared about your growth—and maybe, just maybe, he was a little proud of you too.

✧ while dr. ratio’s reputation for brilliance and harsh criticism was well known, there was one thing many coworkers didn’t realize: if anyone dared to undermine you or make you feel less than capable, dr. ratio would swoop in with an icy calm that sent shivers down the spines of anyone within earshot.

✧ it all starts with a minor incident. one day, a coworker takes it upon themselves to “correct” your work in front of others, loudly pointing out a small mistake. “i’m not sure you’re doing this right,” they say condescendingly, not even bothering to offer a solution. you feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your confidence crumbling under the weight of their words.

✧ before you can even gather your thoughts, dr. ratio’s sharp gaze flicks toward the scene. “excuse me,” he says, his voice low and controlled, but with an unmistakable edge. the room falls silent as he rises from his desk, towering over the unfortunate coworker who dared to question you. “i believe you have something you’d like to say to [your name],” he continues, his tone cool but lethal.

✧ the coworker, visibly startled, stammers. “i… i just wanted to—”

✧ “no,” dr. ratio cuts them off. “what you wanted was to publicly embarrass [your name], correct? well, i won’t allow that.” his eyes narrow as he glares at them, sending a clear message that no one would challenge you while he was around.

✧ you watch, amazed, as the coworker mumbles an apology, their face flushed with humiliation. but dr. ratio isn’t done yet. he gives them one final, cold look. “you’re to report to my office immediately. we’ll discuss your conduct in private.”

✧ as the coworker slinks off to dr. ratio’s office, you can’t help but feel a surge of gratitude. sure, dr. ratio could be terrifying, but in this moment, he’s undeniably protective of you. you’re certain that if anyone else had been in your shoes, the situation would’ve played out differently—but not with dr. ratio.

✧ the next time you see that coworker, they’re quieter, avoiding eye contact with you. dr. ratio, however, acts as if nothing has happened, but you can sense a subtle shift in his behavior. when he comes over to check your work, there’s no condescension in his tone, only careful consideration. “let’s go over this,” he says, guiding you through the task with a calm, authoritative precision.

✧ as days go on, you realize this isn’t a one-time occurrence. dr. ratio is relentless in his protection of your work. if anyone dares to make you feel “dumb” or tries to undermine you in front of others, dr. ratio will handle it. his harsh scolding of other coworkers may be intimidating, but to you, it feels like a shield.

✧ “i don’t tolerate incompetence,” he once says in passing, his voice colder than usual. “but more importantly, i don’t tolerate anyone belittling a colleague who is working hard to improve. understand?”

✧ you nod fervently, unable to hide the warmth spreading through you at his words. no matter how intimidating he may be, dr. ratio has become your quiet protector—ensuring that no one ever makes you feel less than the capable, intelligent worker you are.

✧ the following week, when another coworker tries to mock your mistake, dr. ratio steps in before you can even react. “i suggest you follow up on your work with a bit more precision next time,” he says to them, his tone deceptively calm. “and perhaps remember that our colleague doesn’t need to be scrutinized by everyone in the room.”

✧ as the coworkers exchange nervous glances, you feel a sense of pride bubble up inside you. dr. ratio may be harsh and unapproachable at times, but in the moments that matter, he’s on your side—and you can’t help but be grateful for the silent bond you share.

✧ later, as you finish up a project together, dr. ratio’s usual criticism comes, but this time, it’s followed by a rare, approving nod. “better,” he says, and there’s a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “keep it up.”

✧ and in that moment, you realise that even though he scares most of the office with his sharp critiques and towering presence, dr. ratio has your back—always.

✧ dr. ratio’s intelligence wasn’t just limited to his work. he had an uncanny ability to read people, and when it came to aventurine’s jealousy, he wasn’t the least bit oblivious.

✧ it started with the subtle glances. aventurine would stare, just a little too long, whenever you and dr. ratio interacted, his eyes narrowing with quiet irritation. at first, dr. ratio didn’t pay it much attention—he had far too many things to focus on, after all. but after a few more incidents, something clicked in his mind.

✧ “you’re so smart, dr. ratio,” you said one day, obliviously smiling at him as he walked over to check your work. you were so absorbed in your task that you didn’t even notice aventurine’s glaring stare from across the room.

✧ but dr. ratio did. and rather than being irritated or bothered, he found the whole situation rather amusing.

✧ so, he began to play with it.

✧ whenever aventurine’s eyes lingered too long on you, dr. ratio would intentionally lean closer to you, his posture taking on a subtly possessive stance as he guided your hand to the right spot on your work. his gaze, however, would never leave aventurine’s direction, knowing full well it would drive him mad.

✧ “this is the correct formula, isn’t it?” dr. ratio asked, his voice soft, but his eyes locked on aventurine’s, daring him to do something. “just double-checking,” he continued, as you nodded, a little confused by his sudden intensity.

✧ aventurine’s face would turn red with frustration, and he’d shift uncomfortably, unwilling to approach or interfere directly, knowing well that dr. ratio’s calculating eyes never missed a thing.

✧ dr. ratio thrived in this silent game, even going as far as casually dropping his hand near yours when discussing a task, his fingers brushing against your palm just enough to make the tension rise. “ah, i see now,” he’d say, all innocence, glancing back at you. “you’re quite good at this, [your name].”

✧ to anyone else, it would seem like a normal work interaction, but to aventurine? it was pure agony.

✧ sometimes, dr. ratio would even take things a step further. when the entire team had gathered in the break room, he’d make it a point to stand so close to you that your shoulders almost touched, making sure aventurine caught every second of it. “you’re looking a bit pale today, [your name],” dr. ratio would comment casually, his tone overly sweet as he brushed a strand of hair out of your face.

✧ and aventurine’s patience would wear thin. the moment he saw dr. ratio’s hand linger near you, his sharp green eyes would flash with irritation, and he’d make his exit, mumbling something about “not having time for childish games” under his breath.

✧ dr. ratio’s amusement never seemed to fade. he’d always smirk, watching aventurine retreat, but his actions grew bolder with every passing day, each one designed to push aventurine’s buttons even more.

✧ “are you sure you’re okay, [your name]?” he’d ask again, this time purposefully leaning over you, so his presence loomed even more. “you look a little... off today.”

✧ by now, your confusion was palpable, but dr. ratio simply enjoyed watching the spectacle unfold. when aventurine would inevitably storm away, clearly flustered and annoyed, he’d chuckle to himself, his eyes glinting with the satisfaction of having gotten under his rival’s skin.

✧ one day, after an especially bold move from dr. ratio, aventurine finally snapped. “enough!” he growled, walking over to dr. ratio’s desk, his face red with fury. “stop flaunting your—your proximity like that!”

✧ dr. ratio simply tilted his head, acting entirely oblivious to the situation, though his smirk never wavered. “proximity?” he repeated. “i’m just making sure [your name] is doing their work correctly. i’d expect you to do the same.”

✧ aventurine glared at him, his body tensing, before turning on his heel, muttering something about needing air. dr. ratio leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the tension he’d just stirred.

✧ “he’s so easy to rile up,” dr. ratio mused aloud, glancing at you as he picked up his pen. “don’t you think, [your name]?”

✧ you blinked at him, still unsure of what had just happened, but dr. ratio simply smiled, his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a game well played. “don’t worry about it,” he said, a touch of humor in his voice. “just focus on your work. i’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

✧ and though you were still a bit confused, you couldn’t deny the strange thrill that seemed to linger in the air whenever dr. ratio and aventurine crossed paths.

sunday — the manager with a million excuses

✧ sunday isn’t your manager, not technically. he’s from another department, but that doesn’t stop him from finding ways to stop by your desk almost every day. it’s become such a regular occurrence that your coworkers have started joking about it.

✧ “what is it today, sunday?” you teased, smiling as he strolled up to your desk, a stack of papers in hand.

✧ “just need you to review these,” he said smoothly, setting them down in front of you. “you’ve got a good eye for detail, and I trust your judgment.”

✧ you couldn’t help but laugh. “shouldn’t someone in your own department be doing this?”

✧ “maybe,” he admitted, his lips twitching into a small smile. “but none of them are as good as you.”

✧ sunday has a way with words—polished, professional, but somehow carrying a warmth that makes you feel special. whether it’s complimenting your work ethic or praising your attention to detail, he always leaves you blushing and flustered.

✧ your coworkers often shoot you knowing looks whenever sunday appears. “he’s here again,” one of them whispered one day, nudging you as sunday made his way over, a confident stride in his step.

✧ “what’s he want now?” you muttered under your breath, though you couldn’t hide the small smile forming on your lips.

✧ “just thought you might want to take a look at these reports,” he said casually, as if he didn’t visit you almost every day with some excuse or another.

✧ “sunday, i think you’re running out of reasons to come over here,” you joked, flipping through the papers he’d handed you.

✧ “am i?” he asked, leaning slightly on your desk. his icy blue eyes held a teasing glint. “maybe I just enjoy your company.”

✧ he always makes sure to keep things light, even when the office gets hectic. one time, you were buried in work, your desk a mess of papers and files.

✧ “looks like you could use some help,” sunday said, appearing out of nowhere with a calm smile.

✧ “from you? don’t you have your own department to worry about?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

✧ “delegated,” he replied smoothly, already rolling up his sleeves. “besides, what kind of gentleman would I be if I left you like this?”

✧ he spent the next hour helping you sort through everything, his efficiency and calm demeanor a stark contrast to your frazzled state.

✧ sunday is the type of guy who knows how to command a room, but when he’s around you, there’s a softer, more personal side to him.

✧ “you know, you really don’t have to keep coming over here,” you said one day, unable to hide your smile.

✧ “and miss out on seeing your reaction every time?” he teased, his grin widening. “i think not.”

✧ though his visits might seem casual, there’s no denying the way he always seems to linger just a little longer than necessary, his gaze softening when he looks at you.

✧ “by the way,” he added as he handed you yet another stack of papers, “great work on that last report. i knew i could count on you.”

✧ and just like that, he was off, leaving you flustered and wondering if he’d ever run out of excuses—or if maybe, just maybe, he didn’t really need one to see you.

✧ as if sunday’s frequent visits to your desk weren’t enough, his sister robin somehow ends up knowing all about you. turns out, sunday talks about you to her a lot.

✧ “so, you’re the famous [your name],” robin said one day when she stopped by your department. her tone was casual, but her knowing smile made your cheeks heat up instantly.

✧ “f-famous?” you stammered, looking between her and sunday, who was standing just a few feet away, pretending to read over a document like he wasn’t paying attention.

✧ “oh, you know,” robin said with a gentle smile, “my brother just can’t stop talking about you. he’s always going on about how talented you are, how hardworking, how—”

✧ “robin,” sunday interrupted, his voice firm but his ears unmistakably red. “don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

✧ “what? i’m just making conversation,” robin replied innocently, though the smirk on her face said otherwise.

✧ unbeknownst to you, robin had taken it upon herself to play matchmaker. she’d started casually suggesting plans that conveniently involved the two of you spending more time together.

✧ “hey, [your name], you should join us for coffee after work,” robin said one day, popping into your office with sunday trailing behind her. “my treat!”

✧ “oh, i wouldn’t want to intrude,” you said, but robin waved off your protests with a grin.

✧ “nonsense. it’ll be fun!” she insisted, already dragging her brother along.

✧ during the outing, robin would subtly steer the conversation towards sunday, dropping little hints about how amazing he was.

✧ “you know, sunday’s always been the responsible one,” she said, leaning back with a sly smile. “he’s the kind of guy who’d move mountains for someone he cares about.”

✧ “robin,” sunday muttered, his voice low and warning, but his blush betrayed his usual calm demeanor.

✧ “it’s true!” robin said cheerfully, ignoring her brother’s glare.

✧ "he can cook as well, amazingly too. he's also great with numbers and smart, oh and he takes a lot of responsibility! i'm sure you can tell how great he is at taking care of others, right?"

✧ despite her best efforts, you remained blissfully unaware of her matchmaking attempts. to you, robin was just a sweet, friendly woman who clearly adored her brother—and maybe teased him a little too much.

✧ one time, robin went the extra mile and set up an impromptu lunch for you and sunday. she’d made an excuse about being busy and left you two alone at the café she’d picked.

✧ “well, this is... unexpected,” you said, glancing at sunday as the two of you sat across from each other.

✧ “she’s... persistent,” sunday admitted, a small, almost sheepish smile playing on his lips.

✧ even then, you didn’t think too much of it, chalking it up to robin just being robin. but sunday couldn’t help but glance at you, his gaze softening as you chatted away, completely oblivious to the fact that his sister had orchestrated the whole thing.

✧ “you’re lucky to have such a caring sister,” you said at one point, smiling warmly.

✧ “yeah,” sunday agreed, though his eyes never left you. “i am.”

✧ robin wasn’t subtle in her matchmaking efforts, but you somehow remained completely in the dark, much to her amusement. “you really don’t see it, do you?” she asked one day, pulling you aside during a break.

✧ “see what?” you asked, confused.

✧ “nothing,” robin said with a chuckle, shaking her head. “just... take care of my brother, okay?”

✧ her words lingered in your mind, but you brushed them off, not realizing the deeper meaning behind them—or the fond way sunday looked at you whenever you weren’t paying attention.

argenti — your go-to-manager and lifesaver (as well as a charming gentleman)

✧ argenti is the epitome of a gentleman, and he makes sure you know it every single day. no matter the task, he finds a way to compliment you, his words dripping with genuine admiration that always catches you off guard.

✧ whether it’s a passing glance or a quiet conversation, argenti never misses a chance to let you know how much he appreciates you—your intelligence, your kindness, your hard work. “you really have such an eye for detail, [your name],” he says with a charming smile, “it’s not something most people have. truly impressive.”

✧ his compliments are always warm, never forced, and his tone is soft and respectful. but for someone who’s so effortless in his flattery, it always sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. you can never get used to it, and every time, you find yourself stammering slightly.

✧ "oh, um, thank you, argenti," you say, trying to hide the blush that’s spreading across your face. “i—i didn’t expect you to notice.”

✧ argenti, of course, flashes his signature grin, a little mischievous but still incredibly sweet. "how could i not notice such brilliance?" he says smoothly, his eyes twinkling with an affectionate glint.

✧ the effect is immediate: your face turns an even deeper shade of red, and your heart flutters a little faster. it’s not just the words themselves but the way he delivers them—gentle and sincere, like he’s truly honored to be in your presence.

✧ and of course, the other coworkers notice.

✧ they’re not blind, and they’re certainly not immune to argenti’s charm. every time he compliments you, they can’t help but exchange looks of jealousy, some of them even rolling their eyes or scoffing when they see how naturally it comes to him.

✧ “again with the compliments?” one of your coworkers mutters under their breath, crossing their arms. “what is it with him? he barely even looks at anyone else like that.”

✧ another coworker leans in, whispering to the first, “doesn’t he know how hard it is to compete with that kind of charm? i mean, seriously, he’s all but swooning over [your name].”

✧ but argenti is completely unaware—or rather, he’s too focused on you to care about anyone else.

✧ “you really do brighten up the room when you walk in, [your name],” he says one day, his voice warm as he opens the door for you. his eyes lock with yours as you step through, the genuine admiration in them making your stomach flutter.

✧ you stutter a response, flustered and unsure how to handle all the attention. “thank you… argenti. i—I’m just trying to do my best.”

✧ “and it shows,” he responds with a wink, his hand lightly brushing your shoulder as you walk past him. the movement is casual but somehow meaningful, and you can practically feel the jealousy brewing in the air as the others watch from the corner of the room.

✧ it doesn’t help that argenti is always so attentive, so gentle, and so charming. whether it’s offering to carry your files or holding the door open for you, he goes out of his way to make sure you feel special in a way that’s completely sincere.

✧ “if you ever need help with anything, just ask,” he says with a soft chuckle as he notices you looking over a particularly complicated report. “you shouldn’t have to struggle on your own, especially when you have someone like me around.”

✧ you try to brush off the compliment, but it’s impossible not to blush every time. “argenti, you really don’t have to go out of your way…”

✧ “it’s no trouble at all,” he insists with a smile, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary. "besides, i enjoy being in your company."

✧ his words make your heart race, and before you know it, you’re completely lost in the warmth of his attention. but it’s not just you who notices the effect argenti has on you—everyone else can see it too, and it’s driving them crazy.

✧ “i swear, if i hear one more compliment from him, i’m going to lose it,” one of your coworkers mutters, clearly annoyed. “why does he always have to be so perfect with [your name]?”

✧ “it’s not like that,” another coworker defends half-heartedly, but the bitterness in their voice betrays their true feelings. “he’s just… a natural, i guess. but still.”

✧ it’s clear that argenti’s effortless charm is driving some of them to frustration, but he pays no mind to the growing jealousy around him. to him, complimenting you is just second nature—because he genuinely wants to make you feel good about yourself.

✧ “you’re quite a remarkable person, [your name],” argenti says with a soft, sincere smile one afternoon, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “and i don’t just mean in your work. i mean, in everything.”

✧ once again, your face goes crimson, and your heart flutters as he meets your gaze. no matter how much the others might grumble, it’s clear that you’re the one argenti sees as special, and you can’t help but feel incredibly lucky for it.

✧ with argenti, you know that his compliments are genuine, and in a world full of competition and rivalry, that’s something that feels truly rare.

✧ argenti holds a higher-up management position at work, which keeps him quite busy during office hours. he’s responsible for overseeing a lot of tasks and projects, which means he’s often pulled in different directions, but that doesn’t stop him from being a supportive presence in your work life.

✧ before work, though, he’s your go-to guy. whether it’s giving you advice on a tricky report, making sure you’re prepared for the day, or just offering a kind word, argenti always finds time for you.

✧ one day, you forget your ID at home, and argenti is the first to notice. without hesitation, he hands you his ID, saying, “don’t worry about it. use mine for both of us today.”

✧ you’re taken aback by his kindness, and it makes your heart flutter. “argenti, you really don’t have to…”

✧ “it’s no trouble at all,” he replies with a soft smile, his warm tone making you feel instantly at ease. “i don’t mind. you’ve helped me plenty of times before, so it’s the least i can do.”

✧ during work, argenti is often preoccupied with his management duties, but that doesn’t stop him from offering you encouragement whenever he has the chance. sometimes, when you run into a tough situation, he’ll sneak over to your desk and offer a quick suggestion, always ensuring that you’re doing okay without interrupting your flow.

✧ “need a hand with that?” he’ll ask with a gentle smile, his eyes meeting yours in a way that lets you know he’s got your back, no matter how busy he is.

✧ while he’s busy with his own responsibilities, argenti always makes you feel like a priority, and you often find yourself grateful for how attentive he is, even when his schedule is packed. his support is a constant, and it’s clear that he genuinely cares about your success and well-being.

✧ the others often notice the way argenti looks out for you, and there’s a bit of jealousy in the air. “how does [your name] get all that help?” they’ll mutter under their breath when they see him helping you. but argenti pays no mind. he’s just doing what comes naturally to him—looking out for you in the way he knows best.

✧ with argenti, you never feel alone in the workplace. whether it’s before work, during a hectic day, or even in the small moments when you need a hand, he’s always there to lend support, and it’s one of the things that makes him stand out in the office.

boothill — the wanted galaxy ranger with a secret identity

✧ boothill works with you at the corporate office, though he’s not quite what he seems. by day, he’s a charming and somewhat mysterious coworker who sticks to his role, but by night, he’s the notorious galaxy ranger on the run, wanted for his exploits across the city. no one knows this side of him—except you.

✧ he’s the kind of guy who keeps to himself at work but is always helpful in subtle ways. he’ll swing by your desk to hand you a file you didn’t know you needed or quietly offer advice when he sees you struggling with a project. but there’s something off about him—something that makes you sense there’s more to his story.

✧ “you’ve been working hard lately,” he says one day as he slides a cup of coffee onto your desk. “make sure you don’t burn yourself out.”

✧ you can’t help but smile at his thoughtful gesture, but there’s a certain sadness in his eyes, like he’s carrying a heavy burden.

✧ “thanks, boothill. i appreciate it,” you reply, wondering why he seems so tired lately. he rarely stays late at the office, and when he does, he’s always in and out, never really engaging with anyone.

✧ it’s not until one night, after work hours, that you stumble across his secret. you’re staying late to finish a project when you hear strange noises coming from the office’s loading dock. curious, you peek through the window and spot boothill in a heated conversation with a few shady-looking figures.

✧ “keep it down, will you?” boothill growls, clearly agitated. “i don’t have time for this. i’ve got things to do.”

✧ you watch in shock as one of the figures pulls out a holographic wanted poster with boothill’s face on it. “you think we’re just going to let you get away with your little stunts, ranger?” the figure sneers.

✧ boothill’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his composure. “you’ll have to catch me first.”

✧ before you can react, boothill spots you through the window and waves you over. “it’s not what it looks like,” he says, his voice calm but with an edge to it. “just some personal business. nothing to worry about.”

✧ you’re stunned, your mind racing with the implications of what you’ve just seen. “boothill… you’re…”

✧ he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “well to cut things short i’ve got a bounty on my head from some folks who want to catch me. but don’t worry, i won’t drag you into this.”

✧ you’re speechless for a moment, trying to process the fact that your seemingly quiet coworker is a fugitive. but even as you try to wrap your mind around it, you realize you’re not afraid of him. if anything, you’re intrigued.

✧ “you’ve been helping me all this time, and you’re wanted?” you ask, incredulity in your voice. “why?”

✧ boothill looks down, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “guess i’m not all bad, huh? maybe i’m just trying to lay low, do some good when i can. don’t worry about it, though. it’s my mess to clean up.”

✧ from that point on, you can’t help but keep an eye on him. the more you observe, the more you see how much boothill is not the criminal the posters paint him to be. he’s protective of his coworkers, always putting others first when it counts, and secretly, he’s a man with a heart of gold under that tough exterior.

✧ one day, as you’re wrapping up a meeting, boothill slides you a note under the table. “let’s meet up after work. i’ll tell you more. don’t bring anyone else.”

✧ you agree, meeting him at a nearby bar after hours where you learn more about his past and the reasons behind his fugitive status. the more you get to know him, the more you realize that he’s a man of honor caught up in a dangerous game—and you’re lucky to be the one person he trusts.

✧ "you know," boothill says quietly, looking over his shoulder as if checking for any prying eyes, "this whole office thing? it’s not as boring as i thought. i kind of like it here... even if i’m not exactly cut out for the nine-to-five life."

✧ with boothill, you never know when the next adventure will come knocking at the door, but you do know one thing: he’s not just a wanted fugitive. he’s someone who genuinely cares, and no matter what happens, you’ll stand by him.

✧ boothill’s protective nature comes through loud and clear in the workplace. while he usually keeps a low profile, he’s always observant of those around him, especially when it comes to you. if any coworker becomes too familiar or crosses boundaries, boothill is there in an instant, his usually calm demeanour shifting into something more serious.

✧ “you’ve been working late again,” he says casually as he leans against the side of your desk, but his eyes are sharp. “you okay?”

✧ you glance up, a little startled by his sudden presence. “yeah, just wrapping things up. why?”

✧ boothill leans in slightly, his tone low but firm. “there was a guy—looked like he was hanging around your desk too much. kept lingering.”

✧ your brows furrow in confusion. “wait, really? I didn’t even notice.”

✧ boothill gives you a small smile, his hand resting casually on his hip. “exactly. but I did. if someone’s making you uncomfortable, you tell me. I won’t let anyone mess with you.”

✧ from then on, boothill becomes your unofficial office protector. whenever you’re at work late, he’ll quietly keep an eye on things, checking in on you without making it obvious. if any coworker begins to act suspiciously or crosses boundaries, boothill steps in, handling it swiftly and effectively.

✧ “excuse me, you’ve been lingering around [your name]’s desk,” boothill says one day, addressing a particularly nosy coworker. “if you’ve got something to say, say it now, but keep your distance.”

✧ the coworker stumbles over his words, visibly uneasy under boothill’s intense gaze. “I—just trying to ask about the report,” he mutters, but boothill isn’t buying it.

✧ “then talk to me. don’t waste [your name]’s time. she doesn’t need to deal with you.”

✧ word quickly spreads in the office about boothill’s protective nature. though his reputation precedes him, no one dares to challenge him after witnessing how swiftly he handles situations. he’s known as someone not to cross—not because of fear, but because of his quiet authority and clear boundaries.

✧ one evening, as you’re working late again, a group of coworkers decides to invite you to a casual after-hours hangout at a nearby bar. before you can even answer, boothill approaches with a polite smile but a firm tone.

✧ “she’s busy tonight,” he says, cutting off any attempts to sway you. “she’ll join next time. but tonight, she’s got things to finish up.”

✧ you blink in surprise. “boothill, I wasn’t even thinking of going.”

✧ “just letting you know. no need to explain.” his gaze lingers just long enough to make it clear he’s watching out for you.

✧ as you and boothill spend more time together, you realize his protective instincts extend beyond work. whether it’s an annoying project deadline or a pushy coworker, boothill is there to shield you, often without you even noticing.

✧ “you don’t have to keep looking out for me,” you tell him one day, touched by his constant vigilance.

✧ boothill offers a small, self-deprecating grin. “it’s kind of my thing. protecting people, especially you. besides, someone’s gotta make sure you’re not getting into trouble around here.”

✧ with boothill around, the office feels safer in more ways than one. not only is he highly capable, but he’s also incredibly attentive, ensuring that no one crosses lines and keeping you from dealing with unnecessary stress. in a place where boundaries can be blurred, boothill stands firm, protecting you in a way that is both subtle and powerful.

✧ and despite his feelings for you, he is aware that he's not the only one vying for their affection. he knows that he'll have to compete against other coworkers who also have their sights set on you. they all work hard to stand out from the competition, showcasing their best qualities and going above and beyond to make you feel special.

phainon — the charming coworker (and your golden retriever)

✧ phainon is the new guy in the office, and at first glance, he seems like a kind, helpful person who’s always willing to lend a hand. you quickly learn that he’s got a unique balance between being genuinely helpful and teasingly snarky, which throws people off—especially because it’s hard to tell when he’s joking or being sincere.

✧ one day, when you’re struggling with a report that’s due the next day, phainon swings by your desk with a half-smile and a twinkle in his eye. “you look like you’ve been wrestling with that thing for hours. don’t tell me you're going to miss the deadline?”

✧ you sigh, running your hand through your hair. “I’m trying, but it’s just not coming together.”

✧ phainon leans over your desk, looking at the screen. “it’s not rocket science, you know,” he says, his voice light but with a teasing edge. “just break it into smaller chunks, maybe that’ll help you focus.”

✧ you glance up, half-expecting him to follow up with some kind of sarcastic remark, but instead, he just gives you a knowing look and steps back. “don’t stress. you’ll get it done, no problem.”

✧ you blink, surprised by his supportive tone. “thanks, phainon. I didn’t think you were, like, the motivational type.”

✧ phainon shrugs nonchalantly, his expression neutral but his smile hinting at something mischievous. “what can I say? I’ve got layers. don’t always go by the first impression. but seriously, get that report done.”

✧ though his words often have a teasing tone, you can tell he’s genuinely trying to help. he doesn’t linger too long and doesn’t push when you ask for space, but you find yourself trusting his advice more than you’d expect.

✧ phainon has this way of dishing out advice with a sarcastic twist that somehow makes everything seem lighter, even when the workload is overwhelming. his comments, though snarky, never feel malicious—just playful and oddly comforting.

✧ “you know,” he says one day while you’re working on something else, “if you stare at the same thing long enough, it’ll probably start staring back. but hey, that’s just my unrequested wisdom for today.”

✧ you can’t help but laugh, which catches the attention of a few other coworkers. “you’re weird, phainon.”

✧ he grins widely. “that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

✧ one thing you quickly realize about phainon is that he’s always ready with a snarky remark when others need a little cheering up. when some of your coworkers are getting bogged down with tasks or stressed about deadlines, phainon swoops in with just the right kind of comment to lift their spirits.

✧ “looks like the project’s giving you a headache, huh?” he says one day to a colleague, who looks ready to pull their hair out. “you know, the desk chairs are actually pretty comfy for napping if you get too tired. just sayin’.”

✧ at first, people assume phainon’s just being dismissive or rude, but it’s clear he’s actually trying to inject a little humor into a stressful situation. even if he’s not the most obvious cheerleader, his presence has a calming effect on everyone around him.

✧ when it’s your turn to be stressed or overworked, phainon steps in without being asked, offering support in his own unique way. “you look like you could use a break,” he says, showing up at your desk with a cup of coffee. “thought I’d make your life a little easier. I know you’ve been working non-stop.”

✧ you give him a grateful smile, surprised by the gesture. “thanks, phainon. you’re not as bad as you act, you know that?”

✧ “hey, I’m a ray of sunshine when I need to be,” he says, winking. “don’t get too used to it, though.”

✧ over time, you start to realize that phainon’s teasing remarks and seemingly neutral tone are just his way of showing he cares. he’s not overly sentimental or loud about it, but when it counts, he’s always there to lend a hand, a witty remark, or some much-needed comic relief.

✧ if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was just a guy who liked to stir the pot with a few sarcastic jabs—but underneath it all, phainon is one of the most reliable coworkers you could ask for, with a heart that’s just as layered as his personality.

✧ at first glance, phainon might seem like the cool, snarky guy who’s always ready with a clever remark. his white hair and icy blue eyes give him an air of mystery, making him stand out in the office. but what most don’t see immediately is his protective side, the one that shows itself when you need it the most.

✧ one day, as you’re rushing to catch a meeting and navigating a crowded hallway, you trip over your own feet, completely losing your balance. before you can even blink, phainon is right there, his arm slipping around your waist to keep you steady, his grip firm yet gentle.

✧ “you alright?” he asks, his voice calm, though there’s a slight edge of concern underneath.

✧ you blink up at him, still in a daze from the near-fall. “uh, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

✧ phainon’s icy blue eyes flicker with a softness that isn’t often seen in his usual teasing demeanor. “be careful next time. don’t need you hurting yourself over something so simple.”

✧ you chuckle nervously, straightening up. “I didn’t even see that coming.”

✧ he doesn’t let go of your waist immediately, though, his hand lingering just a little longer than necessary as if making sure you’re fully steady again. when he finally pulls away, there’s a faint, teasing smile on his lips. “you’re welcome. I’m here to make sure you don’t do something silly, like break your neck over your own two feet.”

✧ the fact that phainon is so quick to react in situations like these makes you realise that beneath his cool and sarcastic exterior, there’s genuine care for the people around him—especially you.

✧ even in the office, when you’re dealing with a particularly difficult task or a stressful moment, phainon is always there to offer support, though he does it in his own unique way.

✧ “need a hand?” he’ll ask, his voice cool but kind, his usual teasing replaced by a rare sincerity.

✧ when you’re struggling to juggle multiple tasks, he’ll pop by your desk, lean in just a little too close, and offer you some advice in a tone that could easily be mistaken for a snarky comment, but you can tell it’s his way of offering help.

✧ “you know, multitasking is a bit overrated. try focusing on one thing at a time, and maybe you’ll actually get it right.”

✧ you know he’s trying to lighten the mood, and his icy demeanor has a way of making everything feel less heavy.

✧ there’s also something about the way phainon carries himself that makes you feel safe, like he’s always looking out for you in a quiet, understated way. it’s not the loud, attention-grabbing kind of protectiveness; instead, it’s the kind where you know he’s there when you need him, without needing to be reminded.

✧ one day, after a particularly long day at work, you’re heading to your car when you notice a strange figure lurking near the parking lot. the hair on the back of your neck stands up, and instinctively, you reach for your phone to call security.

✧ before you can make the call, phainon appears out of nowhere, his icy blue eyes sharp and focused as he stands by your side. his mere presence is enough to make the stranger hesitate.

✧ “everything alright?” phainon asks smoothly, his tone calm, but the intensity in his eyes says it all.

✧ the stranger looks at phainon, clearly intimidated by his towering presence and the cool authority in his voice. without a word, they turn and leave, their posture tense as they quickly walk away.

✧ you blink in surprise as phainon turns to you, his gaze softening just a little. “don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”

✧ there’s something about the way he says it, so sure and calm, that makes you feel safe. you realize that no matter how cold or snarky he might seem, phainon would do anything to protect you, whether it’s from a near fall or an unknown threat lurking in the shadows.

✧ as time goes on, you begin to notice more of his small protective gestures—like when he makes sure you’re not walking alone late at night or when he steps in to smooth things over when coworkers are making you feel uncomfortable.

✧ it’s clear that phainon may seem like the golden retriever in your team, teasing coworker on the outside, but in reality, he’s a true protector with a heart of gold, always watching out for you in his own way. whether it’s offering a steady arm when you stumble or quietly ensuring your safety.

✧ and when you call him "your hero" jokingly you fail to notice how his cheeks grow reader by each second. because in all seriousness phainon would love to be your hero, your prince.

mydei — the fiery troublemaker (who undeniably has a soft spot for you)

✧ mydei is the loud, brash coworker everyone knows not to mess with. his sharp tongue and hard-spoken nature make him stand out in the office, and he’s got a reputation for causing a little trouble here and there. but what most people don’t expect is how fiercely protective he is—especially when it comes to you.

✧ you also see him around phainon a lot, they seem close despite the small bickering every now and then (and their lingering gazes fixated on someone), often times mydei even asks for you to join him and phainon at break in the cafeteria, and sometimes you have to turn them down, already planning to sit with blade and/or jing yuan.

✧ does it frustrate him? slightly yeah. but can he do anything about it? well technically yes, he can. but blade? that guy's TOUGH. if he were to try to persuade or even threaten blade he's 100% sure it'll turn into a catfight or something. and if they were to say it was because of you? your reputation and career would be over.

✧ and he can't have that. not when he's finally interested in someone after those boring corporate years.

✧ one time, a higher-up tried to dump extra work on you at the last minute, and before you could even process what was happening, mydei stepped in. he loomed over the poor soul with a smirk that could send shivers down anyone’s spine.

✧ “do as they say,” he growled, his tone low and dangerous. “otherwise… I’ll turn you into iron dust with my bare hands.”

✧ the sheer intimidation radiating off him was enough to make the higher-up back off immediately, stammering out an apology before practically running out of the room. you were left blinking in surprise as mydei turned back to you, his expression softening just a little.

✧ “you good?” he asked, crossing his arms as if daring anyone else to mess with you.

✧ you nodded, still a bit stunned. “yeah, thanks… but maybe next time, don’t threaten to, uh, turn someone into iron dust?”

✧ he let out a gruff laugh, shrugging. “hey, it worked, didn’t it? no one messes with my team. especially not you.”

✧ despite his rough exterior, mydei has a soft spot for you that he tries (and fails) to hide. whether it’s grabbing an extra coffee for you in the morning or making sure no one overloads you with tasks, he’s always looking out for you in his own gruff way.

✧ when you’re overwhelmed with work, mydei doesn’t hesitate to step in. “give me some of that,” he says, already pulling a stack of papers off your desk.

✧ “mydei, you don’t have to—”

✧ “stop talking and let me help,” he interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. “you’re not doing this alone, alright?”

✧ his protectiveness extends beyond just work. one time, a creepy coworker kept hovering around your desk, making you uncomfortable. mydei noticed immediately and didn’t hesitate to intervene.

✧ “you got something to do, or are you just here to bother people?” he said, his voice sharp and cutting. the creep quickly made themselves scarce, and mydei shot you a reassuring look.

✧ “don’t let idiots like that bother you,” he said, his tone softer than usual. “if anyone gives you trouble, you come to me, got it?”

✧ you can’t help but admire how effortlessly he handles situations like that, even if his methods are a bit… unconventional.

✧ mydei’s protective nature isn’t just about threats and intimidation, though. he genuinely cares about your well-being, even if he’s not the best at expressing it.

✧ “you look tired,” he says one day, frowning as he watches you rub your temples. “when was the last time you ate?”

✧ “i’m fine, mydei,” you assure him, but he’s already walking off to grab you something from the break room.

✧ “no arguments,” he calls over his shoulder. “you’re not working yourself into the ground on my watch.”

✧ while some people might find his rough edges intimidating, you’ve come to see the softer side of him—the one that’s fiercely loyal and always ready to stand up for the people he cares about.

✧ even when he’s causing a bit of trouble or throwing out wild threats, you know it’s all because he wants to protect you. mydei might be a troublemaker, but he’s your troublemaker, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

✧ mydei’s reputation in the office is practically legendary. no one dares to cross him—his hard-spoken, no-nonsense demeanour makes it crystal clear that he’s not someone to mess with. coworkers usually avoid his gaze, and when he speaks, even the boldest among them stutter and apologise before scurrying off like frightened mice.

✧ you’ve seen it happen countless times, like the day a supervisor tried to overload you with tasks. before you could even muster a response, mydei was there, leaning casually against the supervisor’s desk with a dangerous smirk.

✧ “are you deaf?” he said, his voice calm but laced with an unmistakable edge. “they said they’re busy. unless you want me to turn you into iron dust with my bare hands, I suggest you listen.”

✧ the supervisor’s face turned pale, and they stammered out a hasty apology before retreating so quickly they almost tripped over their own feet. you blinked at mydei, half in awe and half in disbelief.

✧ “you really don’t have to threaten everyone,” you said, trying not to laugh.

✧ he shrugged, grinning. “it’s effective, isn’t it?”

✧ despite his rough methods, there’s no denying that mydei’s protectiveness is unmatched. if anyone even thinks about overworking you or making you feel uncomfortable, he’s there in an instant, ready to handle the situation.

✧ one time, you accidentally spilled coffee on some important paperwork, and a coworker started to berate you for being careless. mydei appeared out of nowhere, his arms crossed and his glare cutting through the tension like a knife.

✧ “you got a problem?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

✧ the coworker froze, their face going pale. “n-no, of course not! it’s fine, really!” they stammered before practically sprinting away.

✧ you turned to mydei, feeling equal parts grateful and flustered. “you didn’t have to scare them off like that.”

✧ he smirked, tapping the side of your desk. “you’re too nice. someone’s gotta put these idiots in their place.”

✧ mydei’s presence is so commanding that even the most confident employees think twice before crossing him. yet with you, he softens in ways that surprise even himself.

✧ when you’re stressed or tired, he notices right away. “you’ve been working too hard,” he says, frowning as he watches you rub your temples. “take a break before I make you.”

✧ he’s also fiercely protective of your time. if someone tries to drag you into unnecessary meetings or pile on extra work, mydei steps in without hesitation.

✧ “their plate’s already full,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “find someone else.”

✧ no one ever argues with him—at least, not for long. the workers usually nod nervously, mutter apologies, and retreat as quickly as they can.

✧ mydei’s protectiveness extends to the little things, too. if you forget your lunch or need help carrying something heavy, he’s there, grumbling about how you need to take better care of yourself but still helping you without question.

✧ “you’re lucky I’m here,” he says, handing you a lunch he picked up from the break room. “what would you do without me?”

✧ his gruff words might sound teasing, but the warmth in his actions speaks volumes.

✧ also if you didn't know, he is notorious for his messy uniform. his tie is always loose, his shirt untucked at the corners, and his blazer perpetually wrinkled, like he just rolled out of bed and strolled into work. it’s the kind of look that would get anyone else reprimanded daily—but somehow, mydei pulls it off effortlessly. in fact, it’s part of his charm.

✧ you can’t help but notice how many coworkers—especially the women—sneak glances at him when he walks by. he’s the kind of guy who looks annoyingly good no matter what, his roguish appearance only adding to his already intimidating charisma.

✧ “you’re going to get written up again,” you tease one morning, pointing at his untied tie.

✧ he grins, leaning casually against your desk. “let them try,” he says, completely unbothered. “besides, I don’t see you complaining.”

✧ you roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way his confidence makes your cheeks warm. “i’m just saying—it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more… professional.”

✧ “professional, huh?” he leans in slightly, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “you offering to fix it for me?”

✧ flustered, you wave him off. “fix it yourself, mydei!”

✧ despite his rebellious attitude, he never fails to catch the attention of the higher-ups, who often call him out for his appearance.

✧ “mydei, your uniform is unacceptable,” his supervisor scolds during a meeting.

✧ he shrugs, adjusting his loose tie just enough to feign compliance. “it’s a tie, not a noose. I like to breathe.”

✧ you stifle a laugh as his coworkers exchange nervous glances. no one dares to challenge him further, knowing how quickly he can turn the situation in his favor.

✧ when he’s not stirring up trouble with his uniform, mydei’s protective streak shines through in unexpected ways. one time, you tripped over a loose cable and nearly fell, but his reflexes were faster than you could believe.

✧ “careful,” he muttered, his arm firmly around your waist to steady you. his usual smirk softened for a moment as he looked down at you. “you trying to give me a heart attack?”

✧ your heart raced as you nodded sheepishly. “thanks, mydei…”

✧ “anytime,” he said, releasing you reluctantly. his hand lingered for a second longer than necessary, but neither of you acknowledged it.

✧ while his uniform might be a constant source of reprimands, his messy, laid-back style somehow adds to his charm. you can’t help but think that even if he cleaned up his act, he’d still be the same mydei—fiery, protective, and always ready to have your back.

✧ and as much as you’d never admit it out loud, you don’t mind the loose tie or the wrinkled blazer. it’s just… him. and he wouldn’t be mydei without it.

✧ mydei’s appearance is nothing short of striking, and the red marks that stretch from his chest to his arms and even onto the side of his face make him impossible to miss. they’re bold, fiery streaks that seem to mirror his personality—unapologetic and intense. coworkers whisper about them, but no one dares to ask him about their meaning, not when his fiery glare can send chills down anyone’s spine.

✧ “doesn’t it bother you?” you asked him one day, your curiosity getting the better of you as you gestured to the marks.

✧ he looked at you, one eyebrow raised. “bother me? they’re part of me,” he said simply, shrugging. “why, do they bother you?”

✧ “no, of course not!” you said quickly, feeling your cheeks warm. “i think they’re… cool.”

✧ his lips twitched into a rare, genuine smile. “good. wouldn’t want to scare you off.”

✧ those red marks only add to the aura of danger and confidence he carries with him. his uniform might be a mess, but the way he owns it—combined with his sharp, handsome features—draws attention wherever he goes.

✧ his coworkers (especially the women) steal glances at him all the time, though no one dares to approach him directly.

✧ “mydei, you’re like a walking distraction,” you teased one day, noticing the stares he was getting.

✧ he smirked, leaning closer to you. “jealous?”

✧ “hardly!” you shot back, crossing your arms.

✧ “good,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes glinting with something more. “because I don’t care about them.”

✧ his protectiveness of you is unmatched. whenever someone so much as looks at you the wrong way, mydei’s fiery temper flares up.

✧ one time, a particularly rude coworker made a snide comment about your work. before you could respond, mydei was there, looming over them with his arms crossed. the red marks on his face seemed to glow faintly under the fluorescent lights, making him look even more intimidating.

✧ “care to repeat that?” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

✧ the coworker stammered, their face pale. “n-no, it’s fine! just a joke!”

✧ “thought so,” mydei said, his tone cold as ice. “don’t let it happen again.”

✧ when you almost tripped over a stack of files one day, his reflexes kicked in instantly. his arm shot out to wrap around your waist, keeping you steady.

✧ “you okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of distress.

✧ “yeah, thanks,” you said, your heart racing.

✧ his hand lingered on your waist for a moment before he stepped back, his usual smirk returning. “you need to be more careful. i can’t always be around to catch you.”

✧ whether it’s scaring off creeps or helping you with tasks, mydei’s protectiveness is constant. but it’s the moments where his fiery exterior softens, where his actions speak louder than his words, that truly make your heart flutter.

✧ and those red marks, the ones that make him look like a warrior straight out of legend? they’re a reminder of who he is—bold, fearless, and always ready to stand by your side. (oh and btw you're the only one who's allowed to call him mydeimos)

note: i did not expect to write 15.9k on this why did i do this to myself.

taglist 🏷️:  @tomansimp @one-offmind @miitchiji @dainsleif-when-playable @momoewn @stygianoir @irethepotato @v4an @imetsk @fiannee @sunnyf4lls @yuri-is-silly @khoiyyu @daydreaming-paradies if im missing anyone please tell me because i have an inkling feeling i missed a few..

you actually cocked an eyebrow. how the hell were you supposed to know? boothill was brought back to you in a mess of scraps and wiring— the damn hunk of metal was lucky you made him as blast proof as possible and he was left salvageable. 

“care to tell me how the hell you got this roughed up?”

you asked in turn, crouching down to look at the detached and ruined internals of boothill's torso where the stand-in wires were connected. you ran a finger carefully along the edge of his shredded metallic stomach.

“guess i didn't make you as smart as i thought. time for a newer model, maybe?”

boothill's eyes flickered down to his missing lower half, then to your hand that was more or less caressing him. it was amazing how much annoyance they could show in all their artificial glory.

“look who’s talkin.” the cowboy grumbled, pointy fangs poking out in an irritated grin. 

“how ‘bout, ‘gee, boothill! i’m real glad y’ain’t get blown to smithereens beyond repair!’” 

“it would've been less work for me if whoever blew you up finished the job.”

you sighed as you stood up, putting a hand lazily on your hip.

“how’d it happen?”

boothill bit back another argument with a gruff chuckle.

“some real cutie-pies i was huntin’ down had a lil’ more firepower than i expected. guess they didn’t appreciate me spoilin’ their party.”

boothill visibly cringed as his insult was substituted with some cutesy nickname mid explanation.

“and can you fix my beautiful synesthesia beacon already? this thing is drivin’ me up the wall.”

the request fell on deaf ears as your fingers typed something on your laptop, likely another string of code.

“you’re more concerned about your censor than how long it’s gonna take me to put your legs back on…” you sighed to yourself, still leaned over your workbench, eyes focused on your screen.

“i'm not touching it right now. you’re lucky i’m even letting you stay sentient after this.”

boothill snorted at the remark, brows furrowing in a steady grimace.

“well, ‘scuse me for wantin’ to speak freely–  i’m a grown man!” his pointy teeth shone as they peeked out again in a grin.

“y’know what? just leave yer lil’ tools and all the pieces there— i’ll get my legs back on myself. don’t need no charity work from the likes’a you.” he laughed. “heck, may even give myself a new pecker while i'm at it!”

the mechanic had half a mind to listen, sit back and watch boothill struggle to reassemble himself just to prove a point and simultaneously bask in his embarrassment when the former realised it wasn’t possible.

(not that he would’ve admitted defeat– you would have begrudgingly stepped in and helped before he inevitably messed up his wiring more.)

you stepped back over to boothill, hands moving to hold his cheeks so you could tilt his face side to side to check for any more damage.

“cool it, cowboy.” your eyes squinted in focus as they looked at boothill's, lightly tugging up on his eyelid to check for scratches or cracks.

“i'll get you back up and running, just lose the attitude already.”

boothill's eyes narrowed as he felt your touch on his face. the temperature difference of warm fingers on his cold, mechanical body stirring an oddity where his gut should have been. though he tried to ignore it, the sensation was there, clear as day against all his artificial nerve endings. 

“real easy for you to say,” he huffed, avoiding your eyes as he was examined like a broken toy. “let’s see how peachy you are when yer all strung up and legless, love muffin.”

that censor really was gonna drive him insane.

“just get it over with.'' boothill muttered in annoyance. “and try not t’fuss anythin’ up.”

it took quite some time, as expected, for you to successfully reattach boothill’s legs and fix his mangled midsection. when you were finally finished, you tugged out any leftover wires that connected boothill to your terminals and pushed back in your wheelie chair to beckon the cowboy forward. you pushed your glasses up to your forehead, some hair getting swept out of your eyes with them.

“feel fine?”

boothill rolled his ankles and bent his knees, giving his legs a good stretch to test their mobility.

“mighty fine,” he responded, satisfied to feel they were weighted and moved the same as before. “though i can’t say i’m lovin’ the breeze up my backside.” 

boothill glanced down at himself, steel body completely bare and lacking any of his signature clothing. 

“got my pants lyin’ around anywhere, sugar plum?”

you pointed to another table in the room, where boothills clothes— (or rather the new ones you had to go and get—) were neatly folded, his hat placed on top of them. 

boothill went to get himself dressed, hoisting up his bell bottomed pants and sliding on his jacket. he stole a glance in your direction every so often, resisting the childish urge to roll his eyes at the mere sight of you.

the artificial man hit a small bump in the road as he went to zip his jacket (could you really call it that with how little it covered?) up—  his fingers weren’t responding as well as they should have been. he could open and close his fist, but lacked the precision to pinch and hold the zipper.

“hey, honeybun,'' boothill called over to you with a furrowed brow. “didn’t i tell you not to go fudgin’ anythin’ up?”