You knew for a fact that you loved the eel, and that behind his scheming pursuits and chilling smiles, he does hold some affection for you. But you weren’t sure if he liked you the same way you did. When your fingers brushed over his, did he feel the same rush you did? Whenever you spot him in a sea of students after class, does his heart run to the moon and back, the same as you still do despite all the time you’ve spent together? 

Amidst your racing thoughts, Jade calculates his own response. 

But first, a realization. 

“It seems that I have missed something…” His voice comes out as a soft mumble, as if he were talking to himself. 

“Sorry?”

He looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed, concern painting the eel’s face. This kind of expression was common, but it was usually accompanied by a scheme of some sort. The only scheme here would be playing your heart, however. But you see the slight downward twitch of his lips, and for a moment, you believe that his worry is genuine. Then, his mouth moves to turn into a little pout. Adorable, you think. 

“I cannot believe that I have overlooked such a vital part of our relationship.” Jade makes a move to hold you closer, his long limbs slithering along the dip of your waist. Your heart does a flip, maybe 10000 flips in a second. Lethal power: 67%.

“Prefect…” His fingers drag along your hair, tucking it behind your ear. The closer proximity gives you a chance to study his annoyingly handsome features. His mismatched eyes meet your own, and his lips contort into the smile you’ve grown fond of. You feel your knees weaken, and mentally thank Jade for holding you–otherwise you might’ve fallen. Fallen for him, though, you already have. Lethal power: 82%. 

Suddenly, he draws back. Your eel retracts his arms from your shoulder and waist, takes a step to create some space before you, and holds his hands together in the usual, polite manner he does. 

“Will you let me have the honor of marrying you?” 

…

…?

…????????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lethal power: MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE

You find yourself unable to move in shock. Was there something you missed? What part of your conversation could have ever led him to Him??? Marrying??? You???

Before he could reach for the box in his pocket and get down on his knees (why does he just have that prepared?); your arms frantically reach the sides of his shoulder and bring him up to your eye level, looking at him as if he had gone insane. Well, you’re not that far off…

“Wait, Jade! I’m sorry, I don’t understand! I thought you didn’t like me back, why are you–”

“You thought that I didn’t return your affections? My dear, are you dense?”

Dense. You don’t know if that was a more fitting description for yourself or the eel standing before you, “On the contrary, I believe my feelings are affirmed to you each and every day we spend together.” For the second time, you’re taken aback. Unlike the first, your mouth is left gaping so much that a fly could take space and start paying rent. However, Jade graciously brings his hand to your chin to close it, and looks into your eyes once more. 

“I believe I haven’t missed a day. I was under the impression that our relationship was going smoothly, and that you were unsatisfied that I haven’t proposed to you yet. Was that not your point, my dear?”

No, far from it! You wanted to shout, but to your favor, you let him continue, “I remember the day you first confessed your feelings for me. I assumed that you were accepting my attempts to court you. I always made sure to intertwine your arm with mine, after all.” 

That day, after his polite response, he reached out to offer his arm for you to hold, and walked you back to Ramshackle. It was no surprise to you, however, because it was common for him to do so. You safely assumed that he was trying to play the part of a gentlemanly, polite eel. But apparently, that meant something entirely different to Jade. He was courting you all this time? And you never noticed??

“Jade, are you serious?” You give him an incredulous look, your brain trying to catch up with this new information. The eel smiles at your current expression, now clearly finding amusement at the situation.

 “Yes, quite serious, my dear. But to calm your worries, I assure you that I sincerely return your affections. I find that our time together has made my days much more pleasant, and that your presence is one that I can never bring myself to tire of. Though you can be a handful at times, it seems that it only causes me to fall more in love with you, fufu.” The lilt in his tone soothes your thoughts, and you begin to fully look at the eel standing before you. Standing up with perfect posture, his hands are brought together across his stomach, and he still has his signature smile spread across his face. If you squinted a bit, you’d find that his cheeks are even tinted a very faint shade of pink, and that his breathing is a bit uneven. For Jade, such a small reaction is a big sign that he’s worked up. You find that hard to believe, but just hearing you doubt his love for you is enough to throw him off track.

Despite that, his eyes seem filled with amusement crinkling their corners, clearly focusing all his attention on you. At the realization, you feel your face heat up, and your heart runs a mile once more. But you’re happy. Relieved, even. Though your hypothesis was completely off, it’d be the only thing you’d never want to be true. The fact is: your eel is undeniably and utterly in love with you. 

There is one question left unanswered, however. 

“Prefect, I’m glad that I was able to erase your doubts, but I believe you have yet to respond to my previous inquiry.” 

“Huh? What did I miss…I love you too?”

He smiles at your reply, and gently runs his gloved fingers through your hair once more, “I appreciate your words, but I was referring to my marriage proposal.” 

“Wait, you’re really asking me that? Right now?” You were only in your second and third years, after all. You didn’t think your relationship would last either, and that you’d be left to deal with your “unrequited” feelings forever…

The amused look in Jade’s eyes turned into something that resembled mischief instead,  “Hm? I take it that you are rejecting my request? Or is it that…there is a third party?” This time, he puts on his worried face–cute pout intact–hand holding his chin, clearly putting on an act to look pitiful. “I was hoping to wait for the perfect time to ask for your hand, but I thought that waiting had become a hindrance in our relationship, in regard to your previous worries. Though, I am curious as to what your answer will be, my dear~.”

You let out a dry sniffle, but then your eyes warm up, and suddenly tears are streaming down your face. You find that your overwhelming happiness is difficult to hold back, and you see Jade genuinely startled once more. He immediately moves to retrieve the handkerchief from his breast pocket, “Oh dear, Prefect, I apolog–”

“Yes! Jade, please marry me!”

extra:

After your confession, Jade walks back to Octavinelle in high spirits. Even Floyd is weirded out by how happy his brother seems, but immediately assumes that Shrimpy had done something nice to him that day. More than nice, actually.

He gathers his materials and the plants he’s foraged to create a terrarium dedicated to you. One out of many, in fact, but this one is special because it marks your first day as a couple. He sets two budding plants together, hoping to see them bloom with you.

Then comes your new routine–preparing you lunches with mushrooms he’s foraged and recipes he threatened asked for from Ruggie, taking initiative and inviting you on hiking dates or go stargazing with him, and clearly giving you special treatment by handing out discounts whenever you visit him at Mostro Lounge Azul is on his last straw.

The only thing running through his head while doing these things is of course, three simple words: I love you. 

Seeing you waiting by the counter at Mostro Lounge? I love you. When he gifted your couple-terrarium and saw how overjoyed you were, he thought, So this is love. Even though hiking wasn’t your strongest suit, you insisted on going with him because you wanted to be part of his hobbies, too. I love the Prefect. 

However, it seems he got a bit carried away, because he never actually uttered these words to you–they remained as constant thoughts in his mind, leading him to believe he always relayed these feelings to you.  Hm, and he has the nerve to wonder why you ask him one day, “Jade, will you ever break up with me?”

He feels like he isn’t running fast enough. He can feel his heart in his ears as he tries to catch up with Lilia. The moment Lilia told him you could be in possible danger, his heart dropped. Now here they were, running as fast as they can to ramshackle dorm as yuuken prays to the great sevens that you’re okay.

He couldn’t think straight, a thousand different types of scenarios run around in his head as he thinks of the worse.

Please be okay

Please be okay please be okay please-

“Y/n!” He burst inside ramshackle dorm, not noticing that Lilia had come to a complete stop as he tried to stop him from going in.

“Wait…yuuken no!”

Please be okay please be okay please be okay

Yuuken slams the door to your room open. Breathing heavily as he frantically looks around for you.

“Y/n? Y/n where are you?!”

He runs to your bed and rips open the covers in hopes of finding you asleep but he only finds it empty. He can’t help but feel sick the longer you’re gone.

Where are you?

“Yuuken?” He freezes. He quickly turns around to find your freshly showered figure standing in the doorway. You wore a pair of sleeping shorts and his shirt that he let you borrow. You had a towel in your hand as you continued drying your hair, and confused as to why he looked so…scared.

“Y/n”

“What are you doing back so early?” You asked curiously. Your voice still had that same soft and sweet tone he always found so soothing. But tonight, you sound a bit, off.

“I-I…” Yuuken can’t help but notice how strange it suddenly feels in your room. Has it always been this cold?

“I didn’t feel good, so I decided to come home early…”

“Oh, okay well..I hope you feel better soon” He nods before going quiet again. Something catches his eye though as you stand there in the doorway. A strange scar on your neck. He frowns.

“Hey did you hurt yourself?”

“Huh?” He walks up to you, carefully pulling your hair to the side as he tries to take a closer look at your neck but in an instant you slap his hand away. Taking the both of you by surprise.

“I’m so sorry!”

“No! No it’s my fault ! I shouldn’t have touched you like that umm I-“

“No I’m sorry! Y-you were only just trying to help I just…I’m sorry” You look down. You feel guilty about slapping his hand away like that.

But again, he can’t know

“It’s getting late, I was just about to go to bed” You say as you walk inside your room. Yuuken turns his phone and sees that you were right, it is late.

“I guess you’re right, well then, goodnight” You smile.

“Goodnight yuuken”

He steps out before closing the door. He was so busy being worried about you that he didn’t notice that Lilia didn’t follow him in.

Strange

Meanwhile, you were busy staring at the mirror that was in your room. You moved your hair aside to see the faint scar that was on your neck. More-so on your throat.

It was a bit red, the skin around it was still healing a bit and if it didn’t react fast enough then yuuken would’ve been able to see the faint outline of sharp claws that ripped your throat hours earlier.

Your once normal and beautiful face now switches to a more paler and scar filled look as the entity smiles wide.

He can hear your faint sobs as he caresses *your* face that was now only bloody and filled with scars.

“Aren’t you just beautiful”

-

Last night was strange. Very strange. When yuuken went to bed after he left your room, he had terrifying dreams.

And they were all of you

You alone in some dark place as you sob quietly. Your face buried in your hands as you cry softly. You sounded, scared.

He remembers going up to you. Carefully asking if you were okay but the moment you look up at him, all he saw was a rotting and twisted face. Your rotting and twisted face as you scream at him.

And he’s been up since.

“Hey yuuken are you okay?” He quickly snaps back and turns to see yuuka. She looks at him worriedly as she notices him acting a bit strange ever since he sat down.

“Y-yes I’m okay it’s just uhh I probably still don’t feel good after yesterday…yeah”

“Okay….well if you need anything don’t be shy to ask any of us” He nods and she goes back to chatting with a very hungry grim who continues to stuff his face with food.

He sighs. He looks around the table and frowns. You haven’t came down yet.

“Good morning y/n!” A loud and enthusiastic Yuuna beams as she sees you walk in. You were already dressed for class like normal. You smiled at her before greeting her and everyone the same.

“Ah y/n! I brought you leftover cake from yesterday! It’s in the fridge if you want it now or later”

“Ah thank you yuuta, though I’m not craving anything sweet this morning, maybe later?”

“That’s okay! Here, I made your breakfast already so you should eat up” you thank him as you took a seat. Yuuna begins to chat with you about her latest new adventure her and grim had along with the first year gang. You just nod along as you listen to her. Quiet and calm like always.

Unbeknownst to you, yuuken can’t help but stare as he watches you silently listen to Yuuna rant.

“So when you going to man up and tell her?” He jolts from his seat as yuuka laughs. Face heating up from embarrassment about being caught.

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

“Ohhh come onnn yuuken! You’ve liked her ever since we got here” He immediately shushes her up as he prays you didn’t hear her.

“You knowwww, I heard someone from heartslabyul has been starting to take a liking to our sweet quiet little lamb-”

“Who?”

“Can’t tell ya” She giggles as yuuken rolls his eyes.

Before any of them could speak again, yuuta gasps as he looks at the time.

“We are going to be late”

“So late!” Everyone quickly rushes to either finish their food or putting their dirty dishes in the sink as they quickly dress up or grab their things.

You quietly put your dish in the sink as you grab your bag from the couch. Grim rests on your shoulder as the two of you wait by the door for everyone else.

“You wearing a new perfume or something?” Grim asks as he sniffs you. You nod and he frowns before shrugging and continuing to snuggle your neck. Unaware of the faint claw marks around your neck.

-

The day went by normally. Not being bothered by anyone and getting your work done on time. Today you impress the whole class by solving a difficult equation under 5 minutes. You quietly walked back to your seat as you ignored the states of everyone.

Soon after, lunch time rolled around and you were the first to exist the classroom. You played with the ends of your hair as you walked down the busy and crowded hall, managing to step away on time to prevent some people from bumping into you.

Today was just too easy

Too easy for this entity to play as you.

“Y/n!” You stop In your tracks at the call of your name. You turn around to see yuuta waving you down. He wasn’t alone and with him was Azul and riddle.

“Hey yuuta” You say softly. Ignoring the two with him.

“Remember that new recipe I was telling you about a couple nights ago?” You ponder for a bit before smiling.

“Yes I do remember! Why?”

“Well I finally had time to make it today and I was wondering if you were up to trying it with me, Azul and riddle!”

He looks so excited. But do you really want to try it with these other losers?

“I would love to! But I have to return this library book before it’s due, maybe save me a piece?”

“Ah that’s okay! I’ll save you one for later! Have a nice day n/m!” You hum before turning away. Ignoring the eyes of those two. Though, as yuuta turns away from you, your face flashes in a twisted form for just a split second.

The two stumbled back.

You raised a brow at the sight of them, confused.

“Everything okay?”

“S-sorry…I thought I saw something..”

“Yeah…me too” You shrug before walking away.

They know what they saw…right?

You suffered a lot from those two my little lamb. Why don’t you make them suffer?

…

-

It’s happening again. Lately yuuken has been having some horrible dreams.

It first started after he came back from kalims party to check up on you. The night he left your room and went to bed, that horrifying imagine of your bloody and twisted face kept him up that night.

He was fine for a week before he started getting them nightly. Just dreams of you getting impaled by sharp claws and then sometimes it’s just you crying for help.

What’s happening? And what could these dreams mean?

Lilia has also been acting strangely lately. He refuses to step foot inside ramshackle and has also forbidden Mallues from taking a nightly stroll around ramshackle.

It’s weird

-

The days went by normally, well normally as a day here in Night Raven College would go.

But the yuus have noticed something strange concerning you.

You finally recovered from your night terrors and your mysterious illness. Which was great! But they also notice how…different you are now.

You’re still quiet, but you have this look in your eyes when you space out.

Almost…dead like.

You stopped asking about home. Stopped going up to Crowley every time you see him and asking him if he has found anything related to getting you and the others back home, which even Crowley finds it weird and concerning.

There’s also times where you don’t sound like yourself. Times where you would say or do things that you never did before, grim has noticed this weird scent coming off you. And no, it wasn’t because you stink or anything, it’s just that this strange scent of magic continues to come from you.

Which is impossible

Because you don’t have magic

Something else that someone outside of the ramshackle dorm noticed about you was how eerily familiar you were with some certain pieces of history. How you talk about it like YOU were there. It was all so strange.

And yuuken has this small voice in the back of his head that keeps telling him…

That this isn’t you

-

“Yuuna! Yuuken!” The two stopped their conversation to turn to see who called them. Yuuna smiles as she sees that it was their friend from heartslabyul. Deuce.

“Hey deucy- huh? Are you okay?” Upon seeing the expression he wore, it was definitely something that wasn’t okay.

“I-It’s *gasps* it’s about y-y/n!” The two yuus froze. Yuuken almost immediately grabbing deuce by the shoulders.

“What is it? Is she injured-”

“She’s fainted during flight class! I-I she looked pale and her nose started to bleed!” They both looked at each other in worried before quickly thanking deuce and running to the nurses office.

…

“She’ll be okay, it was probably due to lack of eating and not getting proper rest. I gave her some medicine and helped her get cleaned up from the blood”

When Yuuna and Yuuken got ahold of what happened to you, they immediately informed the others. Grim almost fainted himself when he heard the news and immediately told Ace to take him to the nurses office.

Now here they were, all huddled up around the clinic bed as you for the hundredth time told them that you were okay.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Deuce asked. He too followed after the two yuus once he told them about the situation. Ace also stood beside him as he tried to not look like he was also worried.

You may be weird and quiet, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. He’s not that heartless.

“Yes deuce I’m okay, so don’t worry” You gave him a soft smile. His flustered look didn’t go unnoticed by yuuken whose brows furrowed while yuuka tried not to laugh.

“Told you” she faked coughed next to yuuken.

“Alright dear, you may go. But remember! Take that every morning and before you go to bed! Most importantly, don’t forget to eat and rest”

“Yes ma’am” The nurse smiles before helping you get up and escorting you guys out.

“Do you want me to make soup for you again?”

“It’s fine yuuta, really! So don’t worry”

“You sure n/m? Is your illness back again?”

They’re too attentive

“I promise it’s not, I just wasn’t resting properly! But from now on I will, Kay?”

-

Months go by after that, so far no overblots have happened and everyone is praying to keep it that way.

There wasn’t much updates about your normal world anymore. Not like any of you found it surprising since a certain somebody doesn’t really like doing their job.

Anyway…

Everything was well, till now.

Maybe it’s from the constant stress in classes that they needed to pay extra attention in. Or maybe trauma from the previous overblots that they have fought in. Right? Those have to be reasons behind these dreams. These dreams that keep them up at night and that always comes back to haunt them.

It started off with yuuken.

He’s been having these dreams ever since that day with you and Lilia. Dreams about you crying in a dark and lonely place. Dreams where you are gasping for air as you try to scream for help. Then there are the ones of him. The ones where he isn’t in control of his own body anymore and something is controlling him. Acting like him.

In those dreams he is covered in what is…blood. Lots and lots of blood as he cries to himself about what’s he’s done. Everyone that he comes to know is all sprawled out on the floor as their bodies look like they were mauled by some wild animal.

He hates those the most.

The second one to start having nightmares was yuuka. At first she thought it was regular nightmares. She’s had a few since the first overblot with riddle in the past. But those went away a little after.

But the ones now. They’re different.

She sees herself in a field of white roses that soon turn red before they start moving weird. The closer look she gets of them, the more she realizes they look more like hearts.

Actual human hearts.

Then she sees you. Staring at her with a straight face. She calls your name but you don’t answer. She tries to get closer but the more she walks and soon runs, the farther you get away.

And when she finally gets close, she gasps as she sees that you aren’t…alive.

You were dead the whole time

The third person didn’t get nightmares yet, instead they would see things. And unfortunately, it was Yuuna.

It happened when she was walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She’s had drinked too much water that day and was really in need of using the bathroom. She walked in without knocking and before she had the chance of turning on the light she screamed when she saw a huge and disturbing figure standing in the bathroom. The lights immediately turned on and you rushed out the bathroom with a worried look.

“Yuuna! Are you okay?” You asked her. You were worried and she didn’t know how to respond.

Maybe she watched too many scary movies with epel the night before, that’s why!

Haha!

Right?

“I’m fine! So sorry for screaming like that”

“So sorry for scaring you” Maybe it was just the paranoia, but something flashed in those eyes of yours when you said that.

But she chose to ignore it

The second time it happened, she couldn’t ignore it. The two of you were sitting on a bench sharing a snack together. She was busy talking while you listened. At one point she turns to you to get your opinion about the topic and her face pales as she meets your eyes.

Half of your face was rotting.

And when she blinked, it was gone.

“Are you okay yuu?”

The fourth person was yuuta

His weren’t as bad as the rest, but it doesn’t make it any less eerie and unsettling.

He dreams about you. A lot.

You look beautiful in his dreams. But he never sees your face. Your back is always facing him and you have on a beautiful white dress as you run in what looks like a field.

He doesn’t understand them at first, why is he dreaming about you?

You always guide him in these dreams. Somewhere far by how much the two of you walk. You’re always in front of him. When he first started getting these dreams, it was always in that same grassy field.

But as days and weeks go by, the scenery slowly starts changing.

In the distance, he can see a dark and mysterious cave, very different from the peaceful and quiet surroundings he was used to.

And as he keeps dreaming, the closer he gets to it.

The last one is grim.

Oh grim

He’s cradled in your arms as you laugh and talk to him. He’s not sure what you’re saying, it all sounds muffled but he enjoys your company.

But the one thing that he can’t help but look at every now and then is the strange looking figure that stands behind you. It’s not close to the two of you, in fact it’s standing very far away.

But it has been there since he started having these dreams.

Looking

From far away

And he swears that as each dream comes and goes, it gets closer.

By this point, they know something is wrong. They know that whatever is currently living with them isn’t you. It’s stupid. Really stupid because even when it shows itself to them, they turn a blind eye to it. They act like it’s not there. Because if they try to acknowledge it, if they learn the real truth about what happened to you.

They wouldn’t be able to take it.

-

It can’t be too late. It can’t!

He’s been staying up a lot lately, actually no! For months. For months Lilia has been staying up late at night doing research and trying to find a solution to this problem. He knows he still has time, he can’t fail!

He can still save you, right?

Silver has been worried, he knows that his father wouldn’t go sick by not sleeping. After all his father is a fae.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t worried about Lilia’s wellbeing.

Silver and sebek don’t know what Lilia has been trying to look for in the last 4 months, but whatever it is must be serious to have him like this.

Malleus knows something’s wrong.

Ever since that night Lilia came to his bedchambers and forbade him from ever being near ramshackle territory, he knew something wasn’t right.

And he’s seen it first hand.

You

You aren’t right

He hasn’t talked to you since the night of kalims party. That morning he only asked you one question.

“Are you doing well?” And he was sincere about it. He’s seen how stressed and sick you were. He’s sat and listen to yuuka rant about how worried she was about you because of your constant nightmares.

And when he would accompany yuuta to Sam’s shop so he can look for the ingredients for your soups that he would make you when you would get sick.

He’s seen it all.

And he always has seen how much you changed.

You were always so awkward and quiet. Sitting quietly in your seat during class and listening rather than talking when you were with the yuus and friends.

He’s taken a liking to you, seeing how similar you guys were. Always being forgotten and never invited to any events.

But now, when he walks the halls of Night Raven and catches a glimpse of you during passing period.

He knows it’s not you.

-

No one knows what truly happened that night. Yuuken has come to terms with the fact that maybe, he really did come too late. The person he come to love while being here isn’t herself anymore. That whatever is currently living underneath their roof isn’t her.

He misses you dearly, he regrets not being there that night. Whatever happened to you, he just hopes it was fast and painless.

“Yuuken!” He turns to see you. You wave him down as you show him that wonderful smile of yours.

Sometimes the thing that plays you messes up. You wouldn’t have smiled that way, nor would you have said something like that, you wouldn’t have acted like that at all, you hated the texture of that specific dish.

The scar on your neck, it slowly fades overtime. But he can still see the faint outline of claws. You always cover it with makeup or your hair when you’re able to. He avoids meeting your eyes when you catch him looking at it, you find it amusing.

“Don’t worry, it heals”

He ignores that too.

“What was that?”

“Oh nothing!”

-

It’s one of those nights again. He looks around at his surroundings.

Huh?

Weird, it’s not usually the same old dark and gloomy dreams he’s been having for months.

No

Instead its, calm? And peaceful. He seems to be in some sort of field? The sun shines brightly and the wind blows softly, so calm, so peaceful, so…you.

“Yuuken?” His heart flutters. He turns around to see you. You looked at him confused, why is he here?

“Y/n?”

“What are you doing here?”

“This is my dream…”

“Dream?” He nods. Your eyes lit up and you quickly run to him. You embrace him in a tight hug, yuuken despite being confused and slightly flustered hugs you back.

“I don’t know how much time we have until you wake up or I disappear but listen to me carefully”

Oh?

“That person, that “version” of me, it’s not me”

“Don’t trust it, don’t believe it, it’s. Not. Me. It took over me, it copied my face, my body, my personality- everything about me!”

“But why? Why you?” He holds your hands tightly. Because why? Why you? Why did it come after you?

The person he loves

“Because….because I was in a really bad place. I was vulnerable and alone and scared- I couldn’t do it anymore”

“It fed off my negative emotions” You were now crying. He gently wipes away your tears with his thumb. He makes you look at him as the two of you hold eye contact.

“You- You should’ve told me…if I knew that night that something was wrong then I would’ve stopped it from taking you-”

“It still would’ve taken me, even if it wasn’t on that night specifically”

“M’sorry yuu…” Your grip on his shirt grows tighter as you sense that he’s about to wake up.

“Yuuken…I never really got to tell you this…”

“But I love you!” In that moment, he feels your lips against his. He feels sparks as the two of you kiss.

He breaks it off by holding your face with his hands and blurting out those same words.

“I love you too!”

Yuuken immediately jolts awake with a loud gasp.

And in that same moment he sees something.

A white light

His phone rings. He’s still staring at the random white light that’s glowing in the middle of his room.

His phone continues to ring

What the hell?

He doesn’t know how but his phone answers the call and almost immediately he’s broken out of his daze.

“Don’t look at it!”

“What?” On the other end of the line is a panting Lilia.

“Yuuken whatever you do don’t follow it!” He says. He seems to be running, but where?

“I’m almost near ramshackle! Don’t let you or the others follow that light!” After that sentence, from his doorway he can see yuuta along with grim walk past.

Almost like…

THE LIGHT

Yuuken immediately jumps out of bed and dashes out the door to his room. He sees yuuta and grim follow the light as they slowly make their way to the stairs. He rushes over to them in a flash.

“No! Don’t follow it!” He screams. He grabs ahold of both yuuta and grim. Forcing them to look away. By some miracle the two broke out of what seemed to be a spell. They look at Yuuken confused before gasping as they see yuuka and Yuuna.

They were already outside.

“No! Yuuka! Yuuna!” He screams. He runs down the stairs to stop the two young girls as yuuta and grim follow suit.

Yuuken managed to grab Yuuna and snap her out of the trance before he looks over to see yuuka getting farther and farther away.

He runs after her, heart pumping as he goes to get her before she enters the woods.

And it seems like the great sevens have heard him as Lilia flys almost immediately to grab and tackle yuuka against the floor. She breaks out of whatever spell she was under as she looks at lilia confused.

What the fuck is happening?

“Lilia, what is this?”

….

The look that he wore. It looked almost like…defeat? But why?

Lilia turns to glare at the woods behind him. His fist clenched as he stares at it longer.

“Lilia…what’s Happening?”

“Does this have to do with…y/n?”

“I’m sorry yuuken…she’s long gone”

“Guys…” The rest turn to yuuta, who is looking at the forest behind them.

It’s like they’re seeing a ghost. It’s you.

The real you

“Y-y/n?” Grim chokes out. You look stunning. But also different. You smile. YOUR smile. You hold something in your hands, and in an instant, Lilia already knows what it is.

It’s a sharp red dagger

You set it down on the ground before taking a step back, and running back inside the woods.

“Wh-”

“We have to follow her!” Yuuta screams. Lilia follows after him and soon the rest get up and run after them too.

“I seen this before…”

The dreams

All this time, you’ve been showing yuuta where to find you.

Lilia uses his fae speed to catch up to you. Somewhere deep down reassured him that this you meant no harm.

You also want this to end

They’re getting farther and farther away from the dorm. Farther away from night Raven and farther away from any civilization.

But they didn’t care.

They slowly came to a halt as you ran inside a dark and eerie cave.

“She’s in there”

“How are you so sure? What if it’s a trap to lure us in?”

“Because I’ve seen it” They all look at yuuta.

“All this time…she’s been showing me the way to find her….the real her”

“You…you been dreaming about her too?” Yuuka asks. Everyone looks at each other before slowly confirming.

“She’s been giving us clues…about what happened to her and where she is”

“Then…who was with us? ” Chills went down everyone spines at that question. Who was that version of you? That was with them this whole entire time.

“It was the entity” Lilia whispers.

“If it took her appearance…it’s most likely-”

“She’s dead..” Yuuna immediately begins to tear up. Grim hides behind yuuta as the thought of You being…gone settles in his head.

“No…we have to hope!” Yuuna cries.

“Whatever she gave us, does this have to do something with the entity? “

“She gave us the one thing that can help stop this” The dagger glistens underneath the moonlight.

Their eyes move to where the cave entrance was.

…

It’s time.

It was dark and cold. Yuuta begins to follow the path where you took him in his dreams. As he guides everyone follows, Lilia holds the dagger close the deeper they go.

The deeper they go, the stronger the foul stench grows.

…

Yuuta comes to a complete stop. There you stood, staring at them menacingly.

It’s the entity

“Long time no see, yuus”

The fight lasted longer than expected. The moment Lilia laid eyes on it he pounced. Magic after magic as he fought this ancient creature as it taunted not only him but also the yuus and grim.

Oh grim

He was devastated. He tried to keep his emotions in check as he blowed hot fire towards it, being a bit hesitant because the cruel entity still decided to play as you.

But they managed to defeat it. Because as it was about to claw Lilia yuuken was able to pierced its chest with the red dagger behind its back.

A loud and ancient sound escaped its mouth that night as it thrashed and glitched between you and its true form. But at last, it was over.

During its final moments it finally crawled out of you, trying to save bits of itself but lilia was fast enough to stop it. You were finally at peace. This nightmare was finally over.

Yuuken was happy, happy to know that you are now at peace and that you can finally rest.

But another part of him was devastated.

You suffered so much. And he can’t help but to blame himself.

“Don’t blame yourself” He breaks out of his thoughts. Lilia is staring at him.

“She wouldn’t like to see you blaming yourself” He gently pats the young boys back.

“Besides, she’s happy that she was finally able to confess her love to you before she fully left”

“And even more happier knowing it’s mutual”

How did he?

“I have my ways” The older fae winks at him.

Everyone is finally at peace…

-

I AM SO SORRY FOR MAKING EVERYONE WAIT 8 MONTHS COR TGIS😭💔💔

also sorry for rushed ending I was literally dying writing all this (not literally but yk)

But yes it’s finally here!

Some things did change sorry about that but I hope you guys aren’t disappointed with how everything turned out😓 and yes, sad ending because I never really planned on it having a happily ever after ending.

Welp, THATS ALLL

Taglist:

@d3l1

@katscloudy

@flolol

@scarredtarts

@djkew

@musyumaro

@cactusjuice63

@idynk

@ancient-raven

@faltaterapia

@apollo1028

@sunsethw4

"I am perfectly capable of holding my own stuff, Sebek. You really don't have to–"

The words didn't even have a chance to leave your mouth before the bag was removed from your shoulder at a speed so alarming, you would almost think the bag carried a weapon and not two measly notebooks and a can of tuna you had found on clearance for Grim.

"NONSENSE." Sebek loudly declared, making several nearby students jump a mile high. Sebek carefully slung your bag over his own shoulder, all while glaring you down as if you had personally offended his entire bloodline.

"You need not burden yourself with unnecessary physical exertion! This is but one of the many duties any respectable knight should carry out!" He held his head high, clearly not seeing reason. He was being ridiculous, and you couldn't help but narrow your eyes at him.

"Uh huh... well, thank you Sebek. However would I have carried that incredibly heavy bag without the help of a strong, trustworthy knight? I may have threw my back out." Your words were laced with sarcasm, yet Sebek only took your words as the highest of praises. His cheeks dusted pink, and he immediately turned his head away from you so that you couldn't see the proud look on his face.

"Of course you would have! Humans are such fragile creatures, after all." He came to an abrupt halt as you reached your classroom, opening the door for you and ushering you inside so he could drop the bag off at your seat before rushing to his own class.

You tried to ignore Ace and Deuce's shit eating grin as they enjoyed watching you and your new personal escort.

"Right then! I shall return after class to ensure you reach your dorm safely. DO NOT TRY AND PICK UP THIS BAG IN MY ABSENCE, I cannot allow for your back to give way! In the meantime, study diligently." His gaze fell upon the two Heartslabyul first years, and with a clenched jaw he barked out at them "AS FOR YOU TWO– REFRAIN FROM DISTRACTING THE PREFECT WITH YOUR USUAL FOOLISHNESS."

And with that, he made his exit. Leaving you to sink further in your chair as the entire class silently stared directly at you with wide eyes. Some of them were confused, others were entertained, and the rest had half a mind to ask you to "blink twice if you need help."

Ace was the first to break the silence.

"Huh! I didn't know you adopted a new dog, prefect! Have you tried teaching him to roll over yet?" You elbowed him in the side, making him flinch back. "Ouch–! Hey, not my fault you managed to rizz up the weirdest guy in the whole school. You're probably stuck with his shadow looming over you for life now, bro."

"It is a little strange to see Sebek giving you royalty treatment. It's not as bad as he is with Malleus, but still." Deuce chimed in, looking at you with more sympathy than Ace had. Though, he couldn't help but admit he was also pretty amused by the entire situation. You let out a groan, dropping your face into your hands.

"I don't know what I did to get here. But can we just drop it for now? I need to focus on something else or my head might explode."

Deuce nodded, agreeing to your wishes immediately. Ace hesitantly dropped the subject, but he was going to make sure to mess with you about this for months to come.

You were so cooked.

The second observation was arguably stranger. And possibly borderline creepy, had it been coming from anyone but Sebek.

You began receiving letters. Handwritten letters that spoke of you as if you were an angel sent to Twisted Wonderland from the divine themselves. At first, you had your doubts that they were actually coming from Sebek, and you almost wondered if someone was pulling a prank on you.

That is, until one of the letters came with a picture. Of him...smiling?

Dear Prefect of Ramshakle Dorm,

Someone has brought it to my attention that you may not be used to recieveing a physical missive from the heart. However. Though I often speak my mind without second thought...for some reason, when I come face to face with your everlasting radiance, I almost find myself unable to express what I truly wish to say to you.

This is no excuse on my part. You are most deserving and worthy of high acclaim. I will do better from here on out to shower you with all the words you must hear about yourself on a daily basis. This includes topics on your emotional strength, your kindness and generosity, your breathtaking beauty. And... your courage. Which you often seem to doubt that you have.

You see, I always find it hard to believe that someone who demonstrates such remarkable courage would often diminish their own worth. Yet, you continue to surprise me. I have decided that I must take it upon myself to correct this at once.

Most mere humans cower away in fear when faced with the disasters that have begun taking place in this school as of late. However, In order to assist your peers, you have put yourself in the face of danger multiple times, despite your lack of magic at that! (Much to my immense worry for you.)

You have the commendable heart of a warrior. Not of a cowardly human. Please remember this when you are feeling less than what you truly are.

I shall begin to wrap this missive up. There is more I would like to say to you, but I know some of it should be said in person. Just know that I admire you, greatly. Far more than what may be considered appropriate.

Inside this envelope, I have attached a photo of my smiling visage for your viewing pleasure. Do with the photo what you will. And perhaps, if you wished to send a photo of yourself back...I would quite enjoy that.

From,

Sebek Zigvolt of Diasomnia Dorm.

Your jaw was practically to the floor as you read the letter to the end. You couldn't believe your eyes.

Sebek wrote all of this for you?! You didn't know he could be so...

Endearing?

You pulled the photo out of the envelope, unable to stop the snort that came out the moment you laid eyes on it. The photo was a tad bit stiff, but he held an honest smile in what looked to be a picture that someone else took for him. Did he have an entire photo shoot for this? The mental image had you wanting to double over in laughter, but you tried to compose yourself. He had pure intentions, after all.

You smiled fondly as you reread the letter, before grabbing your camera and stepping somewhere into the best lighting you could find in the dorm. You'd give him the photo he wanted next time you saw him.

The following day, you felt nervous as you walked side by side with Sebek to the cafeteria. Well... "walked" was putting it lightly. With the way Sebek stood with his back standing impossibly straight, and his eyes scanning his surroundings as if he was waiting for someone to jump out at the both of you with an axe... once again, you felt more like royalty being escorted by their trusty guard dog than a student walking around the school hallways with a friend.

You kept sneaking glances at him through the corner of your eye, hand fidgeting with the envelope you shoved in your pocket, that held the photo you took for him.

And much to your dismay, you heart had begun doing something very inconvenient ever since you read his letter to you the night before.

Because the thing about Sebek was that he never lied or played around. Sure, he may seem to exaggerate sometimes, but you knew him well enough to know by now that whatever he said was exactly how he felt.

"You appear distracted." Sebek brought you out of your thoughts with a voice that was oddly gentle coming from him. "If something troubles you, you need only to say the word."

"No, no. Nothing like that." You attempted to reassure him, but you could tell he wasnt buying it by the way his brows furrowed together. "Actually..."

You pulled out the envelope from your pocket, hand shaking slightly as you held it out to him. His eyes widened for a brief moment, looking at you with uncertainty.

"This is for you." He blinked, breath hitching in his throat as he slowly reached out to accept the envelope like it was a sacred offering from Malleus himself.

"For me?!" You quickly nodded, suddenly very interested in the patterns on the floor's tiles. He carefully began to open the envelope up, and you refused to look up at his reaction.

What if he thought it was strange? Or that you were mocking him? He was so sincere, what if you–

"I SHALL RUN TO DIASOMNIA AT ONCE TO HANG THIS PHOTO UP!" You jumped at his sudden declaration, eyes snapping to look over at him. He held a wide smile on his face, holding the photo of you up like he was looking at a priceless artifact instead of you smiling inside of your dump of a dorm.

He turned the photo around, reading the words you scribbled on the back.

For your viewing pleasure.

"You uh– you don't have to hang it up, it might cramp your gothic style and Malleus bedroom theme you have going on. It was just a silly photo–"

"You and lord Malleus both hold great importance to me. I will treasure this photo until the day I cease my breath." He cast simple magic on the photo to keep it safe, before placing it in the pocket of his uniform. You let out a sigh, shaking your head fondly at his nonsense.

"If you say so. Can I come with you back to Diasomnia, then?" You felt him stiffen, before he took in a deep breath.

"Though I would be honored to take you, I instead have a request of you." He suddenly appeared bashful, and your head tilted in curiosity as the tips of his ears turned red. "I originally wanted to wait until I could take you back to Brair Valley for this, but Lilia told me that he had a change in his wisdom and that there was no time like the present to do this...so, prefect...if you would meet me on the courtyard's bench tonight when the clock strikes midnight...there is something I wish to tell you."

You felt your heart flutter nervously in your chest, stomach twisting as your mind raced with possibilities of what he may say.

Was he going to...

"With that, I will see you tonight if you accept!"

And before you could reply, he was gone. Taking the photo of you with him.

By the time night rolled around, you were a wreck.

"You've been pacing for twenty minutes!" Grim spoke between bites of the discount tuna you gave him, watching you with an unimpressed stare. "You're makin me dizzy over here."

"I can't help it, Grim! Sebek will be here in just a few minutes. What if he wants to tell me all of this is over? That his letters to me were a mistake and he never wants to carry a book or bag for me again ever in my feeble human existence?"

"Listen up, henchhuman! I'm only gonna say this once!" Grim suddenly declared, pointing a paw at you as he stood up like he was about to give you a grand speech for a pep talk. "Take it from me, the great love expert! You're way too good for that guy. There's no way he's just gonna up and leave you, unless he just wants to die alone. If anything, you should tell him to give you compensation for your time."

You looked at Grim through narrowed eyes. "Love expert my ass! I'm not asking him to pay me for going out with him."

Your gaze shifted to your watch, and with a heavy sigh, you flick your hand at Grim, shooing him off. "Alright. Time's up. Go hide behind a bush or something and DON'T say a word, or set anything on fire unless you want to be scrubbing the campus toilets for a month straight."

"You wouldn't–!"

"Crowley would love to put you on janitor duty again. Don't try me." Grim heeded your warning, for once.

You sat yourself down on the bench as midnight approached, your hands fidgeting with each other as you attempted to calm yourself down.

You knew you were overthinking.

Sebek may be considered rude to those who didn't know him well, but he wouldn't drag you all the way out here just to say something cruel and hurt your feelings. You knew he wouldn't.

So then why were you so...

"PREFECT!" You flinched, the man of the hour suddenly appearing before you. You couldn't help but notice how...polished he looked.

Did he style his hair more than usual? And his outfit...

You had to try and stop the amused smile from spreading on your face. He really went all out for this.

"Thank you for accepting my request to meet me here tonight." He cleared his throat, taking a seat on the bench beside you, with enough space in between you for a whole other person. You opened your mouth to comment on it, but he continued speaking.

"As of late, I've been thinking a great deal."

"Oh? How dangerous." You shot back to tease him, which he decided to ignore. But not before throwing you an unimpressed side eye.

"For many years, my life has had a singular purpose. To serve and protect Lord Malleus. To become a great knight, so that I could protect Briar Valley." That much you already knew. It wasn't like he didn't talk about that constantly. "My loyalty to him will never waver, for it is my greatest honor to stand at his side." You nodded, and then Sebek's voice softened.

"However, recently...my attention became divided. I found myself distracted with thoughts and feelings I had never experienced before. And at first I thought I must have grown ill."

Your heart stuttered, urging for him to continue. His gaze landed directly onto you, and very cautiously, he slid one of his hands into yours. They were rough and calloused...as well as a bit sweaty from what you assumed were nerves.

"But then Lilia informed me that the symptoms I was experiencing was...romantic affection. Towards you."

"Sebek, I–" you couldn't finish your thought. In all honesty, you were speechless. Of all people you could pull in Twisted Wonderland, you never would have guessed it would be him.

"I will admit, I did try to correct these feelings. But I failed. The situation only worsened, and soon I felt consumed by thoughts of you."

"Consumed, huh? Is that why you started stalking me everywhere?"

"I– STALKING?! I WAS ENSURING YOUR SAFETY, HUMAN!" You let out a laugh at how flustered he suddenly became, and Sebek sighed. You were impossible.

"If that's what you wanna call it."

Sebek may have looked annoyed at your teasing, but the way his thumb tenderly brushed the back of your hand was enough to tell you that he didn't mind. He adored you, hopelessly so.

"I admire you." He spoke out. "I often wondered to myself how someone with so little power in this world could possess the strength that you do. Every day I see you doing your best, even when everything seems against you."

"And...?" You were beginning to get impatient, waiting for the words you so desperately wanted to hear–

"And. I love you, prefect." He finally ripped the bandaid off, and you swore you could almost cry. "There is no one else who could be worthy of my affections in the way that you are. I do not expect you to feel the sa–"

You grabbed onto the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer to you and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. His eyes widened, and you swore he looked like he was going to explode.

"I love you too, Sebek. Very much so."

And in the background, a very unimpressed Grim watched the scene unfold, unsure if he was happy for you or disgusted by all the mush he was witnessing.

He certainly wasn't looking forward to Sebek being at Ramshackle more often.

Dividers by priestboy

Do not steal or use my work for ai purposes. I will eat you.

“YOUR HIGHNESS!!” Sebek bellowed, panic bouncing off the trees as he spun in circles. Where had she gone this time? He had scolded her an hour ago for speaking to a random commoner—a random commoner—and now she was gone again. What if it had been an assassin, sneaking up on the crown? Or worse… a band of rogue squirrels? GAH! Maybe he should’ve been gentler… No. No. That would’ve been pointless. She’d have vanished anyway.

Half an hour of searching later, Sebek’s frustration reached critical mass. How could he call himself a royal guard if he couldn’t even keep track of the princess? The future heir of the kingdom, and he was reduced to a frantic man yelling at trees.

“What if she’s been kidnapped?!” he wailed, picturing every horrible scenario in rapid succession. Poisoned tea, traps, enchanted mirrors, sky pirates—he could die of anxiety before she even got herself back safely. She’s supposed to be careful! SHE IS THE HEIR!

Somewhere above him, Yuu’s voice echoed faintly through the leaves. He didn’t hear it at first, lost in his spiral. Then—whack!—a pinecone struck him square on the head.

“WHO GOES THERE?!” he shouted, hand on his sword, until he realized it was just a pinecone.

He looked up.

And shrieked.

Yuu was dangling upside down from a branch, one foot hopelessly wedged between two stubborn twigs. Her tiara had fallen, lying on the ground like it had given up on life.

“HOW DID YOU EVEN—?!” Sebek’s voice cracked.

“Are you going to help me down or what?” Yuu whined, her voice lightheaded. “Blood’s rushing to my head, and I think I’m seeing stars.” She squinted at her tiara on the ground. Gravity was being very rude.

Sebek snatched up the tiara and strode to the base of the tree, crossing his arms and giving her a glare that could have cut steel.

“How exactly did you manage this…?!”

Three years he’d been guarding her. Three years. And he still hadn’t internalized the fact that anything could happen the moment she was left unattended. Stuck in a tree like this—upside down, hair falling, zero self-preservation—he should have known better. Shame on him.

“Help me firstttttt,” Yuu whined again, face pink, dizziness setting in.

Sebek exhaled, long and heavy. He hated how childish she could be, but there was no time to bicker. He wasn’t about to have her faint on him. Positioning himself under the branch, he reached up and grabbed her waist, carefully tugging her down.

Yuu yelped and flailed—Sebek caught her without incident, holding her against his chest for a heartbeat before setting her safely on the ground. He let out a shaky sigh, offering her tiara with a pointed look.

“How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot put yourself in these situations carelessly.”

Of course, Yuu wasn’t listening. She was already staring at her shoe, still lodged in the tree.

Sebek followed her gaze and groaned. She’s seriously considering climbing back up…

“No.” He stepped in front of her, arm outstretched. “You are not climbing that tree again.”

“But—” Yuu gave him the most pitiful puppy-dog eyes in the history of exasperated royal guards. “Mother and Father will be upset if I go back to the palace with only one shoe.”

Sebek’s heart skipped. Of course she knows I can’t resist those eyes. He grumbled, muttering under his breath, before finally huffing.

“…Fine. I’ll get it. Myself. But you are not climbing.”

“Mhm,” Yuu said, smiling innocently. Innocent? Ha. He knew better. That smile meant trouble.

He glanced at her one last time, searching for a hint of mischief. She was… far too calm. He sighed and started climbing toward the shoe.

By the time he returned, triumphant, Yuu was gone. Again.

Did she just—

Damn it.

Sebek’s jaw clenched, grip tight on the retrieved shoe. How was this possible?! He had looked away for a single moment! And yet, she vanished again. Did she sprout wings? Teleport? Magic!

He groaned, fists tight, and stomped in a random direction, hoping—praying—that she went that way.

Sebek had dealt with many trials in his life—harsh training, sleepless nights, rigorous etiquette lessons—but nothing, nothing, compared to tracking down one (1) barefoot, tiara-less, chronically feral princess who could slip away faster than smoke through fingers. His jaw twitched as he stormed down the path, muttering every complaint he knew in alphabetical order.

“Your Highness—no, Yuu—is going to be the end of me,” he growled through his teeth, clutching the shoe like it personally offended him. “Runs off, gets stuck in trees, loses footwear like some wandering forest spirit—unbelievable! Irresponsible! Infuri—”

THUD.

Something collided with his back.

Sebek spun around with the fury of a rattled guard dog. “WHO DARES—?!”

…only to find Yuu lying face-down in the grass, sprawled like a crushed frog.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Slowly.

“…Why.”

Yuu spat out a mouthful of grass and rolled onto her back. “I tripped.”

“On what?! The wind?!”

“No, on you. You’re built like a brick wall, Sebek, I didn’t see you there.”

Sebek’s eye twitched so hard he saw stars. “That is because you RAN into me!”

Yuu sat up, brushing dirt off her dress with the elegance of a toddler pulling weeds. “Well, yes. That part might be my fault. But also! I found something cool.”

Before Sebek could stop her, she proudly held up—

—a squirrel.

A squirrel chewing acorns like it paid rent to do so.

Sebek froze in horror. “PUT THAT CREATURE DOWN.”

“But look! He likes me!” Yuu chirped.

The squirrel immediately chomped her sleeve.

Sebek slapped a hand over his face. “Of course it does—it thinks you’re part of the tree you got stuck in.”

Yuu pouted, prying her arm from the creature’s tiny death grip. “You’re being mean.”

“I am being reasonable,” Sebek corrected, taking her arm and inspecting the sleeve for bite marks. “You nearly fainted from hanging upside down ten minutes ago—how are you already sprinting through the forest kidnapping wildlife?! You should be resting!”

“Aww, Sebek, are you worried about me?” she teased.

Sebek sputtered so violently his soul nearly left his body. “W–WHAT—NO—I—THAT’S—NONSENSE—!”

She giggled. “You’re cute when you panic.”

He choked. Actually choked.

Before he could gather his dignity, Yuu swiped the shoe from his hand and popped onto her feet.

“Look! All fixed!” she said far too proudly, lifting her now-shoed foot like a gymnast.

Sebek stared blankly. “You put a dirty forest shoe on your royal foot without checking if there were bugs inside?!”

Yuu froze.

Then very slowly, very silently, she slipped the shoe back off.

Sebek sighed so deeply he aged five years. “This is precisely why you must LISTEN to me.”

“Okay. I’m listening now,” she said.

“No you’re not.”

“I am!”

“You’re staring at another tree.”

“…No I’m not.”

“You are literally leaning toward it—Your Highness do NOT—”

Too late.

Yuu began climbing the tree like a gremlin scaling a castle wall.

Sebek almost dropped dead on the spot. “WHY—ARE—YOU—LIKE—THIS?!”

“I swear I see something shiny up there!” she insisted, already halfway up.

“That is a BIRD NEST,” he yelled. “IF YOU TOUCH IT THE MOTHER WILL ATTACK YOU—”

SQUAWK!!

A screech erupted from the branches.

Yuu screamed.

Sebek lunged.

In one motion that would’ve impressed his instructors, he yanked her out of the tree just as a furious bird dive-bombed them. Yuu clung to him like a terrified koala, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his shoulders.

He ran. She shrieked. The bird chased them like it had a vendetta.

By the time Sebek made it to safety, panting with Yuu still in his arms, he thought he might actually cry.

He set her down gently before collapsing onto the nearest bench.

Yuu blinked sheepishly. “…So… maybe that wasn’t treasure.”

Sebek’s head fell back. “I should request a raise. Or a second guard. Or several. Or—by the Seven—therapy.”

Yuu plopped beside him, smiling softly. “Hey… thank you. For saving me. Again.”

He stiffened, ears going red. “I—I am your guard. It is my duty. You need not thank—”

“But I want to,” she said, leaning her shoulder against his arm. “You always come for me.”

“…Of course I do,” he muttered. “Even when you run off. Even when you cause chaos. Even when you… pick up squirrels.”

Yuu beamed. “So you do care.”

Sebek nearly combusted. “STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY MOUTH.”

She laughed—the bright, delighted kind that made the corners of his mouth twitch despite himself.

And for a brief, precious moment...

The forest was quiet.

…Until Yuu pointed at something behind them.

“Ooh! Sebek, look! A shiny mushroom!”

He slammed a hand over her mouth. “NO.”

She nodded.

He removed his hand.

Yuu: sprints off

Sebek: “YUUUUU!!!”

And the chase began again.

“YOUR HIGHNESS, GET BACK HERE THIS INSTANT—!!” Sebek roared, tearing after the princess who was now making alarming speed for someone who had almost fallen out of a tree and been assaulted by a bird fifteen minutes ago.

Yuu didn’t even look back. “But Sebek!!! What if it’s a magical mushroom?! What if it grants wishes?? What if it cures baldness?!”

“…BALDNESS?!” Sebek spluttered. “WHAT—WHY WOULD—YOU ARE NOT EVEN BALD—”

“It could be useful someday!” she shouted over her shoulder, dodging a bush like she’d trained for this her whole life.

Sebek was going to have an aneurysm.

He sprinted after her, armor clanking, shouting every lecture he’d memorized since his first day of training. “YOU ARE THE FUTURE RULER OF THIS KINGDOM! YOU CANNOT—YOU MUST NOT—CHASE SUSPICIOUS FOREST FUNGI—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Yuu tripped on a root.

Sebek yelped and lunged on pure instinct, catching her around the waist before she ate dirt again. They spun—Sebek twisting his body to shield her—and crashed into a pile of leaves, Yuu sprawled on top of him.

She blinked. “Oh. Hi.”

Sebek stared up at the sky as if praying for strength. “You… are going to kill me one day.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“That is the worst part.”

Yuu giggled and rolled off of him. Sebek sat up, brushing leaves out of his hair, sighing like a man thrice his age. “WHERE is this supposedly magical mushroom, anyway?”

Yuu pointed proudly.

Sebek followed her gaze…

…and stared.

“That… is a rock painted red.”

“With white dots!” Yuu added cheerfully. “Look how cute it is!”

He turned to her slowly. Very slowly. “You… you chased a CHILD’S ART PROJECT.”

Yuu gasped. “It’s art?! I’m keeping it.”

“No, you are NOT—”

But she had already scooped it up, cradling it like a newborn.

Sebek pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your Highness—please—please return the rock.”

“I can’t abandon it now, it’s attached.”

“You are attached.”

“Exactly.”

“My sanity is unraveling.”

Before Sebek could pry the rock from her hands, footsteps approached from the direction of the palace path.

A young palace maid emerged from the trees, panting. “Your Highness! Sir Sebek! There you are—everyone’s been looking all over! The king and queen are—”

Her eyes fell to Yuu, disheveled, grass-stained, holding a painted rock, wearing one slightly dirty shoe, leaves in her hair.

Then her gaze shifted to Sebek, equally disheveled, hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, wild-eyed with defeat.

The maid blinked. Twice.

“…Should I… pretend I didn’t see any of this?”

“Yes,” Sebek said instantly.

“No,” Yuu countered. “Tell them I rescued a rock baby.”

The maid stared, horrified.

Sebek rubbed his temples. “Ignore her. She is delusional from… from running. And trees. And lack of caution. And—everything.”

The maid nodded very slowly, then whispered, “The royal council is arriving early, and the king and queen need the princess presentable immediately. They are… expecting the both of you.”

Sebek’s soul left his body.

Yuu perked up. “Ooh! Council meeting! I love those—there’s always tea and snacks!”

“You love them because you eat ALL the snacks,” Sebek snapped. “You are forbidden from touching ANYTHING until you wash, change, and stop carrying that rock.”

“It has feelings.”

“It has PAINT.”

Sebek grabbed her wrist before she could dart off again. “We are going to the palace—without detours—without climbing anything—without wildlife encounters—and WITHOUT—”

Yuu: “Rocky.”

Sebek: “DO NOT NAME IT.”

Yuu hugged the rock. “Rocky.”

Sebek let out a strangled noise.

But he marched her forward, one hand firm on her shoulder like she might evaporate if he blinked.

They reached the main palace gates, guards bowing as they approached. Or, more accurately, bowing while staring in utter confusion.

Yuu waved at them like nothing was wrong.

Sebek muttered, “I swear on my honor—if the council sees you like this—”

“They’ll think I had an adventure!” Yuu chirped.

“They’ll think I’m incompetent!”

“They already think that,” she pointed out.

Sebek nearly dropped dead for the second time today.

When they finally reached the palace doors, Sebek grabbed Yuu by the shoulders and bent down to eye level. “Listen to me, Your Highness. You will walk inside. You will go straight to your chambers. You will hand that rock to a servant. You will bathe. You will dress appropriately. And you will NOT—”

Yuu’s eyes sparkled mischievously.

“—run,” Sebek finished, narrowing his eyes.

She smiled sweetly. “Okay.”

She was absolutely lying.

“Yuu,” he warned.

“Sebek,” she echoed.

He pressed a hand to his heart, looking up at the heavens in plea. “Why do you test me like this?”

She shrugged. “Because it’s fun?”

Sebek inhaled sharply—

—just as she darted past him, sprinting into the palace with Rocky tucked under her arm like a rugby ball.

“NOOOOOOO—!! YOUR HIGHNESS, STOP—STOP RIGHT NOW—!!!”

Sebek barrelled after her, the palace echoing with the familiar sound of one exasperated guard chasing one overly energetic, mildly unhinged princess through the hallways.

“RETURN THIS INSTANT, YOUR HIGHNESS—!!” Sebek’s voice thundered, bouncing off marble columns and polished floors.

Yuu didn’t slow even a little. “BUT THE COUNCIL WANTS ME, RIGHT? I’M GOING TO THEM!”

“NOT LIKE THIS—!!”

She skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a bewildered butler holding a tray of crystal glasses. Sebek swooped in at the last second, grabbing both Yuu’s collar and the tray with inhuman reflexes.

The butler nodded in grateful terror.

Sebek shoved the tray back into his hands. “RUN. YOU ARE IN THE DANGER ZONE.”

The butler obeyed immediately.

Yuu wriggled out of Sebek’s grip like a greased ferret, dropped to the floor, somersaulted, and dashed again—still clutching Rocky under her arm. The sheer determination was horrifying.

“YUU—!!” Sebek practically shrieked, sprinting after her. “YOU ARE NOT MEETING THE COUNCIL LOOKING LIKE A FOREST CRYPTID!!”

“No promises!!” she called back joyfully.

She bolted past two maids, who screamed and flattened themselves against the wall like pedestrians dodging a runaway cart. One whispered, “Is she feral? Like actually feral?”

Sebek shot back, “SHE IS NOT FERAL—SHE IS JUST—SHE IS—SHE IS—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. There didn’t exist a word strong enough.

Yuu reached the grand staircase leading to the council chambers. And she made a fatal mistake.

She paused.

To wave at the portrait of her grandmother.

Sebek seized his chance.

He lunged—arms outstretched—

—and grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her clean off the ground like a misbehaving cat.

“NOOO—SEBEK—PUT ME DOWN—THE COUNCIL—THE SNACKS—THE TEA—!!”

“YOU ARE FILTHY, DISHEVELED, BLEEDING A LITTLE, MISSING HALF YOUR HAIR ORNAMENTS, AND HOLDING A ROCK NAMED ROCKY—YOU ARE NOT MEETING FOREIGN DIGNITARIES LIKE THIS!!”

She kicked her feet in the air, bafflingly offended. “Rocky is a treasured companion.”

“It is a ROCK.”

“It has personality!”

“It has PAINT!”

She gasped. “So do you.”

“That does not make me a collectible object!!”

He held her tighter, determined not to drop her no matter how much she squirmed. She was surprisingly strong when motivated (usually by shiny things or snacks).

Yuu twisted around in his arms. “Sebek… you’re being dramatic.”

“I AM BEING REALISTIC,” he corrected, marching her bodily away from the staircase. “If the council sees you like this, they will revoke my title, my position, AND my dignity.”

“They wouldn’t do that.”

“They absolutely would.”

“They like you.”

“I DO NOT CARE IF THEY LIKE ME—I CARE ABOUT NOT LOSING MY JOB BECAUSE YOU BEFRIENDED A ROCK AND GOT CHASED BY A MATERNAL BIRD—”

Yuu wiggled again. “You’re holding me like a sack of potatoes.”

“That is because you behave like one when unattended.”

“…Potatoes can’t climb trees.”

“EXACTLY. LEARN FROM THEM.”

He turned a corner too sharply, and Yuu’s hand smacked against a passing suit of armor.

Clank.

Rocky fell out of her grasp.

Both of them froze.

The rock bounced.

Once.

Twice.

Then rolled—

…and disappeared through a floor vent.

Yuu inhaled.

Sebek felt the incoming meltdown and braced.

“My baby—!!! ROCKYYYYYYY!!!”

Sebek nearly dislocated a shoulder trying to keep her from leaping out of his arms. “NO—NO—NO—DO NOT—YOU ARE NOT—YOU ARE NOT GOING INTO THE AIR VENTS!!”

Tears welled in Yuu’s eyes.

Sebek panicked instantly. “W-WAIT—NO—D-DON’T DO THAT—DON’T CRY—STOP—I—WE—WE WILL RETRIEVE THE ROCK—JUST PLEASE—STOP—”

“I MISS HIM—!!” she wailed dramatically.

“He fell three seconds ago.”

“I already miss him.”

Sebek was visibly aging. “Your Highness… the council is waiting…”

Yuu sniffled. “…Rocky is waiting too…”

Sebek’s brain short-circuited.

And then—

A throat cleared behind them.

They both froze.

Slowly… very slowly… Sebek turned his head.

There stood the king and queen.

The queen blinked. The king blinked twice. Both stared at the scene:

—Sebek sweaty, frazzled, holding the princess like a flailing sack, —Yuu with stick-filled hair, smudges on her cheeks, dress wrinkled, —crying over a fallen painted rock.

Silence.

Finally, the king said, “…Do we want to know?”

Sebek opened his mouth.

No sound came out.

Yuu raised a hand from the position she was being carried. “I lost Rocky.”

The queen whispered, “…Should I be concerned about what that means?”

Sebek finally found his voice. “YOUR MAJESTIES—PLEASE—ALLOW ME FIVE MINUTES—JUST FIVE—TO MAKE HER PRESENTABLE—AND THEN—AND ONLY THEN—SHE WILL BE READY FOR THE COUNCIL—”

The king sighed. “Fine.”

Yuu grinned. “Sebek, I want braids in my hair.”

“I AM NOT A LADY-IN-WAITING.”

The queen added gently, “Sebek dear, perhaps… a ribbon as well.”

Sebek choked on pure despair. “Y-Your Majesty—”

“Pink,” the queen clarified.

Yuu brightened. “Ooh, yes. Pink!”

Sebek shut his eyes, face falling into the expression of a man who had accepted his fate. “…As you command.”

And with Yuu still tucked under his arm like a princess-shaped grocery bag, he marched toward the royal chambers with the posture of a doomed soldier headed to war.

This was his life.

He still wasn’t sure how it happened.

By the time Sebek reached the princess’s chambers, he was sweating like he’d run a marathon uphill, carrying a boulder, while being chased by wolves.

Which, honestly, was not far off from reality.

He kicked the chamber doors open with the desperation of a man on the brink. “WE HAVE FIVE MINUTES—FIVE—BEFORE THE COUNCIL EXPECTS HER HIGHNESS—PREPARE EVERYTHING!”

The maids inside shrieked like flying birds startled from trees.

One maid dropped a comb. Another dropped a bucket. A third dropped consciousness entirely and fainted.

Meanwhile, Yuu lifted her hand weakly from under Sebek’s arm.

“There’s been a tragedy,” she whispered.

Sebek groaned. “DO NOT—”

“Rocky has passed on.”

The maids gasped.

Sebek stared at them, betrayed. “DO NOT ENCOURAGE THIS—”

“We should hold a funeral,” Yuu continued solemnly.

Another maid sniffled sympathetically. “Princess… you were so brave.”

“STOP IT,” Sebek barked.

He set Yuu down—gently, despite all his blustering—and pointed sharply. “You. Bath. Now.”

Yuu blinked up at him. “…Will Rocky want me to be clean for his funeral?”

Sebek inhaled, eyes closing. “Yes.”

“Then I will do it for him,” she declared, fist clenched in melodramatic resolve.

The maids swooned at her sincerity.

Sebek grabbed a towel and shoved it into her hands. “GO.”

She shuffled toward the bath like a mourning widow, leaving a dramatic trail of sorrow behind her.

Sebek slumped into a chair. “This girl will be the end of me…”

Ten Minutes Later (which was, of course, five minutes longer than they had):

“OW—Sebek—stop pulling my hair—OW—”

“I barely touched it!”

“Then my hair is sensitive because it’s grieving!!”

Sebek froze mid-braid. “Hair does not grieve.”

“My soul grieves, Sebek. And my hair is connected to my soul.”

Sebek’s eyebrow twitched. “I am not paid enough for this.”

He attempted again—gently, carefully, with the patience of a man defusing a bomb.

Yuu kicked her legs over the stool. “Make it looser—no, tighter—no, not that tight—ow! But also it looks good—wait, no it doesn’t—Sebek re-do it.”

“YUU—PLEASE—”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I AM BEING TORTURED.”

Finally—finally—he finished a neat braid. He stepped back, chest rising with the pride of a warrior completing a sacred ritual.

“There. Done.”

Yuu stared at her reflection.

“…I want two braids.”

Sebek’s soul left his body again.

Five More Minutes Later (he was going to die here):

Yuu sat with twin braids so perfect they belonged in a portrait. She looked adorable, elegant, royal.

Sebek felt a flicker of exhausted triumph.

“Now,” he said stiffly, “the ribbon.”

Yuu spun in her chair, grinning. “Pink?”

“My orders,” Sebek muttered darkly.

One of the maids brought the long satin ribbon as if presenting a sacred relic. Sebek took it with trembling reluctance.

He tied it around her head. Neatly. Precisely. Perfectly.

Yuu sparkled. “Sebek…”

He froze. “…Yes?”

“It’s so cute I could cry.”

“PLEASE DON’T.”

She giggled. “I love it.”

His face went red. “It is not for your amusement. It is royal protocol.”

“It’s cute though.”

“…IT IS PRACTICAL.”

“It’s adorable.”

He growled.

She poked his cheek. “Sebek~”

“STOP THAT.”

She giggled again, spinning once in her seat. “Do you think the council will like it?”

Sebek straightened up, shoulders stiffening, professionalism returning like a cloak. “The council,” he announced, “will be astonished that you appear—at last—clean, well-groomed, and not holding a piece of rock.”

For once.

Yuu sniffled again.

He stiffened. “WHAT—WHAT NOW?!”

“Rocky would’ve loved to see the ribbon…”

She looked like she might cry again.

Sebek panicked like he was under battle fire. “WE—WE WILL HOLD A CEREMONY AFTER THE COUNCIL MEETING—A SMALL ONE—JUST US—WE WILL RETRIEVE HIM FROM THE VENT AND—AND GIVE HIM AN HONORABLE… ROCK… RITE.”

Yuu’s eyes widened in awe. “Really?”

Sebek nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

“…With flowers?”

“If you want.”

“And a eulogy?”

Sebek swallowed. “…I will… attempt one.”

Yuu beamed and threw her arms around him.

Sebek froze—rigid, blushing, overloaded. “Y-YOUR HIGHNESS—YOU—YOU SHOULD NOT—WE—THIS IS—IMPROPER—”

“You’re the best,” she mumbled into his chest.

Sebek’s heart combusted like a struck match.

He swallowed, voice quiet for once. “…Let us go. The council awaits.”

She took his hand.

He did not let go.

n fact, his hand tightened around hers as they walked toward the council chamber—his steps precise, composed, but his ears pink at the tips. Yuu practically bounced beside him, braids swinging, the ribbon fluttering with each hop.

They arrived at the tall double doors. Two guards bowed and opened them.

The council chamber was silent.

Every advisor turned to look at the princess—clean, braided, ribboned, polite for once—and then at the guard at her side, who looked… tense. Very, very tense.

Yuu waved with one hand, the other still clasped firmly in Sebek’s.

“Hello! Sorry I’m late. I fell in a tree.”

Sebek nearly choked.

The council members exchanged looks of exhausted acceptance—this was, after all, not even the top ten weirdest things she had said this month.

Yuu and Sebek took their seats—she plopped elegantly on her cushion, he remained standing behind her like a massive, overprotective statue.

The council meeting began.

It lasted approximately thirty seconds before something terrible happened.

The vent rattled.

Sebek froze.

Yuu gasped dramatically. “ROCKY!”

The nearest advisor blinked. “…Pardon?”

Before anyone could clarify, the vent cover burst off the wall with the force of a miniature explosion.

A small, painted, red-with-white-dots rock shot out.

Except it wasn’t a rock anymore.

It had LEGS.

Spindly little stone legs, skittering across the floor like a deranged beetle.

And it was giggling.

Not in a cute way.

In a deep, echoing, nightmare-woodland-creature kind of way.

Yuu shrieked in delight. “HE’S ALIIIIIIIIIVE—SEBEK LOOK—HE SURVIVED—MY BABY—MY BEAUTIFUL BABY—”

Sebek took three steps back so fast he left a dust trail.

“WHAT—WHAT IS THAT—WHAT DID YOU BRING INTO THIS PALACE—?!”

The stone creature hopped onto a council table.

The advisors screamed.

One fainted.

Another started praying.

A third threw a scroll at it.

The creature OPENED A MOUTH.

A mouth that should not exist on something that had been, merely an hour ago, a children’s art project.

It hissed—deep, rumbling, ancient—and the temperature dropped ten degrees.

Sebek brandished his sword. “STEP BACK, YOUR HIGHNESS—THIS IS A DEMON—A CREATURE OF THE ABYSS—A—A—A VERY SMALL BUT VERY HOSTILE MONSTROSITY—”

Yuu rushed forward. “NO—DON’T HURT HIM—HE’S JUST CONFUSED—HE JUST WOKE UP—”

The creature skittered toward her.

Sebek nearly had heart failure. “DON’T YOU DARE GO NEAR IT—!!”

But it stopped.

Looked at Yuu.

Tilted its little stony head.

Then its mouth cracked open and—

It started GLOWING.

A horrible, eldritch red.

Energy surged around it, wind whipping through the council room. Papers flew. Advisors screamed. Curtains flapped. Sebek shielded Yuu with his entire body.

“IT’S CHARGING UP A SPELL—STAND BACK—THIS IS NOT A ROCK, THIS IS A THREAT TO THE NATION—”

A terrified advisor shouted, “THE LEGENDS—THE FOREST CREATURES—THE CURSED ARTIFACT—THE ONLY WAY TO STOP IT IS—”

Everyone leaned in, desperate.

“—TO KISS SOMEONE WHO CARES FOR YOU DEEPLY SO THE CREATURE LOSES POWER FROM PURE EMOTIONAL DISGUST!!”

Sebek and Yuu froze.

“…What?” Yuu whispered.

Sebek’s face went crimson instantly. “TH-THAT—THAT IS RIDICULOUS—UNFOUNDED—ILLOGICAL—SCANDALOUS—”

“That’s what the myths say!!” the advisor cried. “It’s powered by chaotic affection! The only counter is genuine affection! It cancels out!”

“So what do we DO?!” Yuu asked, shaking Sebek’s arm.

Everyone’s eyes turned to them.

Sebek’s entire body locked up.

Yuu blinked up at him, cheeks pink. “…You’re the person who cares about me the most.”

Sebek’s soul combusted.

“Y-you—your highness—th-that is—w-we cannot—there is protocol—dignity—decorum—”

The rock-creature screeched, glowing brighter and brighter.

Energy crackled.

The floor trembled.

Sebek inhaled sharply.

Then—

He grabbed her face.

Pulled her close.

And kissed her.

It wasn’t messy or clumsy or rushed.

It was warm.

Firm.

Certain.

Like everything he’d been holding back, everything he’d denied himself, everything he refused to acknowledge—finally slipped out in one single moment.

Yuu froze in surprise—

Then melted into it.

The creature screamed one last time—

And exploded into a harmless pile of glitter.

The wind stopped.

The rumbling ceased.

Silence fell over the room.

Sebek slowly pulled back, face red enough to explode.

Yuu stared at him.

The council stared at both of them.

No one breathed.

Finally, Yuu whispered:

“…do we tell people he died a hero?”

Sebek covered his face with his hand and groaned like a dying man.

Yuu, on the other hand, was bouncing on her toes, completely unfazed. “See, Sebek? Rocky’s fine now! Isn’t this amazing?!”

He peeked through his fingers. “AMAZING? THE ENTIRE COUNCIL WITNESSED YOU—AND ME—DEFEATING A SENTIENT ROCK WITH A KISS. DO YOU REALIZE HOW…HOW—”

“Romantic?” Yuu suggested innocently, tilting her head.

Sebek’s entire body seized. “I… I—IT IS NOT ROMANTIC. IT IS A STRATEGIC NECESSITY. A MILITARY—MAGICAL—PROTECTIVE—PROCEDURAL MEASURE!”

Yuu giggled. “Right, right. Strategic… sure.” She leaned against him, still brushing glitter off her sleeves. “But, Sebek… that was kind of fun.”

Sebek clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles popped. “FUN. IS. NOT. PART. OF. MY. JOB. DESCRIPTION.”

One of the council members cleared their throat, trembling. “Um… Princess… Sebek… that was… very impressive?”

“IMPRESSIVE?” Sebek nearly shouted, spinning to face them. “I WAS FORCED INTO THIS! AGAINST MY WILL! IT IS NOT A RECOMMENDED TACTIC! AND NOW—”

“Sebek.” Yuu’s voice cut through his tirade like a sword. He froze. “You were amazing. Really. Rocky’s gone, the palace is safe, and no one else got hurt.”

Sebek’s ears went pink. “…I—yes. Well… naturally.”

Yuu grinned and poked his cheek. “So… maybe a little romantic?”

He stiffened. “NO. Absolutely not. Do not. Stop. Now. This is—decorum—protocol—history—do you want me to faint?”

Yuu laughed. “Maybe just a little.”

Sebek groaned again, collapsing into a chair like a man who had lost every battle he’d ever fought, and perhaps his dignity along with it. “I—I cannot. I—The legends… myths… ridiculous magical rocks—THIS IS WHY I STAYED SINGLE.”

Yuu plopped down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’re cute when you panic.”

Sebek stiffened so hard he almost became a statue. “I—AM NOT—CUTE. I AM—THE ROYAL GUARD. THIS IS—THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS.”

“Mm-hmm.” Yuu hummed, clearly ignoring him, brushing her fingers through the glittery remnants of Rocky’s magic still stuck in her hair. “I think you’re cute anyway.”

Sebek’s face turned so red he could have been mistaken for a warning beacon. He stared at the floor, muttering incoherently. “I—am—NOT—SPEAKING—ANYMORE—THIS IS—OFFICIAL—SILENCE—REQUIRED—”

Yuu snickered. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

Sebek groaned so loudly that the council members jumped. One of them whispered, “Is this… always like this?”

Yuu nodded solemnly. “Every day.”

Sebek buried his face in his hands, wishing for the sweet release of fainting—or possibly teleportation. “I—THIS IS MY LIFE—TRULY—I—YUU, DO YOU REALIZE—”

“…I do,” she said, patting his shoulder affectionately. “But don’t worry. I love you anyway.”

Sebek’s jaw dropped. His entire body froze. “…WHAT DID YOU—DID YOU JUST—”

Yuu grinned, totally unapologetic. “I did.”

The council slowly backed away, muttering things about “royal eccentricities,” “possible enchanted progeny,” and “hiring more guards.”

Sebek peeked out from his hands, glaring at her, but the faintest twitch of a smile betrayed him. “You… are impossible.”

“And you… are impossible too,” Yuu said softly, leaning closer, glitter still in her braids, ribbon perfectly in place, the princess she always was… and somehow, completely hers.

Sebek exhaled—defeated, exhausted, utterly captivated—and allowed the tiniest, tiniest smile to break through.

“…Let’s get through the council meeting,” he muttered, voice low. “Then we can… discuss—this.”

Yuu giggled. “Afterward, Sebek?”

“Afterward,” he agreed, though he was already calculating the safest way to keep her from climbing anything alive ever again.

And for once, as the council tentatively resumed their meeting, Sebek didn’t mind the glitter in his hair.

Because despite everything…

He’d survived the princess, the living rock, and a kiss that could have destroyed his professional reputation.

Tim has been living inside the fraction of a second you hesitated before sitting beside him — that infinitesimal pause where your body seemed to remember him before your mind could intervene. He’s worried it like a loose thread, convinced it means something, that it proves there is still warmth there, buried but intact.

“I don’t think you’re good for me,” you’d murmured, voice dulled by exhaustion rather than certainty, even as your hands betrayed you—tugging your scarf tighter around his neck, fingers lingering just long enough to make the words feel like a lie you were both pretending to believe. You’d said it gently, like a confession instead of a sentence. Your eyes were watering, your hands shaking against the scarf. That was a year ago.

He remembers the cold that night more vividly than your words, the way you tried to protect him from it even as you stepped away, leaving him standing there with a warmth he didn’t know what to do with—except keep it.

Tims kept it alright.

It’s almost grotesque, how fiercely.

He’s preserved that pause of yours the way people preserve saints’ bones—wrapped in memory, reverent to the point of ruin. The fraction of a second where you hovered before sitting beside him, knees angled toward him before you caught yourself. That hesitation lives under his skin. Proof, he tells himself. Evidence that your body remembered him even when you tried not to.

And God, the things he’s kept.

The ribbon, slid carefully from your hair when you slept over, breath held like a thief afraid of waking something holy. The broken bracelet beads, every last one collected from the floor on hands and knees, replaced weeks later with diamonds he pretended meant nothing — an upgrade, he said lightly, as if he hadn’t memorized the exact way the original had looked against your wrist. The origami robins and flowers you folded when boredom softened you, creased wings and petals tucked into books, pinned above his desk, carried with him through every move like talismans.

You’d said it so quietly, then.

“I don’t think you’re good for me.”

Murmured, not declared. Your mouth said no while your hands betrayed you — tugging his scarf tighter around his neck, fingers brushing his jaw, thumbs warm against his throat as if instinct refused to let him freeze. The words felt practiced. The touch didn’t. He remembers the smell of your shampoo, the faint press of your knuckles, the way you exhaled like you were bracing for something sharp.

That was a year ago.

A year of being careful. A year of agreeing, without ever speaking it aloud, to be friends.

Friends.

After he’s been inside you, after he knows the exact sound you make when you’re trying not to beg, after he’s memorized the curve of your spine like scripture. 

Sure. Friends.

School makes it easier to lie. Same friend group, same bleachers at lunch, same unspoken rule: don’t touch, don’t linger, don’t look like you remember.

Your new boyfriend is a theater geek.

Volleyball team captain, too, and somehow managing to keep a perfect tan even in the dead stretch of Gotham’s winter, when the sun feels more like a rumor than a fact and everyone else looks faintly gray around the edges. 

Lloyd. 

Same height as Tim, just a little bulkier—closer to Dick’s build than Jason’s—but he doesn’t carry it the way Dick does, doesn’t wear his body with confidence. He's a blonde, freckles scattered across his face like someone forgot to finish the job.

Gemini.

Six hundred fifty-two followers on Instagram. Bio reads ‘i love my gf’.

Yeah. 

Tim loves his girlfriend too.

“Stop glaring,” Stephanie hisses, elbowing him sharply in the side beneath the library table, her shoe nudging his ankle a second later just to make the point stick.

“I’m not glaring,” Tim mutters back, not looking away.

“You’re still watching,” she says, exasperated, “and it’s creepy.”

You’re a few tables over, earbuds in, head bent forward just enough that Tim’s almost certain you’re blasting white noise—something steady, something meant to drown out the world. The library hums around all of you: pages turning, keyboards clicking, the low murmur of whispered conversations bouncing gently off tall shelves and stained-glass windows that filter Gotham’s weak afternoon light into dusty gold.

You were seated with Steph and a few other friends at one of the long tables, five chairs pulled in close, bodies overlapping in that casual, communal way people slip into without thinking. But now your back is to Tim, the familiar line of your shoulders framed by your coat draped over the chair, the curve of your neck half-hidden by your hair.

And there he is.

Lloyd sits next to you, angled just enough that his face is fully visible to Tim, a script spread open on the table between you, pages already dog-eared and marked up with pencil notes. He mouths lines under his breath, brows furrowed in concentration, tapping the edge of the paper with his pen like it might jog something loose.

Every so often, his green eyes flick up.

They land on Tim.

And every single time, the idiot smiles at him—awkward, polite, uncertain—before ducking his head back down and returning to memorizing lines for whatever stupid play he’s involved in this week.

Tim exhales slowly through his nose.

“He’s not even the main lead,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Why the fuck is it taking him so long to memorize so few lines?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lucas says from beside him, tone flat and edged with sarcasm, “maybe he wants to spend time with his girlfriend. Just a thought.”

Tim doesn’t bother looking at him. Lucas isn’t exactly close—not really—but Stephanie and you had introduced him to Tim after spending time together in art class, and he lets Tim rant without interruption, which counts for something.

“My girlfriend,” Tim corrects automatically.

Dina, Lucas’s girlfriend, groans outright from where she’s leaning back in her chair. “This is why she isn’t sitting with us,” she mutters.

“She isn’t sitting with us because the idiot needed help,” Tim snaps back, keeping his voice carefully light, carefully neutral, even though the words come out sharper than intended.

And he’s not wrong. You had been sitting at the head of the table, comfortably centered, until Lloyd showed up—nervous, bashful, clutching his script like it might bite—and asked if you could help him run lines for an audition. You’d hesitated for exactly half a second before changing seats, scooting closer, tilting the pages toward yourself with practiced ease.

Tim had wanted to shove the script straight into Lloyd’s mouth.

Instead, he watches.

Watches the way you lean in when Lloyd gets stuck, the way you tap the page lightly and murmur corrections, the way Lloyd listens with an intensity that borders on reverence. The library settles around them, quiet and warm and heavy with books that smell like dust and ink and old promises, Gotham pressing its gray, unlovely afternoon up against the windows while, inside, you sit close enough to someone else that your shoulders almost touch.

Tim keeps his gaze fixed there, steady and unblinking, like if he looks away for even a second something permanent might shift without his permission, like the world might quietly rearrange itself while he isn’t watching.

“I hope they start making out,” Dina murmurs into her tea, voice low and wicked, steam curling up around her face, “just so I can watch Tim strangle himself with his computer cord.”

Lucas snickers beside her, shoulders shaking.

Tim finally drags his eyes away from you and turns to Dina, incredulous. “Come on,” he says, voice clipped, restrained by effort alone. “You can’t seriously think he’s actually good for her. He’s a fucking idiot.”

That makes Dina pause. She cups her mug in both hands, fingers warming against the ceramic, gaze drifting back toward your table as if she’s trying to see something she missed. “I’m not saying that, Tim,” she says, slower now. “I’m just… she seems happy. I guess.”

“You guess?” Tim echoes, one brow lifting as he flips his notebook open and starts scribbling absently, blue ballpoint pen gliding across the page. A stick-figure Scarecrow takes shape under his hand—crooked hat, lopsided grin—the ink dark and precise. One of the fancy pens you bought him for his birthday a few months ago. He presses a little harder than necessary.

Stephanie shrugs, spinning her pencil between her fingers. “It could be worse,” she says. “He’s just… awkward.”

Lucas snickers again when he catches the expression that crosses Tim’s face, all tight disbelief and quiet offense.

Tim turns on him immediately. “Fuck you, man,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

“I mean,” Lucas adds, holding up his hands, “I’m actually with Tim on this one. I don’t like him that much either.”

Oh.

Oh okay.

So Lucas is Tim’s best friend now, apparently, and they are the closest people in the fucking universe.

Tim straightens instantly, pointing at Lucas like he’s just been handed a winning card and swiveling back toward Dina and Stephanie. “You hear that?” he says, vindicated. “He agrees!”

Stephanie shoots Lucas a look and tilts her head. “Dude, come on—”

“She had to ask him out,” Lucas says, shrugging like this is obvious. “Once or twice, whatever, but it’s like—every time. Even for the winter dance. She had to ask him.”

“What happened to feminism?” Dina tries weakly, staring into her cup.

“That’s not what I mean,” Lucas replies, turning toward her. “Come on, you’ve seen how much she overthinks it every time. When have I ever made you feel like you needed to ask me just to see me?”

Dina huffs, looking away, lips pressed thin. “You’re inflating Tim’s ego.”

“I’m not complimenting him!”

“Then why does he look like you just proposed?” Stephanie asks, exasperated and amused in equal measure.

Lucas furrows his brow, confused for half a second before following her gaze.

Locking eyes with Tim.

“Dude…?”

Tim leans in immediately, grin sharp and hopeful, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So you’ll help me?”

“Fuck no.”

Oh.

Okay.

Tim Drake fucking hates Lucas, actually, and he can go die.

Tim groans, letting his forehead drop forward onto his notebook with a soft thunk, pen rolling slightly under his hand. “You all want me dead,” he mutters, voice muffled by paper. “What if I killed myself, huh? What if—”

“She’d probably save you a seat at her wedding with Lloyd,” Stephanie cuts in cheerfully, chin propped in her palm, freckles creasing as she smiles, “and just keep it empty.”

Tim kicks her under the table.

The library exhales as the evening thins out. Lucas and Dina leave around six, their voices fading down the marble stairwell, footsteps swallowed by the building’s cavernous quiet. Gotham presses itself against the tall windows, the sky outside bruised purple and gray, streetlights flickering on one by one like tired sentries. The stained glass above the stacks bleeds muted color onto the floor—dusty golds and blues that settle into the cracks of old stone.

By seven, Stephanie finally closes her textbook, the heavy thud echoing louder than it should in the near-empty room. She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms over her head, curls spilling down her shoulders in loose blonde spirals that catch the lamplight. Her skin still holds a faint tan despite Gotham’s winter, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations she never bothered to memorize.

She glances between Tim and you.

Lloyd left a few minutes ago.

You drifted back to the head of the table after, slipping into the seat like it was always yours, familiar and effortless. Tim doesn’t look up—not once—but Stephanie notices everything anyway. The way his fingers fly faster over the keyboard, knuckles pale, veins standing out against skin that’s already too light from long nights indoors. The way he takes a sharp pull from his energy drink, throat working like he needs to swallow something down before it crawls out of him.

Gods save him.

She stays put.

Doesn’t pack.

Doesn’t even pretend to.

Just slouches sideways in her chair, one knee tucked up, phone glowing softly in her hand as she doomscrolls with deliberate casualness, firmly wedged between the two of you like a human barricade.

“Don’t you have a date with Cass?” Tim asks eventually, voice rougher than he means it to be.

He doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes locked on his screen, lashes casting dark shadows against sharp cheekbones, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. His black hair falls messily into his eyes, untouched since this morning, making him look more tired than he’ll ever admit in Stephanie's eyes.

Stephanie lifts her head slowly. “What?”

Tim swallows. Shifts in his chair. Still doesn’t look at you. Not at the way you tilt your head when you’re confused, not at the way the overhead lamp warms your eyes into something soft and dangerous. “Your date,” he clarifies, aiming for nonchalance and missing by a mile. “With Cassandra.”

Stephanie’s eye twitches.

Ah. Message received.

“I don’t recall what you’re talking about, Timothy,” she says, tone sugary enough to rot teeth.

There are maybe six people in this world Stephanie Brown would willingly do something stupid and petty for.

Right now, she’s sitting between two of them.

“Dinner,” Tim adds, coughing slightly. “That ramen place.”

He probably assumed she’d help him for free.

And leave you alone with this monster?

Absolutely not.

“Ohhh,” Stephanie drawls, suddenly thoughtful. “Yeah. That nice, expensive one near the GCPD? The new one?”

Tim blinks, confused, watching as she nods to herself and begins packing her bag with exaggerated slowness, slipping pens into pockets, zipping and unzipping compartments. “Yeah, I guess—”

“Oh darn!” she interrupts brightly, patting her jacket pockets. “I left my wallet at home. Guess it’d be easier to cancel on Cass and reschedule.”

You pull one earbud free, brow knitting as you glance between them, noticing the way Tim’s eyebrow jumps, a sharp little tell he never quite learned to hide.

“You—” Tim cuts himself off, exhales hard through his nose, then reaches into his jacket and pulls out his wallet. He doesn’t even look at Stephanie when he hands it over. “Here. Don’t be a bad girlfriend and—”

“Aww, you’re so sweet,” Stephanie cuts in, batting her lashes dramatically as she plucks his black card straight from his wallet. She slips on her jacket, curls bouncing as she turns to you with a grin that’s all mischief and affection. “Isn’t he just the sweetest?”

You hesitate, head tilting slightly. “Uh… yeah.”

“YOU’RE GOING TO BE LATE,” Tim suddenly snaps, voice echoing through the quiet library, drawing irritated looks from a few remaining students as he stands and physically herds a giggling Stephanie away from the table. “GOODBYE. HAVE FUN.”

She laughs as she goes, practically skipping toward the exit, boots clicking against stone, blonde curls swinging as she throws a careless wave over her shoulder.

Tim watches her disappear into the stairwell, shoulders slumping just a fraction.

With the way she vanishes into Gotham’s night, he already knows—deep, deep down—that he’s losing at least two thousand dollars tonight.

The library settles again, lights humming softly, the city breathing outside the windows.

And you’re still there.

There’s an empty seat between the two of you where Stephanie sat.

You don’t hesitate. You stand and move into it like it’s muscle memory, like gravity still knows where to put you, like you didn’t just walk Lloyd out to his car ten minutes ago with your hand wrapped around his sleeve, laughing softly like you were something out of a storybook—like his fucking prince charming.

The chair scrapes quietly against the floor as you pull it in, close enough that Tim feels the shift in air before he sees you settle beside him. His shoulders tense instinctively, pale skin already gone tight under the library lights, hair falling into his eyes as he stares a little too hard at his screen.

“What are you working on?” you ask, easy and conversational, fingers sliding up to tune your music down as you keep sketching, pencil moving in loose, confident strokes. It looks like something for art class—shading layered gently, lines purposeful without being precious. Stephanie finished the final touches on her landscape the moment she arrived, declared it done, and promptly started meddling.

Tim’s answer comes a beat late.

“Uh—” His voice stutters slightly, like it caught on the way out. “Just… trying to learn this new code. Finished school stuff already.”

You lean just enough to glance at his screen, not touching him, not quite, but close enough that he can see your reflection faintly in the dark glass. You nod, lips pursing thoughtfully. “Looks complicated.”

And then you go back to drawing.

Just like that.

Like you didn’t used to lean into him when you worked, shoulder to shoulder, knee pressed against his under the table. Like your head didn't tilt toward his when you concentrated, lashes brushing his sleeve. Like that wasn’t a year ago, like it wasn’t still burned into him in exact, brutal detail.

Tim swallows.

“Mhm,” he murmurs, the sound rougher than he intends, barely there, fingers hovering uselessly over his keyboard as the library hums around you both—lights buzzing softly, pages turning somewhere far off.

And you sit there beside him anyway, close enough to undo him, drawing like nothing has changed at all.

Tim doesn’t take your closeness for granted. He never has. Tim breathes it in the way he’s learned to breathe in every narrow allowance of proximity these days, slow and careful, like the moment might bruise if he holds it too tightly. You smell like your perfume—soft, familiar, worn into the fibers of your coat—layered with the papery dryness of old books and the faint, comforting bitterness of tea you shared earlier with Dina, mugs cooling forgotten on the table between half-finished thoughts.

And under all of that–barely there but persistent once he catches it–is cedarwood.

Not his.

The stupid blonde’s.

It clings faintly, like static, like a reminder pressed into the air itself. 

You walked him to his car. 

Tim isn’t a traditionalist, not really, but it’s winter and Gotham doesn’t do gentle cold; it bites, sharp and personal, and it only took Lloyd four quiet, “No, I insist—”s from you to give in. 

Amateur. Tim files it away automatically before he lets himself breathe again anyway, because denying it would hurt worse, because this is still you. His fingers crack at the knuckles without him realizing, a soft, dry sound swallowed by the library’s hush, and his gaze drifts—unintentional, unguarded—down to your sketchbook.

And stops.

Freezes.

Red Robin stares back at him from the page.

Not stiff. Not posed. Caught in motion, balanced on the edge of something unseen, weight shifted to one hip like he’s mid-turn, cape flaring in a way that suggests momentum rather than drama. 

The pencil work is confident—dark where it needs to be, light where it breathes—shading layered patiently along the lines of the suit, the texture of the fabric suggested with nothing more than pressure and restraint. The mask sits just right on the face, angular but not harsh, eyes narrowed with focus rather than anger.

It isn’t copied. It’s remembered.

Tim sees details no camera would ever bother with: the slight tension in the jaw, the way the line of the neck curves when he’s bracing to move, the subtle asymmetry that makes the figure human instead of iconic.

When Tim looks up, slow and careful, he finds you smiling softly as you draw, lashes lowered, pencil moving with quiet certainty. You once told him you’d never draw him—that it was bad luck, that you loved him too much to risk it, that some things shouldn’t be pinned down or flattened onto paper.

Gods help him, you’ve drawn him the way people draw something they’re afraid to lose.

Tim almost scoffs. Almost tells you that Red Robin looks worse in real footage, that cameras catch the sweat, the smudges, the moments where he’s off-balance and barely holding it together. He almost jokes, almost reaches for distance—

And then he sees it.

The small beauty mark at the base of the neck, just beneath the line of the mask, placed so casually it could only come from familiarity. From proximity. From having looked at him up close, when the mask was off and the world was quiet.

Something in Tim’s chest tightens, not painful, just full.

You drew him. And you did it sitting close enough that your sleeve brushes his arm when you shift, close enough that he can feel the steady warmth of you beside him, real and grounding, like you never stopped knowing exactly who he was beneath the masks and names and careful compartments.

“Thought you were a Nightwing fan,” Tim murmurs, the words coughing their way out of him in a whisper meant for no one else.

You glance up at him, pencil pausing mid-stroke where it’s shaping the fall of hair along the mask line, graphite smudged faintly along your fingers. “Thats all you, Tim,” you say easily, like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been obvious. “I’ve always liked Red Robin the most.”

“…Yeah?” Tim says after a second, his heart thudding too loud in his chest, the sound filling his ears until it feels like it might spill out of him. He shifts in his chair, shoulders drawing in slightly, like he’s bracing for impact. “He’s kinda boring, though. Don’t you think so?”

You laugh softly, the sound low and warm, shoulders lifting just a little as you shake your head. Your gaze drops back to the page, curls of hair falling forward as the pencil moves again—confident, unhurried—adding loose locks along the mask line, adjusting the angle of his jaw with a few precise strokes. “He’s nice to look at, and his suit is cool” you say, thoughtful, like you’re deciding it in real time. “That’s all that matters for the project.”

Heat rushes to Tim’s face, sudden and overwhelming, creeping up his neck and burning across his cheeks under the blue glow of his laptop screen. He swallows, fingers tightening around the edge of the table as if that might anchor him. “Just… nice?” he asks, voice thinner than he’d like, cracking ever so slightly at the end.

You don’t look up. You hum instead, soft and considering, a small sound tucked between breaths as your pencil hesitates—then continues. “Mhm. Well,” you add after a beat, lips curving faintly, “maybe a little bit more.”

Tim’s knee starts bouncing under the table, fast and restless, the motion telegraphing everything he refuses to say. He doesn’t know what to do with that—whether it’s a compliment or a deflection or something gentler and more dangerous. His mouth opens, closes, then settles on a useless, noncommittal, “Mhm…”

You tilt your head, studying the sketch with a critical eye, tapping the pencil lightly against the paper once. Then, without warning, you say, “He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”

Tim pauses.

His fingers still on the keyboard. His knee stutters mid-bounce. The blush drains from his face, replaced by pure, quiet confusion as his brain stalls out completely. He stares at his screen like it’s betrayed him, cursor blinking patiently in the corner.

“Tim?”

He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s surfacing from deep water.

You’re looking up at him now, wide-eyed and earnest, lashes catching the warm lamplight, pencil hovering mid-air. Your mouth is tilted into something unsure, something fond.

“Mhm?” he says, automatically, voice distant.

“…Dairy Queen closes in ten minutes.”

The words land soft and absurd between you. Tim exhales a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, shoulders loosening just a fraction, something in his chest easing even as his heart picks up again. He glances at you, then at the sketch, then back at you—caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

“…I know.” His voice is careful, deliberate, each word weighed like a stone he’s been carrying around for years. “…And… what does that have to do with us?”

You groan, letting the edge of your sketchbook tap softly against his forearm, a playful, almost affectionate smack that makes him flinch just slightly. “Come on!” The protest is sharp but light, threaded with warmth that curls into the space between you despite the library’s stale, paper-scented air and the muted hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Tim giggles, curling his fingers around the spot where the sketchbook landed, the sound of it mingling with his heartbeat in his ears, loud and jarring in the quiet. “Hey! You just watched me give my card to Stephanie, Tim Drake is broke now.” he protests, voice clipped with mock indignation, but the curve of his lips and the crinkle at the corner of his eyes betray the joy of being near you, of sharing this space with you.

“I’ll pay!” you insist, leaning a little closer, pencil still in hand, tracing shadows in the sketchbook as if the very act grounds you enough to be closer.

“Absolutely not,” Tim says, shaking his head, pale skin still flushed faintly beneath the library’s dim glow, sharp jawline catching light, lashes brushing against the tops of his cheeks. His grin is soft, but the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders draw back and his hands still, betray a protective instinct he never can fully hide from you. “When have I ever let you pay for anything?”

Your mouth opens, ready to argue, “Well… that was when we were dating, that’s different—”

You cut yourself off mid-sentence. The words hit him like a sudden draft of winter air, sharp and real, and he sees it: the way your eyes flick toward his, the trace of hesitation. His smile falters, eyes no longer crinkling into the familiar crescent moons but softening into a tentative curve, a dimple barely showing at the corner of his mouth. His shoulders draw in slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s bracing himself against a memory he’s never allowed himself to touch.

He’s never heard you say it—name it—before. 

That what you two had, what you still carry in the spaces between words and touches, was over and that the over part was actually real. Broken, maybe, but real. Your breakup wasn’t a spoken ending; it was a silence he’d been forced to interpret, a confession he always assumed, but now you’re saying it anyway, in subtle, quiet ways, and it feels like the city itself has paused to make him process it.

“…Mhm…Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lower now, almost swallowed by the soft hum of the library. His gaze drops to his lap, hands brushing against each other in that small, nervous way he does when he’s unsure what to say but doesn’t want to let the moment slip. “…Uh I should have a 20 on me though, I'll just pay, yeah?”

The casual tone is a mask. He’s giving up the nonchalant act he’s perfected over months of careful observation, of distancing himself from his own feelings, of hiding in plain sight. Beneath it, there’s something else—something protective, careful, a quiet pursuit to make this moment of pause yours as much as it is his, because he's so sick of your pauses only having an impact on him.

You glance at him, heart squeezing faintly at the expression on his face, at the way he shapes his sadness into something neat, contained, so it doesn’t spill over into the world. There’s frustration in it, sure, but it’s measured, practiced—the same way he’s always measured his words with you, the same way he’s always carried your heart alongside his own without ever breaking stride.

The subtle history of your relationship—the jokes, the shared silences, the afternoons spent wandering Gotham’s streets side by side, the whispered plans, the quiet fights and louder reconciliations—all of it hums beneath the surface, threading through every glance, every brush of sleeves, every half-smile that was exchanged across the sketchbook between you.

For a fleeting moment, the world outside the library disappears, and the city—gritty, cold, unforgiving Gotham—fades behind the steady pulse of proximity, the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet certainty that some things, even after endings, never truly go away.

Not if Tim will let it. 

He didn't let go of Robin and he won't let go of you.

“Come on,” Tim mumbles, already rising to his feet, a small, careful smile tugging at his mouth as he starts packing up—laptop slid into its sleeve, notebook stacked neatly on top, cords coiled with muscle memory precision, the pens you gifted him gathered like he’s afraid to leave any trace of you behind. “We can use my car. You probably walked here right?”

You don’t answer right away.

You’re still stuck on the look he wore just moments ago, the way his expression cracked open without warning. Tim has always been controlled about this—too controlled. When you called things off, he didn’t argue. Didn’t bargain. Didn’t ask you to stay. Sometimes, in your worse moments, you resented that. It felt like indifference masquerading as respect.

But the way his blue eyes widened earlier, bright and unguarded for just a second, the way his composure slipped—it was the first time you saw how deeply it landed. How much it still mattered.

The realization unsettles you, stirring something low and uncertain in your gut, the quiet sense that maybe following him now isn’t as harmless as it feels.

“You comin’?” Tim asks over his shoulder as he adjusts the strap of his bag, posture easy but hopeful. He pauses, glancing back. “Or… I can heat up the car first. If you want.”

“No, I—” You stop yourself, then shake your head gently, moving to pack your things instead. Pencil tucked away, sketchbook closed with care. You hesitate only a moment before taking one last look at the Red Robin drawing, fingertips lingering at the edge of the page like a goodbye—or a promise—before you slide it into your bag, almost reverently.

When you turn back around, Tim is already there.

Holding your coat out for you.

You jump a little, startled enough to laugh, the sound breaking the tension. “God,” you chuckle, slipping your arms into the sleeves, “Alfred is rubbing off on you.”

“Yeah, well,” Tim says casually, adjusting the collar for you without thinking, “he says you rubbed off on me, so.”

He hopes what he just said sticks.

It does.

Your fingers pause mid-button, the moment stretching thin and quiet between you.

+1 point to Tim Drake.

“How bad is it?” you mumble, voice pitched with playful dread as Tim cracks the heavy library doors open just enough to peer outside.

Your fur coat does not have a hood.

“Uh…” Tim glances back at you, a nervous smile flickering as a gust of icy wind snakes raindrops inside. “How about I just pull the car up front?”

You sigh, already knowing the answer. “They won’t let you.”

Gotham’s library sits stubbornly away from main roads, tucked back like a secret it’s trying to protect. With the city’s endless appetite for destruction, they’ve decided some things are worth guarding—this place being one.

“Come here,” Tim murmurs.

He tugs gently at the sleeve of your coat, pulling you closer before you can overthink it. He unzips his jacket and angles himself instinctively, lifting one side to shield your head and shoulders from the cold, creating a small pocket of warmth that smells like clean fabric, ozone, and something unmistakably him.

You falter.

Tim doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush it. Just stands there, steady, letting you decide.

Your hands hover for a second before settling against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric like you’re reminding yourself that friends do this too. That this doesn’t have to mean more.

+1 point to Tim Drake.

The cold rain hits the moment you step outside, sharp and immediate, Gotham winter cutting through fabric and skin alike, the wind threading itself between buildings like it knows exactly where to hurt. Snow hasn’t quite committed yet, but the ground is slick with old ice and slush, the sidewalk shining faintly under the amber streetlamps like it’s been lacquered with danger.

Tim moves first.

Not rushing you, not pulling—just angling himself so his shoulder blocks the worst of it, his jacket still half-open, one arm hovering close enough to guide without touching. You fall into step beside him automatically, boots striking the pavement a little too fast, breath puffing white in front of you, laughter caught somewhere between nerves and cold.

The library looms behind you, all stone and quiet judgment, while Gotham opens up ahead—wet streets, distant sirens, the low hum of traffic threading through the night. The parking lot feels farther than it should, stretched thin by the cold, by the way your coat slips just slightly on your shoulders, by the fact that your fingers are numb and your steps are getting shorter.

You slip.

It’s small—just a fraction of a second where your heel skids on a patch of ice you didn’t see—but it’s enough. Enough for your balance to tip, for your stomach to lurch, for the world to tilt wrong.

Tim catches you without thinking.

His hand is firm at your waist, fingers splaying through the fur of your coat, his other arm bracing you before you can even gasp. The contact is sudden and close and undeniable, your momentum carrying you straight into him, chest to chest, the impact softened only by the way he adjusts instantly, grounding you like this is a problem he’s solved a hundred times before.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Your breath tangles with his, warm against cold, your gloved hands pressing instinctively against his jacket. You can feel the tension in his grip—not rough, not hesitant—just precise, protective, like his body decided this was non-negotiable. His pulse jumps under your palm, fast and real, a quiet tell he never quite learned how to hide from you.

Then the moment passes.

He steadies you, eases you upright, hands lingering a second longer than strictly necessary before pulling back, giving you space without fully stepping away. The cold rushes back in immediately, reclaiming what little warmth you stole from him.

The car is close now.

He opens the passenger door for you, quick and efficient, one hand still hovering near your elbow as you slide inside, the seat cold even through your clothes. Snow crunches under his boots as he rounds the hood, movements smooth, practiced, the kind of unconscious choreography that comes from years of doing things fast and right.

You watch him through the windshield as he slips into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a solid thunk that seals the world out. The car fills with the quiet whir of the heater starting up, the windows fogging faintly at the edges.

Inside, the air is warm, sealed tight against Gotham’s cold, the heater humming low beneath the dash. Everything unsaid sits between you, dense and heavy, pressing at your ribs.

Friends do that, right?

You’d catch Stephanie at the waist if she slipped. You’d grab Lucas too, even if he made a joke about it afterward.

Yeah.

You’re friends.

+2 points to you.

You turn just in time to see him rake his fingers through his hair, trying to shake the rain loose, droplets scattering across his knuckles and the collar of his jacket. His black hair sticks up in damp, uneven strands, darker with moisture, lashes clumped slightly as he blinks. 

When he catches you looking, his mouth curves without hesitation—easy, familiar—eyes crinkling at the corners, teeth flashing, one dimple cutting deep into his cheek.

Your heart stutters, sharp and traitorous.

+2 points to Tim Drake.

You look away too quickly, forcing your hands to move, to do something normal, something harmless. You dig through your bag like you’re on autopilot, fingers brushing past pencils and folded paper until you find the packet of tissues. You hold it out to him, tone light, practiced, the way you talk when you don’t want him to notice anything’s wrong.

“Dry your hair, you’re going to get sick—”

“Hands are full,” Tim hums, distracted but smiling, one hand reaching back to shove both your bags into the backseat, the other twisting the key and cranking the heater higher. Warm air spills over your legs almost immediately.

So you move.

You pull a tissue free and lean in, close enough that your knee brushes his, close enough that his warmth bleeds into you. You scrunch the damp front of his bangs between your fingers, careful at first, then a little more deliberate, dragging the tissue through dark strands.

Tim freezes.

Not stiff—not pulling away—just… still. Like his body hasn’t been updated with whatever rule you’re operating under now. His shoulders lock, breath hitching just slightly as your fingers brush his scalp, familiar in a way that hurts. You can feel how soft his hair still is, how it curls faintly at the ends when it’s wet.

God. It’s been so long.

You’d do this for Stephanie.

You would.

You’d even do it for Lucas if he complained enough.

Tim is caught somewhere between letting himself melt into the touch and the dull ache of realizing he’s been reduced to the same category. Just another friend. Another person you’re gentle with.

+2 points to you.

“I think it’s dry,” he mumbles, voice lower now.

“No, it’s—” You pause, lifting the tissue, fingers brushing through once more. It’s slick. Too slick. You frown slightly, eyes narrowing as realization clicks.

You look at him.

He doesn’t look back.

“Uh—” His jaw tightens, gaze fixed firmly on the windshield.

“Tim.”

“So what do you want to get?” he rushes out, too fast. “Soft serve, maybe? Blizzard probably—”

“Tim.”

“You know I was thinking—”

“Tim Drake,” you burst out laughing, the tension snapping, “you stole my fucking hair serum!”

You smack his shoulder, not hard, just enough to make a point, before leaning back to toss the used tissue into the tiny trash can tucked by the console—the one you bought and insisted he keep there. He complained about it. Still kept it.

“You left it in my room,” Tim huffs, finally looking at you again, defensive but amused, cheeks pink as he flips on the seat heater under you. “That’s your fault.”

You stare at him for a second, mouth still parted like you’re gearing up for an argument, then think better of it. The tension drains out of you in a soft exhale, and you turn toward the mirror instead, lifting a hand to smooth down a few stray flyaways, checking your reflection in the dim interior light. Your smile lingers there, small and unguarded, like it always has.

Some things, annoyingly, haven’t changed at all—even if it feels like everything else has.

And that’s what makes it so sickening for Tim.

Because you still smile at him the same way, still tilt your head when you listen, still buy him an extra soda from the vending machine without asking because you know he’ll drink it later, still memorize a new coffee order for him every season like it’s muscle memory. Like loving him was a habit your body never quite unlearned.

You do all of that—and then you kiss someone who isn’t him.

Tim presses his tongue hard against the inside of his cheek as he pulls out of the library parking lot, jaw tightening just enough to ache. The tires hiss softly against wet pavement, streetlights bleeding into long, smeared reflections across the windshield as Gotham opens up around them—brick and neon and rain-slick streets, the city breathing low and restless even this late.

He keeps his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, posture relaxed in a way that feels practiced rather than real. The heater hums, the radio stays off. There’s no room for anything else.

Five-minute drive to Dairy Queen.

Plenty of time to pretend this doesn’t hurt.

The radio settles into a song neither of you bothered to change, something mellow and familiar, the kind that feels like it’s always existed in Tim’s car. The bass is low, steady, syncing with the hum of the engine and the whisper of tires over rain-dark pavement. Gotham slides past in slow motion—storefronts half-lit, steam curling up from subway grates, traffic lights blinking like tired eyes that never quite close.

The dashboard casts a soft glow over Tim’s hands on the wheel, pale against the dark interior, veins faintly visible where his grip tightens and relaxes in small, unconscious adjustments. His black hair is still slightly damp, curling at the edges, lashes casting shadows when he blinks. 

There's a drop of water at the corner you watch fall from the reflection on your window. He drives like he always does—precise, smooth, attentive—but there’s something restrained about him now, like he’s holding himself a fraction too carefully.

You sit angled toward the passenger window, knee pulled up slightly, coat tucked close around you. The glass reflects pieces of you back at yourself—your eyes, the curve of your cheek, the movement of your fingers as you absently toy with a loose thread. Every so often, without really deciding to, your gaze drifts back to him.

It happens at a stoplight first.

Tim glances over, brief and instinctive, like checking a mirror. Your eyes meet, and for a second the city noise dulls, the song flattening into background hum. 

It’s not charged.

It’s worse than that.

It’s soft. Easy. Like nothing ever broke.

There’s no surprise, no tension, just recognition—quiet, familiar, intimate in a way that doesn’t ask permission. You look away first, clearing your throat softly, adjusting the hem of your coat like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

The light turns green. He looks forward again.

His free hand lifts from his knee, fingers flexing once, twice, hovering in the narrow space between you and the console. Close enough that you feel the shift in air, the warmth of him. 

Tim’s knuckles brush the seam of your jeans when the car rolls over uneven pavement, and for half a heartbeat his hand drifts higher, instinctive, memory-driven to protect you.

He almost rests it on your thigh.

Almost.

You feel it—the pause, the jerk—before he pulls back, settling his hand firmly against his own leg instead, thumb rubbing into his black jeans like he’s trying to erase the impulse. His jaw tightens, then eases. The song swells briefly, chorus bleeding into the small space, and the moment dissolves without ever being acknowledged.

You shift again, uncrossing and recrossing your legs, pretending it’s just for comfort. The next time you glance at him is when you move to put your hands in front of the heater, he’s already watching you, eyes softer now, unreadable in the dim light. The corner of his mouth twitches like he might smile, but he doesn’t. The road curves, and he turns his attention back to it, streetlights sliding in rhythmic flashes across his face.

The Dairy Queen sign appears ahead, bright and almost ridiculous against Gotham’s muted palette. The song on the radio fades into its final notes as Tim signals and slows, the car easing into the lot.

Five minutes have passed.

It felt longer than that. Gods save him.

+2 points to you.

“I’ll go order,” Tim mumbles, already reaching for his wallet like it’s a lifeline, fingers curling tight around the worn leather. He cranks the heat up another notch before you can protest, warm air rushing over you in a sudden wave, fogging the edges of the windshield. Then he’s gone—door opening, cold slicing in for half a second before it shuts again.

You watch him through the glass. Trying to ignore the fact he still remembered your order, that he didn't need to ask.

The night swallows him immediately, Gotham’s winter biting hard, breath blooming white as he steps onto the slick pavement. Tim shrugs his jacket higher on his shoulders, posture straightening as if the cold has given him something tangible to focus on. His reflection ghosts faintly in the window as he walks, pale under the fluorescent lights, black hair getting soaked again before he remembers to put his hood on.

He looks smaller out there. Or maybe farther away.

Inside the car, it’s too warm, too quiet. The radio hums low, some late-night song bleeding softly into the space he left behind. You rub your hands together, then still them, feeling strangely restless. The seat still holds the impression of him, warmth lingering like a memory your body hasn’t caught up to yet.

You lean back in the seat, staring at the ceiling for a second, exhaling slowly.

Outside, snow starts to fall—not enough to stick yet, just thin flakes catching the light as they drift down. Gotham pretending, briefly, to be gentle.

You don’t know why your chest feels tight.

You don’t know why you’re counting the seconds until he comes back. 

You don’t know why the way the warm lights of the Dairy Queen reveal the fact that Tim is blushing makes you want to whine into your hands.

It’s ridiculous. Embarrassing, even. The glass is smudged, the fluorescent glow too soft for Gotham, and yet there he is—standing a little too close to the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, ears pink where his dark hair curls against them. 

He keeps shifting his weight like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, like the choice between a Blizzard or soft serve is somehow a high-stakes decision. You can tell exactly when the cashier smiles at him, because the color in his face deepens, creeping down his neck.

You shouldn’t notice things like that anymore.

You press your palms flat against your thighs, grounding yourself, reminding yourself that this is fine, that this is normal. People blush. Tim has always blushed easily. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

And yet.

Your chest feels tight in that familiar, unwelcome way—like your heart has recognized something your brain is refusing to name. You told yourself you ended things because it was the right choice, because timing and fear and the city itself were all stacked against you. You told yourself that love doesn’t always mean staying. You’ve repeated it enough times that it almost sounds true.

Almost.

Because watching him now, framed in broken tile and menu boards and warm yellow light, you feel that old ache stir, the one you never quite managed to bury. It’s not sharp anymore. It’s worse than that—dull and constant, like a bruise you keep pressing just to check if it’s still there.

You think about the way his hand hovered in the car.

About how easily you slipped back into orbit around him.

About how natural it felt to sit close, to touch his hair, to laugh like nothing fragile existed between you.

You loved someone else. You’re supposed to now too. 

Lloyd is kind and steady and uncomplicated, and you chose him because choosing him felt safe. Because he doesn’t know how to look at you the way Tim does—like he’s memorizing you for later, like he’s afraid of forgetting.

Maybe that’s the problem.

Tim has never forgotten you. Not once. And some treacherous part of you wonders if you ever really wanted him to.

You swallow, forcing your gaze away from Tim, staring instead at the fogging glass, your own reflection staring back at you—uncertain, flushed, caught somewhere between past and present.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

You just know it hasn’t gone away.

And maybe that’s because you never really knew it at all—never gave it a name, never looked it straight in the eye—especially not in that library parking lot not even five hours earlier when Lloyd ended things, headlights painting the asphalt gold and gray, cutting long slices of shadow between you. 

You’d walked him to his car like you always did, side by side, shoulders brushing ever so slightly, pretending the cold wasn’t gnawing through your coat.

You gave him a blow job in the back seat. Thinking back on it now, you cant really find it in yourself to regret it even if it ended in a break up, because imaging Lloyd as Tim in the moment was so fucking easy.

“Hey… look, you’re great and all, but—” Lloyd had said after, voice low and panting as his hand started fumbling at the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but yours, like he was afraid of seeing something permanent there. “I just think you like me a bit more than I like you and– fuck its making me feel so guilty that…its kind of hard to be around you.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

You had liked Lloyd. You liked that he could smile and make it feel ordinary, the sort of steady warmth that didn’t demand constant attention or complicate your life. You liked that he made it easy to exist without thinking twice, that holding his hand didn’t feel like carrying a secret you weren’t allowed to tell anyone. He was the right shape for comfort. A safe harbor in a city that preferred to chew up and spit out anything soft.

But every time he leaned close, every time his lips brushed yours, your mind betrayed you, sneaking past the warmth and settling on the memory of someone else.

You had always pretended it was Tim. Always.

Lloyd’s hands on your waist became Tim’s in your imagination—steady, careful, asking permission in the way only Tim ever had. Lloyd’s smile faded into the one Tim gave you when he was nervous, the way it crinkled his eyes and made his dimple appear like a secret he didn’t know you had already discovered. 

The warmth in Lloyd’s chest became the slow, even thrum of Tim’s heartbeat, the one you had memorized during years of side-by-side walks through rain-slicked Gotham streets. 

Every kiss, every casual touch, every laugh you gave Lloyd was quietly replaced in your head by a ghost that looked like a boy in black and red, hair curling into his forehead, sharp jawline cut just enough by shadows to make you think of nights spent leaning too close, breathing too fast, and wanting to memorize him in ways that felt too intimate to ever say aloud.

With Lloyd it felt like standing under a lamp-post in the rain that only warmed one shoulder. 

Comfortable. Enough. But never whole. 

Never the way Tim was whole, even when he was frustrating, even when he made you want to scream or run or hide.

Because Tim would always stand in the rain and hear you scream at him to come in the warmth too with a smile on his face.

Tim would never listen to you.

You never meant it to be cruel. You never wanted to betray the quiet warmth Lloyd offered. You told yourself it wasn’t fair to Lloyd. You tried—God, you tried—to be present, to let yourself fall for the person who waited in front of you instead of the one who had always haunted the shadows behind your eyes.

And yet, just hours ago, when Lloyd said it, naming the imbalance, the truth hit harder than the cold ever could.

You did like Lloyd more than Lloyd would ever love you.

Because even without him realizing it, all you saw was Tim.

Through tan skin, blonde hair, green eyes and freckles–you saw pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes and beauty marks.

Every small gift, you'd come home and set it besides the ones given to you by Tim.

For fucks sake you recommended Lloyd the same cologne Tim used.

You were disappointed when he tried the tester in the store and scrunched his nose, shaking his head with a soft and awkward smile.

Sitting in Tim’s car now, the heater blasting warmth that can’t chase away the memory of that parking lot, the streetlights reflecting off the damp asphalt like shattered glass, you see Tim in the glow of the Dairy Queen sign, all pale skin and dark lashes and eyes wide enough to swallow everything you think you’ve built. 

The blush creeping up his neck is more than color; it’s a reminder, sharp as a blade, of everything you’ve tried to forget.

You trace the curve of his jaw in your mind, remembering every late night, every quiet conversation, every time he had said nothing at all but made you feel known in a city that never wanted to know anyone. Every casual brush of fingers, every laugh, every way he moved—like he belonged in the same orbit you couldn’t leave—floods you now with all the things you’d denied yourself, all the longing you’d tried to disguise as ordinary life with someone else.

And Tim… Tim never stopped noticing. Never stopped caring. Never stopped being Tim.

And maybe that’s why your chest aches so much right now. Maybe that’s why the warmth in the car, the song low on the radio, the smell of him mixing with the faint hint of gasoline from your city outside, feels like a tether you can’t break.

You don’t know what this feeling is.

But you know one thing for certain.

It has always been him.

And you used to be furious about it. Angry in the way you only are when something is both inevitable and unfair, when it’s been carving into your chest for years and you’ve spent every ounce of energy pretending it wasn’t there. Now it feels… numb. 

Like touching a wound that never healed but also never bled, a dull ache that pulses quietly under the surface, paralyzed, anesthetized, but still very much alive.

Tim slides back into the car, shaking a light drizzle off his hair, the glow from the Dairy Queen sign painting him in gold and wet streaks. He’s smiling, that soft, crooked smile that used to make your chest flip entirely against your will. “Got us two Oreos,” he says, setting the cup holder between you, carefully balancing the blizzards against the gear shift before he locks the doors.

You remember your own words from earlier, muttering about Red Robin. 

“He looks like if an Oreo Blizzard was a person.”, you said.

Irony doesn’t even begin to cover it.

He hums as he adjusts the heater, flicking the vents toward you. “The cashier was just about to close up—we got really lucky, so—”

You shrug, eyes tracing over the familiar curve of his jaw and landing on the beauty mark you had drawn on Red Robin, the one just below his ear, just the right spot to catch a glimmer of light. “Probably because she thought you were cute,” you say casually, but your voice carries just enough weight to make him pause.

Tim freezes mid-zip, one hand suspended over his jacket like he’s been caught mid-breath. “Huh?”

“That’s why you were blushing, right?” You tilt your head, faintly amused, tracing the warmth spreading over his cheeks. “You’re still red. Come on, tell me—what pick-up line did she use on you, hmm?”

It’s a reflexive memory. The same teasing he used on you the first time you had dared talk openly about Lloyd in front of him, that sly tilt of his head, the curve of his mouth as he dug his nails into his palm, “What pick-up line did that Greek god use on you, hm?”

You watch him now, fingers tightening on his zipper, knuckles pale, jaw working as though he’s chewing over his words before they leave his lips. Tim’s never been good at casual lies. He’s too honest, too exact, too weighted by the things he feels.

“What—What are you talking about?” His voice comes out careful, slightly high, trying to steady, but it trembles anyway.

You blink, caught off guard by the genuine confusion in his expression. For a split second, the playful rhythm of your teasing falters. “It was a joke, Tim… relax.” You straighten in your seat, shoulders lifting, trying not to let the sting in your chest show. You lift a spoon of your blizzard to your lips, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him, and the way he’s frozen there makes your stomach twist in ways that Lloyd never could.

The city hums quietly outside, Gotham rain tapping against the roof, a soft percussion to the pulse between you. Tim’s eyes flicker to yours, a mixture of something like guilt, embarrassment, and that all-too-familiar longing you can read in him like Braille. He’s close, too close, and every small movement—the way his hand hovers near the cup holder, the slight lean of his shoulder toward yours—pulls at old threads in your chest, tangling with feelings you thought you’d put away neatly in labeled boxes.

“…She wasn’t flirting with me.”

Tim says it like he’s placing something fragile on the dashboard between you, careful, deliberate. The sentence sits there for a second, humming with the low noise of the car, the heater, the city outside that never quite shuts up.

“She was teasing me to her co‑worker,” he continued after a beat, eyes fixed straight ahead, unfocused, like he’s watching something far past the windshield. “About being ‘another slave in the rain for their master.’ Some other guy was here ten minutes earlier rushing for his girlfriend.”

You pause with the spoon still in your mouth. An oreo crumb dissolving slow and sweet against your tongue, cold blooming where you don’t want it. You don’t swallow right away.

“What I was… blushing about,” Tim adds, quieter now, voice thinning, “was that I realized I’m worse than an actual slave.”

The Dairy Queen lights flicker once, then go dark, leaving the interior of the car wrapped in soft amber and streetlight glow. Outside, two girls laugh as they lock up, their footsteps crunching faintly on wet pavement as they head for the same car, shoulders bumping, warmth shared without thinking.

“I’m choosing to be here,” Tim says, jaw tightening, “after being thrown out of the palace.” His fingers curl tighter when he moves his hands to rest against the steering wheel. “How pathetic is that?”

The word lands heavy, not dramatic—just tired. Worn smooth by repetition.

You don’t answer right away. You wait until the girls’ car pulls out of the lot, headlights sweeping once across the windshield before disappearing into Gotham’s throat. Until it’s just the two of you again, sealed inside this small, warm pocket of light and breath and old habits.

Only then do you turn.

Tim’s cheek is pressed into his forearms now, those braced against the steering wheel like he’s holding himself upright by force alone. His lashes cast shadows against pale skin. His shoulders are drawn in, posture small in a way he only ever allowed around you.

+4 points to Tim Drake.

“…I always liked you pathetic,” you murmur finally, voice low, casual, like it doesn’t cost you anything to say. You scoop another bite of ice cream, deliberately unhurried. “You know that.”

Tim huffs a laugh before he can stop himself, the sound sharp and breathless, and he drops his face fully into his arms like he’s hiding from the relief of it. When he speaks again, his voice is muffled, thinner, pitched exactly where he knows it will make you soften.

“I was too scared to ask you,” he admits. “When you said you didn’t think I was good for you… did you honestly think that sounded like a breakup?”

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth.

“It wasn’t meant to be a breakup…exactly…I guess,” you say, quietly.

Tim scoffs, straightening just enough to rake a hand through his hair, frustration crackling under his skin like static. He shoves a too-large bite of ice cream into his mouth, jaw working like he’s punishing himself for it. “Yeah, you just went home and blocked me on Instagram.”

“Didn’t block your spam, though,” you shoot back automatically. You knew he'd just hack into your account if you did that.

He groans your name, long and exasperated, twisting in his seat until he’s facing you fully now. His knee bounces once before he stills it with his own hand. “What the hell did I do?” he asks, not accusing—just genuinely lost. “I—God, I know I fuck up more times than I’d like to admit, but we always talked through things. Always. I let it go because you seemed so sure it was what you wanted, but—”

He stops mid-sentence.

Because your hand moves.

Your fingers slide into his hair, cool and gentle, adjusting his damp bangs where they fall too low over his forehead. The contact is soft, familiar, devastating. Tim goes utterly still, breath hitching like you’ve pressed a switch inside him. His lashes flutter once, then lower, instincts winning out as he leans just slightly into your touch.

You feel the heat of him under your palm. Alive. Real.

“You always looked like Red Robin the most when your hair was like this,” you murmur, thumb brushing his temple. “I liked drawing you with wet hair. In suit or otherwise.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Tim’s eyes open slowly, tracking your face like he’s memorizing it all over again. He searches your expression, looking for a joke, a deflection, a safe place to land—and when he finds none, his gaze drifts anyway. Your nose. Your mouth. The familiar curve of your jaw. Your brows. Like this might be the last time he’s allowed to look this closely.

“…When did you find out?” he asks at last, voice barely there. “Is that why you broke up with me?”

The question isn’t sharp. It’s scared.

Were you afraid?

That someone would come for him?

For you?

Or that he didn’t trust you enough to tell you first?

“…Yeah.” The word is a whisper, a soft confession that hangs between you, stretching longer than it should. You let your hand shift from where it had rested in his hair, moving carefully to his cheek, tracing the line from jaw to temple with a gentle touch, almost reverent. 

It pains you to feel him flinch just slightly, a reflex, the tiniest hesitation to let you keep touching him, and it twists something raw in your chest.

“I… I was actually going to argue about you being late to our date,” you admit, voice shaking a little, caught between guilt and memory, “then I saw you with that bandage on your neck, after watching Red Robin get struck in the news. I’ve drawn you both before—no, I’ve drawn you a million times, with and without the mask but that… that was the first time I noticed the beauty mark was the same. Because you were hiding it, covering it with a bandage.”

Your thumb brushes over his skin again, the motion gentle, unconscious, like you’re trying to soothe the memory away, like the touch can erase the hours of fear and worry that was tucked into your chest. Tim flinches again, but this time doesn’t pull away; instead, his hand rises to press yours against his cheek, anchoring you there as though letting go would mean you leaving for good.

“Do you know… do you know how scared I was?” you whisper, voice tight, breath catching. “How horrible it felt, knowing I was making you run from one end of Gotham to the other, after getting struck by a sword… all for a stupid coffee date?”

The car is still except for the low hum of the heater and the rhythmic tick of rain against the windshield, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you. The city has receded, the distant rumble of traffic and sirens muted, as though Gotham itself is leaning away, giving you this small, private corner in the chaos. Tim presses his cheek more firmly into your hand, and you feel the subtle warmth of him there, the heat of his skin against yours, grounding you in the moment.

“You didn’t make me do anything, I—” His words falter, swallowed in the space between heartbeats.

“Tim,” you interrupt, firm, the edge of your voice tempered with care, “you were going to kill yourself doing that. Being Red Robin, working at Wayne Enterprises, keeping your grades decent enough for this semester—how could I ask for more than that?”

Your words float in the car like smoke, curling around both of you, and Tim’s shoulders slump slightly, tension leaking out as he exhales harshly through his nose.

“How dare you not?” he hisses, voice low and almost desperate, but the words tremble. “How could you make that choice for me?”

“I wasn’t making the choice for you,” you murmur, softening, pulling your hand slightly away—but not fully, keeping it hovering over his cheek, tethering him to you. “I was making the choice for me. I didn’t want to feel guilty for using your time. I was being selfish… I am selfish, and I—”

“You don’t have to feel guilty,” he whispers, cutting through the quiet like a knife, but the tremor in his voice betrays him.

“Well I did.” You let it slip past your lips, a quiet affirmation, almost too soft for the sound to travel over the heater hum and the patter of rain.

Tim bites the inside of his cheek, tilting his head just enough to avoid your gaze while trying to form a coherent thought, a shield against the storm of everything you’ve just said. His eyes, those blue storms, flicker briefly to yours before darting to the dash, the blurred neon outside reflecting like water on glass. Your chest tightens, because even in his attempt to hide it, you see him unravel, every careful layer of control peeling back with each blink.

“I couldn’t handle you,” you mumble, the words slipping out quieter than you mean them to, like they’re embarrassed to exist at all. You’ve never said it out loud before. Never shaped it into something real enough to hear yourself. “I couldn’t give you—”

“All I’m hearing,” Tim cuts in briskly, too fast, too sharp, “is that you loved me too much and your little head hurt at the thought of it.”

He rolls the window down, cold air rushing in, carrying the smell of rain and wet asphalt, and with a flick of his wrist he tosses his Blizzard toward the far trash can. It arcs clean and perfect through the air, lands dead center with a hollow plastic thunk.

A perfect trick shot.

Any other night, any other version of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes and muttered, show off, just to watch him preen about it later.

Tonight, your chest feels too tight for sarcasm.

“You’re hearing what you want to hear,” you say instead, flat, defensive, staring down at your melting ice cream like it might offer backup.

“You’re saying what I want to hear,” he replies, softer now, turning fully toward you. He shifts in his seat, shoulder angling perpendicular to the driver’s side, body open in a way that makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. His knee bumps the center console. He’s too close again. He’s always been too close.

You don’t respond. You just huff quietly and scoop up another bite of your Blizzard, chewing slower than necessary, dragging the moment out. It makes him smile—small, crooked, fond, like he’s catching a glimpse of something familiar and precious that he thought he’d lost.

“God,” Tim murmurs under his breath, not quite looking at you, not quite not. “How does he stand you being so in love with me?”

The words land heavy and wrong and accurate all at once.

Your entire body freezes.

It’s like being flash-frozen mid-thought, like your blood turns to slush in your veins, like you might shatter if you move too fast. Mr. Freeze would be proud. You feel brittle. Exposed. Seen in a way you’ve spent months pretending wasn’t possible.

“…He doesn’t,” you mumble finally, voice barely holding together. There’s no point lying. You know Tim—he’d peel it apart eventually. “He broke up with me.”

Tim blinks.

Then he straightens abruptly, posture snapping upright like you’ve yanked a wire inside him. His face scrunches with confusion, eyes scanning yours like he’s waiting for the punchline, the laugh track, the gotcha moment.

“Huh—wait, what?”

“Lloyd broke up with me,” you repeat, quieter. “In the parking lot.”

Tim actually gapes at you.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, like the words keep slipping past whatever part of him is supposed to process reality. Under different circumstances, you might’ve laughed. Might’ve cataloged it as another fond memory. Instead, your brain chants relentlessly:

Stay mad at him. Remember the guilt. Don’t forget why this hurts.

“He broke up with you?” Tim repeats, disbelief thick in his voice.

“Mhm.”

His hands lift helplessly, gesturing vaguely at you—your coat, your hair, your existence. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” you say too quickly, the lie sliding out smoother than the truth ever could. “Maybe the blow job I gave him in the parking lot was ass.”

Tim freezes.

Completely. Like the sentence unplugged him.

For half a second, you consider backtracking, rolling your eyes, adding it’s a joke, Tim, relax, but you don’t get the chance. He’s already lunging for the window controls, shoving the glass down with frantic urgency before leaning out and promptly throwing up into the rain.

The car fills with the sound of retching, the cold air rushing in, the absurdity of it all crashing over you in waves.

You stare ahead, spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, wondering distantly how the hell the universe keeps finding new, deeply stupid ways to prove what you already know.

That it has always been him.

And that loving him has never been simple, or clean, or survivable without a little collateral damage.

Once your brain finally catches up, you move instinctively, slamming the empty Blizzard cup back into the holder with a clatter that echoes in the quiet car. Your hands reach for him, hesitating only a second before gathering the wet, dark strands of hair away from his face, bunching them carefully in your fingers.

“TIM—Hey—” you whisper, voice tight, low, unsure.

He just retches harder. His body shudders violently, leaning against your hand, the heat of him radiating through the sleeves of your coat. The smell of rain-soaked hair and ice cream fills the small space, cloying and intimate, and for a moment you can’t breathe around it. Your hands stay there, cradling the damp strands, unsure if you’re holding him back or holding yourself together.

You rub his back in slow, tentative circles, trying to anchor him, trying to be the thing that doesn’t move when everything inside you feels like it’s breaking. His shoulders tremble, and the quiet rattling of his breath mixes with the sound of the heater and the faint hum of the idling engine. The world outside the car blurs into wet, dark shapes and flickering streetlights.

After what feels like a lifetime, he pauses, shivering and slumped over, and then leans forward against the steering wheel with a deep, ragged heave. You kneel slightly on the seat to press a hand to his shoulder, letting your thumb brush the tense muscles under his jacket, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his back.

“Hey,” you murmur again, softer this time, leaning your forehead briefly against his shoulder. You don’t know what else to say—there’s no script for this moment, no words that could make it less raw, less humiliating, less…human. All you can do is be present, your hands stubbornly refusing to leave him, letting the warmth of your body tether him just slightly to reality.

He heaves again, slower this time, chest shaking against the wheel, and finally slumps fully against it. His wet bangs stick to his forehead, and you brush them gently aside, letting your fingers linger there. The storm of the city presses against the windows, but inside the car, with the heater warming your legs and the smell of ice cream and rain, the world narrows to him—this broken, beautiful, utterly human version of Tim Drake—and the ache of wanting to fix him when there’s nothing to fix but his own exhaustion and embarrassment.

You whisper his name again, almost a prayer, almost a curse.

His head lifts from the steering wheel, dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyelashes wet and trembling, and for a moment his brain seems to catch up to the situation. “He breaks up with you after the blow job? What a fucking douchebag.”

Of course he’d always defend you, even if the rest of the world couldn’t be bothered. Even if he has no context. 

“He didn’t like it, I guess,” you mumble, heat crawling up your neck like slow flames, your ears burning in the dim orange glow of the Dairy Queen lights outside.

“Babe, don’t fucking play with me—your mouth is fucking—” Tim begins, voice low and strangled, before you cut him off by shoving a spoonful of Oreo Blizzard into his mouth.

“Does that get rid of the throw-up taste?” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut as if the act could erase the memory of his words entirely.

He chews and swallows, still pulling back from the spoon, face scrunching. “I’m going to fucking kill him. I swear on Batman’s life you hear me—I—”

“He didn’t like that I was… too into it,” you whisper, embarrassment curling in your chest like smoke. Even if no one else could hear, Tim could. Oh, Tim could.

“Okay—what?” he stammers, eyes widening in disbelief as a faint greenish flush creeps across his pale cheeks. A wave of nausea flickers across his expression, sharp and threatening, and your heart lurches. 

Gods, he’s going to throw up again.

“Wait! Wait!” you exclaim, hands flying up defensively, waving like flags, as your voice cracks from both embarrassment and fear, “I was pretending he was you—so it wasn’t that hard, Tim—”

“Our dicks are the same size?!” Tim yells, scandalized in a way that makes your stomach do somersaults, your cheeks warming hotter than the car seat heater under your thighs. “I’M NOT BIGGER?”

You blink at him, dumbstruck, voice caught somewhere between mortification and awe. “Uh… sorry?”

He groans into his hands, still slouched against the wheel, hair wet and clinging to his temples. “I owe Stephanie four hundred bucks,” he mutters, like that explains everything.

Then, delirious, still tasting the faint bite of ice cream and bile, he flicks a glance at you, eyes wide, incredulous. “Did you… look for a guy with the same… on purpose?”

You stare at him, tilting your head slightly in the low, warm light of the Dairy Queen, the heater humming between you like it’s holding the moment hostage. “I went for a tan man with blonde hair,” you murmur, voice low and sharp, like a whip against his disbelief. “I want you to use your fucking brain and re-think that question and if you think Im that shallow.”

Tim opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. The pale skin of his cheeks blooms pink, almost purple under the harsh fluorescent lights that slice through the car like guilty spotlights. You always had a way of making him look like a kid caught with his hand in a jar of Bat-snacks.

“Gods, you—” he starts, voice rising like a fragile dam on the verge of bursting, “you always pull shit like this to throw me off—so… what, you were okay with him since he had free time?”

You blink at him, unsure if you should laugh or huff, but then you murmur, “…Don’t word it like that.”

“I am!” he hisses, sharp and fragile all at once, his fingers twisting into his dark hair as if he can physically pull the frustration out. “God… was this not hard for you like it was for me? Being away from me? Do you know how much I missed you? I—” He pauses, jaw tightening, eyes flashing with something raw and desperate. “I sold out your fucking perfume, you know that? Bought forty bottles. I've gone through four in the past three weeks.”

You freeze, blink once, and feel your stomach twist with a strange, bittersweet mix of guilt and something almost like pride. Oh. That’s why your niche fragrance—the one you've had for years—was suddenly impossible to find, why you’d been clutching the last few sprays like they were oxygen. You’d thought it was coincidence, scarcity, Gotham nonsense. But no. He’d bought it all.

Your chest tightens. The heater hums low, the soft buzz filling the car like it’s conspiring to keep you trapped in this too-close, too-small world. Tim’s cologne fills your nerves as he shifts forward. You can smell him—aftershave faint under his natural scent, a mix of charcoal and night air, sweat from nerves and embarrassment.

Your hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to smooth the tension from his shoulder or his hair, to do something that doesn’t require words. But you stop, fingers frozen in midair, because every movement feels too loud in the shared quiet, too intimate.

Tim swallows, lips pressing into a thin line as his chest rises in a slow, uneven rhythm. “You… you really didn’t… think about me, did you?” he murmurs finally, not a question, more a plea. His voice is low, rough, weighted with longing and frustration and that thing he never lets anyone see—the part of him that’s still a kid in the backseat of life, afraid he’ll never measure up, afraid he’s too much or not enough.

“I thought of you too much,” you murmur, voice low, almost lost in the hum of the car heater and the faint pitter-patter of rain against the windshield. “That was the problem. That’s why I broke up with you. That’s why… you’re not good for me.”

Tim groans, face pressing into the steering wheel as if the leather can absorb all the chaos between you. “Hey, babe… I think you need to see a fucking therapist,” he mutters, voice muffled, defeated, but still sharp enough to make you blink.

“You first,” you hiss back, crossing your arms, heat creeping up your neck, heart hammering too fast.

Tim scoffs, finally lifting his head just enough to reveal his dark eyes, pale skin flushed pink from both embarrassment and the heater’s warmth. Then, almost casually, he reaches into the back seat, where a brown grocery bag rests behind the passenger seat, and pulls out a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.

You blink at him, unsure if you’re seeing things. “That… that’s the brand I use,” you say slowly, voice cracking slightly between disbelief and awe.

“I know,” he says, voice quiet but firm, almost a whisper of obsession, a breath of intent you can feel pressing against your skin. “Bought your whole hygiene routine before I came to the library. It's coming in useful more quickly than I thought it would.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open, unable to process the layers of thought, care, and absolute chaos wrapped up in his words. He pops open the toothbrush like it’s nothing, casual and deliberate, but your brain freezes on the fact that he—down to the exact shade of pastel pink on the bristles—bought the same one you use.

“Your… you’re actually crazy,” you whisper, awe and incredulity warring in your tone, your fingers brushing against your lips as if touching them would anchor you back to reality.

Tim twists in his seat just enough to lean toward the open window, toothbrush already in his mouth like this is the most normal thing in the world. The rain has slowed to a fine mist, the kind that hangs in the air instead of falling, and the parking lot is empty enough that Gotham feels briefly abandoned—like the city has stepped away to give you privacy it never usually allows.

You watch his jaw move as he brushes, quick and methodical, too hard the way he does everything when he’s trying not to think. His shoulders are tense, drawn up near his ears, black hair still damp and curling at the ends where your fingers were not that long ago. Pale knuckles grip the steering wheel when his free hand comes back to steady himself, and you can tell he’s grounding himself in motion because stopping would mean feeling.

It’s hard not to stare, even if he's doing something like brushing.

It’s harder not to ache.

Because the whole time he’s brushing his teeth out the driver’s side window of his car like some feral raccoon, all you can think about is how familiar this is—how many versions of this exact moment live in your head. Tim brushing his teeth at your sink at two in the morning. Tim rinsing his mouth and leaning over to steal a kiss that tastes like mint and coffee and him. Tim doing mundane things in your orbit like that’s where he’s always belonged.

You dig your nails lightly into your palm, trying to stay present, trying not to drown in the weight of what you lost and what you never really let yourself keep.

He spits out the window, sharp and practiced, then reaches for a water bottle from the cup holder, cracking the seal with his teeth. The sound is loud in the quiet car. He takes a mouthful, tips his head back, throat working as he gargles, eyes screwed shut like he’s holding something back that isn’t just nausea.

Your chest tightens.

Because this—this is the part you never knew how to explain to him. How loving Tim was never about grand gestures or dramatic heartbreak. It was this constant, low-level strain of being too aware of him. Of every breath he took, every sacrifice he made without complaint. Knowing that every small ask from you was another weight on an already overloaded system.

He spits again, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then closes the window, caps the bottle and exhales slowly, shoulders finally dropping an inch.

You realize you’ve been holding your breath.

It was hard the whole time, you think—not just now, not just after you found out. It was hard when he showed up tired but smiling. Hard when he apologized for things that weren’t his fault. Hard when he tried to be everything, all at once, and still looked at you like you were the one thing he couldn’t afford to lose.

Loving Tim felt like standing too close to a live wire—warm, electric, intoxicating—and knowing that one wrong move could burn you both.

Tim leans back into his seat, blinking a few times, eyes glassy but focused now. He sets the toothbrush aside into the grocery bag, hands lingering there for a second longer than necessary, like he’s stalling.

You don’t say anything.

Because if you do, you might admit that even now—after watching  him spit toothpaste into the Gotham night, watching him exist inches from you—you still want to choose him.

And you’re terrified of what that says about you.

“…I’ll be whatever you want me to be,” Tim says quietly, the words slipping out like a confession he’s been holding between his teeth all night. His voice is rough around the edges now, scraped thin. “Gods—I just can’t do friends.”

The car feels smaller suddenly. Too warm. Too close. You look at him and it’s unbearable how much of him there is to look at—his eyes still glassy from nausea and something worse, his lips a little pinker than usual, lashes clumped just slightly from rain. All the familiar details stack up in your chest until it aches.

“You…” You swallow. “I can’t ask you to be what I want.” The truth presses at you from all sides, heavy and immovable. “I wanted you to be my… everything. You know how selfish that sounds? You can’t handle that.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Tim says immediately.

There it is. That stubborn, immovable core of him. The part that never learned how to back down when something mattered to him.

“I do,” you huff, a small, tired smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself, because he’s still the same—still arguing even while he’s trying to give you everything. “I want you by my side twenty-four seven. I want you to only think about me. I want you to not even look at anyone else.” You let out a breath that’s half laugh, half plea. “Don’t you hear how crazy I sound?”

Tim hears it. He hears all of it.

And instead of recoiling, a slow smile starts to bloom on his face, soft and reverent, like he’s just been handed something holy. He shifts fully toward you, body turning perpendicular in the driver’s seat, cheek pressing into the cushion as if he wants to stay right here forever. His eyes don’t leave your face.

“Gods, I love you,” he murmurs. “They sent you just for me, huh?”

“You’re insane,” you hiss, heat flooding you all at once, down your spine and into your fingertips, because it’s been so long since he’s said that word like it means salvation instead of danger.

“You’re perfect,” Tim says, voice dropping, gentler now. “You’re too in love with me to see how fucking crazy I am too. Wow—you’re perfect.”

Your breath catches. You look back at him and watch the way his pupils widen just a fraction, the way his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing something he’s afraid he’ll lose again. When he speaks, it’s quieter than it’s been all night, stripped of humor, stripped of bravado.

“I know I’m not good for you,” he says. “I want you to choose me anyway.”

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

Opens again.

“I—I can’t,” you say, the words barely holding together. Saying them feels like pressing on a bruise you’ve been protecting for months.

“You have,” Tim answers, gently now. Not accusing. Just certain.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper.

“You have,” he repeats, softer still, like he’s not trying to convince you—like he’s just stating a fact you’ve both been circling all night.

The car hums around you, engine ticking as it cools, heater blowing steadily, Gotham quiet outside in a way it rarely is. Two people alone in a parked car, suspended in a moment that feels less like a choice and more like gravity.

And the worst part is—you don’t know when you started leaning toward him.

The space between you collapses quietly.

Not all at once—no rush, no collision—but the slow, inevitable pull of two people who have already crossed this line a hundred times in their heads. Tim leans in first, tentative in a way that feels almost reverent, like he’s afraid sudden movement might break the moment. His hand comes up, hovering near your jaw, hesitating there like he’s still giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

When his thumb finally brushes your cheek, it’s barely there, a test more than a touch. Warm. Steady. Real. The contact sends something sharp and familiar through your chest, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you tilt your head up just enough for him to close the last inch.

The press is soft at first. Careful. Like he’s relearning you.

Tim’s lips press to yours with a gentleness that hurts, the kind that carries memory with it—every late night, every almost, every time he wanted this and didn’t let himself reach for it.

You feel him exhale against you, shaky and quiet, like he’s been holding that breath for months.

He has.

Then you kiss him back.

And that’s all it takes.

The sound he makes is small and involuntary, a broken little breath that slips out as his hand cups your face properly now, thumb resting under your cheekbone like it belongs there. The kiss deepens, still unhurried but surer, his mouth moving against yours like he’s afraid to stop once he’s started.

Your fingers find his jacket without thinking, bunching the fabric at his chest. He leans into it immediately, body turning further toward you, shoulder pressing into the seat. The world outside the windows fades—the rain, the parking lot, Gotham holding its breath—until there’s only warmth and the quiet rhythm of two people breathing each other in.

Tim kisses you like he’s been missing you.

Like he never stopped.

When he finally pulls back, it’s just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, noses brushing, breaths mingling. His eyes stay closed for a second longer, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that this is happening.

It doesn’t stay gentle for long.

Something gives the moment you press back into him, and Tim reacts like he’s been waiting for permission. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers firm now, anchoring you there as his mouth finds yours again with more intent. The kiss deepens, unhurried but hungry, like he’s making up for every second he forced himself to keep his distance.

His lips move against yours with purpose this time—still careful, still restrained, but undeniably heated. You feel it in the way his grip tightens just slightly, thumb pressing into your pulse point as if to reassure himself that you’re still here, that you haven’t disappeared again.

You shift closer without realizing it, knees on the center console, moving as careful as you can be. Tim follows the movement instinctively, body leaning back further, shoulder braced against the seat as he leans back for you. The kiss grows warmer, breaths breaking between touches, foreheads brushing when you part for half a second before coming back together again.

Tim freezes for half a heartbeat when his arm hooks under your thighs and lifts you, like even that small escalation startles him. Then instinct takes over. He settles you onto his lap carefully, one hand steady at your hip, the other still at your neck, holding you like something precious he’s afraid to drop.

Your teeth catch his bottom lip—soft, tentative, almost reverent—and the sound he makes is wrecked. A low groan that vibrates into your mouth, more feeling than noise. It’s enough to make your pulse spike, enough to make your hands curl into his jacket like you need something solid to stay upright.

He responds without thinking, mouth tilting, pressure increasing just enough to mirror you. When his teeth catch your lip back, it’s not cruel—but it’s real. Sharp enough to make you gasp, sharp enough that there’s a brief, metallic tang between you. Copper and heat and something dangerously close to relief.

He pulls back immediately, forehead dropping to yours, breath uneven. One hand tightens at your waist, not to pull you closer, but to keep you there. To stop himself from doing more.

“Hey,” Tim murmurs, not a warning—more like a check-in, like he’s grounding both of you at once.

Your noses brush when you breathe. Your hands are still fisted in his jacket. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line along your side, undoing the bite even as his eyes stay locked on your mouth like it’s gravity itself.

The kiss that follows is slower, deeper, restrained by sheer force of will. All warmth and pressure and promise, none of it rushing anywhere. Your knees are tangled, hearts loud enough to drown out the city—both of you painfully aware that this could tip into something unstoppable if either of you lets go.

And neither of you does.

The realization makes his restraint crack—it doesn't shatter, but splinters.

Tim’s hand tightens at your waist, fingers digging in like he needs the pressure to stay present, to keep from tipping completely. The next kiss turns rougher in rhythm rather than content—more insistence, more heat. He kisses you like he’s been starving politely and just lost his manners. No finesse now, just want, mouth pressing harder, chasing yours when you try to pull back for air.

Your hands slide up into his hair, tugging without thinking, and the sound he makes is sharp—half breath, half warning. His grip shifts, one arm bracing you fully against him now, anchoring you there like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens even a little.

Tim kisses you again, deeper, teeth catching your lip—not enough to hurt this time, but enough to remind you he could. Enough to make your stomach flip and a whine leave your mouth. His breathing is uneven against you, chest rising fast beneath you, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape.

For a moment it’s messy—foreheads knocking, breaths stealing, the car creaking faintly as he adjusts the driver's seat. His thumb presses into your hip, grounding, claiming, stopping himself.

Then he breaks the kiss abruptly, breath ragged, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he exhales, voice wrecked, like the word is torn out of him. His grip doesn’t loosen. If anything, he holds you tighter, hands moving to work the buttons of your coat open.

You can feel it in the way he’s shaking—not with fear. With effort.

The kind it takes to stop.

Tim’s breath keeps stuttering against your neck, the kind that can’t decide if it wants to steady or fall apart completely. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts, pressing you more securely against him, like gravity itself is insisting you stay right there. The car feels too small for the way everything in him is brimming over—fogged windows, the low hum of the engine still warm beneath you, the rain ticking faintly outside like it’s counting time neither of you are keeping.

Tim leans back in, slower this time but heavier, like the weight of it finally landed. His mouth finds your neck, not frantic now but insistent, deliberate. Every kiss feels like a choice he’s making again and again. His hands stay where they are—one firm at your waist, one steady at your hip—like he’s drawing hard lines around what he won’t cross, even as everything else tilts.

You feel the tension in him through every point of contact. The way his shoulders stay tight. The way Tim’s jaw clenches when you press closer on him. When your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, he lets out a sound that’s barely there, swallowed before it can become anything dangerous.

Tim breaks a kiss on your collarbone, moving to rest his forehead resting against yours now. His nose brushes your cheek when he exhales, warm and shaky. You can feel his pulse under your hands, fast and unguarded, like he forgot how to hide it with you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

It’s not restraint born of distance—it’s restraint born of knowing exactly how badly this could spiral if either of you gave an inch more. His thumb presses once at your side, grounding, almost apologetic.

Then he pulls you into one last kiss, slower, deeper, less rough but heavier in meaning—like punctuation instead of a sentence. When he finally lets you go, it’s only by a breath, hands still bracketing you, eyes dark and searching, like he’s memorizing the moment in case it’s taken from him again.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

The silence between you is loud with everything you both know now.

“Get in the back.” Tim mumbles, “Mm…gonna give you head.”

You chuckle at that, running a hand through his hair just to watch the way goosebumps form on his neck, feel the way his breath stutters against your lips, “Gonna give your girlfriend head?”

“Yeah.” Tim mumbles against your skin, “Mm…my girlfriend.”

For once in this past year–you're exactly where you want to be. And you don't think Tim’s ever going to let you leave again.

Ace Trappola

He would do anything in his power to try spend time with you (annoy you lovingly), after all he doesn't get much of your time being a year below you and all.

Asks about you a lot, especially asks Jamil whom you share a class with, "Hey Jamil-senpai, we got a buncha sweets from the unbirthday party earlier, want some? No? Then give this to the prefect for me".

He's not slick, he asks which one you liked best so he can bring some more next time, he fills the pastry boxes to the brim and says it's for 'Grim too'.

Suddenly he wants to show off all his card tricks, stopping you randomly in the hall asking you to pick a card.

If he see's you in the basketball court to watch a game of his, he'll either show off or be distracted by you, most of the time it's both

His ego will be 100% crushed if you treat him like a kid, will copy trey and riddle's action to seem more mature.

Making you laugh at his jokes make him so giddy and want to squeal, kick his feet, and twirl his hair like a girl who sees her favorite anime character on screen.

Get's cocky when you praise him

Somewhat unnerved when you see past his unserious facade and see right through him

He definitely looks at Magicam posts about couples to cringe at, only to find himself taking pictures of the both of you and flexing on Deuce

"Who's the luckiest person rn?" "You're not even dating?" "Shut up and just be jealous!" "Of what? You're not dating??"

You hear Riddle's scolds in the hallway, the sight of Ace and Grim fill you with dread, what on earth did they do now? Questions later you told yourself before inserting in their situation. After redirecting Riddle's attention to another responsibility you told him you'd take care of the troublemakers in his stead, despite his protests he'd calmed down and walked off to find professor Crewel to help move papers.

"Mrah! Hench-human!" Grim climbed on your leg to sit himself on your shoulders, head resting against yours as he sighed in relief, "Man I seriously owe you one, walking around with Riddle's heavy collar is a problem I don't want to deal with" he chuckled scratching his neck, you sighed, stepping closer towards him"If you feel so indebted to me then do me a favor and stay out of trouble" fixing his uniform by buttoning up his undershirt and straightening his tie. He held his breath, your shampoo smelled so good, your fingers ghosting on his neck felt heavenly, he could ignore Grim as long as you were close to him. SEVENS GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF YOU SIMP, he yelled at his conscience.

You stepped back and held Grim in your arms, "Yeah, thanks... EHEM! I have a game next Saturday if you wanna watch", he held his head high trying to avoid eye contact as well as the embarrassment of his question. "Don't bother [---], he'll probably lose anyways" Grim yawned, "That's a lot of talk! Sorry but I don't take criticisim from someone who cant even hold a basketball" You patted Grim's head to refrain him from getting in another fight, "I'll be there" you accepted smiling at him softly before heading to your next class, Ace walked to his next lesson with the most satisfied grin, already planning his training so that he wouldn't embarrass himself during the game.

Deuce Spade

He admired your dedication to your studies and hobbies but most importantly your model student vibe.

He finds himself wanting to do better, so that he could feel he's the same level as you and worthy of your attention. (awwe T-T )

He's so honest and nervous with you, Ace gets secondhand embarrassment about the things that comes out his mouth.

"You were so sick today! I mean not sick as in sick, pretty- I mean yeah you look p-pretty good, great! You look great,a-and the potion you made earlier was so cool!" "That was hard to watch, don't mind him he's always weird"

Thankfully you pay no mind to his nervousness, which helps him get more comfortable around you, give him time, he'll start talking casually after a while.

He loves it when you rely on him, need an extra pencil? He's got 12 backups, Need to move stuff around Ramshackle? He's there to help as soon as you told him you were too busy to hang out. He opens doors, jars, stubborn wrappers, everything.

Deuce also texts Ace about you, the difference is that he sends messages of him overthinking his interactions with you.

"Hey do you think what I did earlier was too much?" "Why are you texting me when I sleep 5 footsteps away from you" "I think I came off a bit weird..." "OH MY SEVENS, ALL YOU SAID WAS THANK YOU, SHUT UP"

If you ever show up to a track event, he runs even faster, which straight up looks like sonic, and he gets all bashful if you compliment him a bunch afterwards.

Your mood affects him too, if you're happy it makes him happy, if Ace did something that pissed you off, suddenly he's pissed at Ace too. And when you're sad he tries his best cheering you up, but he does it so awkwardly you end up laughing, mission failed successfully?

He gets all giddy when you notice his efforts to be better and talks about you to his mom

Deuce had another history exam coming up, usually he'd ask help from Trey or Riddle, unfortunately both tutors had important things to attend to leaving him to his lonesome. Deciding to suck it up and study by himself, he got confused on a few parts, yes, but it was self doubt that made him struggle. 30 minutes in is session he was ready to ask for help from anyone, hell, even Azul if he had to.

"Sorry did you wait long?" his eyes widened, speechless as you placed study materials of your own while sitting beside him. "Prefect, what're you doing here?" "Trey asked me if I could help you out, you have history tomorrow yes?" flipping through his notes and references eyes focused on the text. A strand of your hair falling to your face, you tucked it behind your ear, pen still in hand, while the other was scanning his flashcards. The way the light hit your face made you look serene, the comforting scent of your perfume, the slight furrow on your eyebrows, and the fact that you were helping made the scene all the more angelic. He felt his mouth go dry and face flush as he told himself to BE NORMAL!

"350 years?" "No, 530" the boy burried his face in his palms feeling most dissapointed at himself, he wanted to impress you and do well and all he's done so far is mess everything up, as he wallowed in his despair he felt a warm hand rub his back "You don't have to pretend to know everything, if you're confused about my discussion, ask me instead of nodding along, it's ok", he didn't believe that you were magicless at all, especially since you somehow always lifted the invisble weights on his shoulders. "Was I that obvious?" peeking at you from his palms, you nodded laughing softly, after a few more hours, with your guidance and constant encouragement, he answered your mock test perfectly and got all your oral questions right. He'd been tutored before but never once had he felt so happy and reassured the entire time, "I just want to say thank you for your time, I really learned from you, I don't jus feel like I'll do well, I know it!" The other students turned from their chairs and shushed him, feeling ashamed he whispered apologies to those he distrcted.

Jack Howl

Get's to know you through the heartslabyul duo, lowk loves that you have a moral compass and sense of justice, trusts you a lot because of it.

Asks Ruggie for your preferences once and now he has Ruggie AND Leona teasing him for liking you.

"Oho? Is the pup finally turning into a big boy?" "Shyeheheehee, aww leave the loverboy alone he can't help it!" "If you didn't want to tell me just don't"

His muscles WILL involuntarily flex if you hold onto his arm, you'd think it's cause he wants to show off his HARD work, but no, he's just a bit nervous

You often catch him following your example and doesn't notice until you point it out, he gets slightly embarrassed

Also a very acts of service guy and quality time kind of guy, he especially loves eating with you while you talk about anything at all as he passes you juice he poured out a can for you, totally cause you're his respected upperclassman nothing more nothing less.

DENIAL, his tsundere heart will try and pass his feelings off as admiration and 'looking up to you' but deep down he knows he likes you more than that but refuses to acknowlege it.

He finally gives into his feelings once he realizes that fighting it off and ignoring it won't make him like you less or make his feelings for you go away

When he gets shy but obviously happy he had those cute downward smiles ( ˶˘ ³˘)♡

He will always be on his best anything when you're around and tries to act more mature than usual even if he wants to participate in the Adeuce's games and competitions.

Heart goes all fuzzy when you help him improve himself

"Awwe you didn't have to help me out, I could have carried these by myself" teasing the poor boy with hand to your chest as he carried a sack of soil walking beside you, "It's nothing...No offense, but this is the same size as you, plus it's a hassle going back and forth from the shed" you sighed in defeat as you look down at your arms carrying stacks of little clay pots and a packet inside one that contained seeds. "What're you going to make with this stuff anyways?" his gruff voice softening, "Ingredients for Professor Crewel's class, he needs more of this stuff for a first year lesson next week" his ears perked up, curious "Wonder what were making..." he hummed "That's gonna be a surprise, I can't keep giving you hints for all your lessons, people might think I favor you more than I already do"

The dramatic statement caused him to stop in his tracks, what did you just say? Favor? HIM?! He shook his head like a dog shaking off water and caught up to you, "What do you mean by—" "Oh! There's a lot of space here!" You crouched on the unoccupied spot spacing the pots you placed on the floor as Jack opened the sack and helped plant ingredients. As his gloved hands patted the soil his eyes wandered, maybe it was the blooming plants around you or the pollen that blurred the rest of his vision and made you the only thing he could see in extreme detail, your soft lips as you murmured instructions, the slight glint in your eyes when you realize your using the proper method in this little gardening project, whatever it was he couldn't look away.

The scene was quite domestic in his perspective and he didn't want to ruin this moment. While watering the seeds you had asked why he seemed so knowlegeable about plants, which led to a 2 hour tail wagging conversation about the succulent plants he had nurtured and researched about, and maybe even inviting you to plant one with him on your free time since your interested?

Epel Felmier

Most likely met you through Rook talking about the beauty of your resilience

He tries to act more "manly" around you, he genuinely hates it when you find him cute, and though he's learns from Rook and Vil to see it as a strength he still has trouble getting used to it. When you make him feel reassured and more comfortable with that side of himself, and remind him it doesn't make him less of a man inevitably made him fall hard

He makes apple carvigs of things you like or mentioned you're interested in

You once helped him wipe off his smudged makeup, now he runs to you for makeup tips instead of Vil, whether your good at makeup or not he'd rather learn makeup with you/from you, cause apparently Vil's instructions are too long

Will come to Ramshackle to gorge on food Vil banned him from eating "I can't take nother day of that bland crap! So what if they got weird chemicals on em? Better than unseasoned chicken I tell ya!"

He'll let his accent fly loose, no need to act so prim and proper when he can be himself with you

If you compliment one of his cardigans he WILL give one to you and prolly brag to ace how you're wearing one of his clothes

Will show off his flight skills when you're out on the field or at a spelldrive match

When you try to carry a lot of things he'll want to help, mostly cause he wants to show off how stronger he's gotten

Wants to have your opinion when he tries wearing clothes that aren't his usual style

"Honestly, why not ask Vil for help?" you sighed patting his face with tissue to pick up oils, dirt, and sweat off his fair complexion "He once took an hour explaining proper cleaning techniques on 7 different brushes that looked all the same!" "That just means he's knowlegeable, you should take advantage of that and use it to improve" He huffed knowing you were right but was still too stubborn to listen, you chuckled at his very visible frustration as you lightly reapplied his makeup.

"But I get what you mean, he can be a bit overwhelming" "RIGHT?!" his eyes flew open, holding your wrist as his face held agreement with a touch of annoyance. You stared at him in surprise, realizing his hold on you and his sudden closeness, he got to see your features up close like he's never before. Your eyes and beautiful hue it had, your nose and forehead that gave him cuteness aggression, and the slight gape on your lips that made him want to close the gap. His face spread red all the way to his neck and ears in embarrassment once he heard your laughter letting his grip on you go and creating more distance.

"Oh you poor thing! I'll be sure to ask Vil to go easy on you the next I see him" "...P-please do" He shut his eyes again internally kicking himself for such a reckless act. You two continued to laugh and chat while you gently patted product on his skin. "Ah~ Young love! Such a beautiful act of devotion, and to think Monsieur Pomette would develop such feelings for the Trickster! Youth is truly the prime of romance, truly fantastique!" Rook clutched his chest as Vil creased his brow, "How crude, since he has so much time to criticize my methods of teaching then I shall have a 2 hour session of it's importance" he glared at the first year's back.

Sebek Zigvolt

Beats Jack in the denial stage, this guy is not accpeting it and gaslights himself trying to convince himself you're just another sophmore he respects, until it drives him stir crazy

He'll find himself contradicting himself though, and gets flustered when Ace teases him about it "Nonsense! This is clearly respect to it's highest form! I should have known someone like you would not understand!" "Yeah whatever makes you feel better man, I've got other stuff to do than argue with a brick wall"

He really appreciates your patience and gentle tone when you speak with him, he gets a little quieter to hear you better

Very happy if you recognize his liege's greatness with him too

Will seek you out if he hears people disrespect your name

You help him see the beauty of human nature and he'll never notice how he slowly starts to drop the nickname of human when talking to you

HUMAN WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM, WHY IS HE SUDDENLY EXPECTANTLY AWAITING YOUR HAND WRITTEN LETTERS? He told you once that he preferred traditional forms of communication and you noticing small details about him made his face fume, but not in anger

Lilia will nudge him into the right direction to understand his feelings, the old bat enjoys youthful romance it seems

It will take him a while to accept his feelings for you but once he does, he is not quiet about it

Will court you by fae standards but you don't really understand so you accept his gifts thinking it's out of platonic kindness which frustrates him to no end but he ends up frozen every time he tries to voice out his feelings in preson.

"[---]! YOU LEFT YOUR NOTEBOOK WITH ME WHEN YOU WHERE EXPLAINING HUMAN SLANG TERMS"

Oh right I forgot lol

"THIS IS NO LAUGHING MATTER! ONE MUST BE MINDFUL OF THEIR BELONGINGS"

Even through the screen I can hear you 😭

"Why are you crying?!"

No sebek I'm not actually crying, it's just an expression 😓

"Why must humans find new ways to complicate things"

So how did talking to Lilia go? Can you finally understand him?

"Absolutely! Lilia even praised my use of terms, I lowkey killed him out there!"

You cackled in your room startling Grim but he brushed it off too tired to argue with you and went back to sleep. You turn to your side tapping on your keyboard, you genuinely hope he doesn't use these terms in person or else you wouldn't be able to hold it in and neither can Ace and the rest of the group.

Good on you for learning so quickly :))

"I am beyond grateful for your guidance, therefore I must return your notebook at once!"

Sebek the sun's already setting just give it back tomorrow morning

Ace Trappola is a great many things. He’s the Heartslabyul problem child no. 1 turned housewarden (albeit he still causes problems). Seemingly best friends with the Prefect and 5 other housewardens. He’s a part of the NRC basketball team and holds contributions in the SDC. He’s a talented charmer who, surprisingly, many idolise. But, first and foremost, he is your boyfriend. Your adorable, bratty and very needy boyfriend. Or so he used to be.

‘Callin’ and touching’

A frustrated sigh leaves your lips as you run a hand through your hair. The two of you started dating at the beginning of your second year, and everything was just amazing. He was clingy, annoyingly so, and not one to shy away from intimacy. ;)

‘Now I don't recognize this’

But now? Ever since he was appointed housewarden, it’s like something changed within him. Of course at first it was subtle, probably the weight of his new responsibilities smacking some sense into him. However, very slowly he became more and more restrained; it is so frustrating!

‘Can I return it?

Get back the version I like

This one's bullshit baby’

It’s not like he’s completely distant. He still greets you with kisses and loves to pull you close when you’re sat in the Heartslabyul dorm lounge together. He just takes longer to respond to your texts, and your calendar hasn’t looked so empty in ages.

‘He used to be literally obsessed with me

I’m suddenly the least sought after girl in the land’

Ultimately the tipping point came during one of Heartslabyul’s unbirthday parties. Ace was at the head of the table. The crown on his head and his housewarden uniform made him look so so delicious. You were sat next to him, having a chat whilst enjoying your tart, when suddenly you're interrupted by some trouble-causing first years. Before you could even turn back to face your beloved boyfriend, he was already out of his seat. Sigh…

‘He's busy

He's working

He doesn't have time for me’

What’s got into him, honestly…

He has been so absorbed in his role as housewarden that he’s been completely neglecting you. You! His cute, beautiful and sexy (his words) love!

‘My slutty pajamas

Not tempting him in the least’

Even when you invite him over to your room, he just cuddles up to you with that stupidly handsome face, makes out with you and falls straight asleep. Like, pardon??? You could be just in your underwear and he won’t even bat an eye. Like, you’re right here, hello?

‘The joke can be over now

You're so silly baby’

“Ace.” Your tone is serious and your posture rigid as you stand before his room’s doorframe. Said boyfriend is by his desk, seemingly working on something as he responds with a light hum. It seems he just got out of the shower, evident through his damp hair and makeup-free face. Hot. Closing the door shut behind you, your slippered feet carry you to him. A slight crease formed between your brows at his minimalistic response.

‘Oh my man on his willpower

Is something I don't under

Something I don't understand’

Finally noticing your looming figure, Ace spins his chair around, a teasing grin cracking onto his face as he notices the frown on your beautiful face. “Something wrong, doll?”

“Uh, yeah.” Your arms cross over your chest in response. A huff escaping as he pulls you forward by your waist, watching as he nuzzles your torso. Sevens, you wanted to wipe that idiotic grin off his stupidly attractive face. “You wanna tell me, or are you going to keep wrinkling that pretty face of yours, hm—?”

You cut him off by pulling him into a kiss. A very messy and very frustrated kiss. A kiss that he satisfyingly smiled into, your desperate action of straddling him practically intoxicating him.

If he’s forgotten how to be a good boyfriend, then it seems you’re just going to have to teach him how to be one.

‘My man's forgotten his devotion

Where he's gone God only knows’

-—-//♪//-—-

After a week of trying to bond with leaves like they were long-lost family and nearly getting strangled by a particularly enthusiastic vine, you decided you’d had enough.

You needed a way out.

Not in the dramatic “storm out of class, set fire to the greenhouse, and flee into the mountains” way. (Though it was on the table.)

You needed a loophole. An escape clause. A forbidden back door in the curriculum forged in ancient times by other students who had also accidentally murdered cacti.

So you did what any desperate, dignity-depleted mage-in-training would do.

You found a senior.

Now, seniors in mage school are like cryptids. Powerful. Elusive. Sleep-deprived. And terrifying in the way only people who’ve once accidentally turned themselves into a plant can be. Your chosen senior was sitting under a tree, drinking coffee from a mug that said “I survived Magical Ecology II and all I got was this mug and lifelong trauma.”

You approached, clinging to your textbook like it was a lifeline. “Hi. I’m—uh. I’m not vibing with the flora.”

They looked up, eyes dark with knowledge and probably caffeine. “Botany stream?”

“Against my will.”

A pause. A long, sympathetic sip. Then: “You have two options.”

Your heart fluttered. Hope! Salvation! Maybe—

“One: Fail everything, get held back a year, reapply next cycle. Pray the plants forget your face.”

“I can’t afford that. Option two?”

“Summon a familiar so powerful, the faculty has to bump you into a combat-heavy stream for your own safety. And theirs.”

You blinked. “Like. A dragon?”

The senior shrugged. “Sure. Or a demon. Or a vengeful raccoon. Anything above ‘mildly homicidal housecat’ works.”

“And then they’ll just… change my stream?”

“If your familiar is terrifying enough, yes. Preferably something with fire. Fire fixes everything. Except greenhouses.”

You nodded slowly, feeling the stirrings of a Plan™. A terrible, beautiful, questionable plan.

"How hard is it to summon a familiar?" you asked.

They smiled, and it was not comforting.

“Not hard. Doing it without summoning something that wants to eat you is the tricky part.”

You thanked them and walked off into the distance, muttering under your breath and already flipping through your grimoires.

You were going to get out of this stream or die trying.

Hopefully neither.

But if a hellbeast had to be involved, well…

You were prepared to negotiate.

You had one job.

Just one.

Summon a powerful familiar. Save your future career path. Escape the dreaded Botany Stream before you're eaten alive by carnivorous radishes with anger issues and questionable ethics.

You’d studied forbidden texts. You’d drawn your summoning circle to perfect mathematical proportions using a protractor, three compasses, and something called “Manifestation Oil” you bought off a sketchy alchemy influencer.

You even lit candles by hand like a peasant. That’s how serious this was.

You had one last step: focus your intent. Picture what you wanted. Channel all your magic and will into the ritual. A dragon, perhaps. A fearsome spirit. A beast of legend. Maybe even a war general.

Instead, the unagi you were saving for dinner—your actual, literal eel—slid off the table mid-chant and splat landed right in the center of the summoning circle.

The summoning circle hissed.

You had precisely one second to scream “NO, YOU STUPID SLIPPERY FISH—” before the circle detonated.

There was light. Screaming wind. Something smelled vaguely of seaweed and crime.

When your retinas finally stopped sizzling and your ears recovered from their astral slapping, you looked up.

And there he was.

A tall, elegant man standing in the still-smoking circle, dusting off his sleeves like he hadn’t just been yanked across the realms by an overcooked eel. His teal hair shimmered like deep water. Heterochromatic eyes. He looked like a minor sea god and a professional tax evader all rolled into one.

He tilted his head. Smiled. “That was… dramatic.”

You stared. Still holding the empty microwave-safe eel tray like a sacrificial relic.

“I was trying to summon a dragon,” you croaked.

“Ah,” he said, eyeing the smear of soy sauce in the center of the runes. “Then why the seafood?”

You didn’t have an answer. Mostly because you were too busy silently screaming.

“I suppose I’m what happens when your spell gets rerouted mid-delivery,” he continued, delight practically oozing off him. “Fascinating. I'm Jade. Jade Leech.”

You, a mage of great ambition and even greater regret, took a deep breath and said the only thing that made sense.

“…Are you allergic to plants?”

Jade Leech, freshly yanked from the dark, swirling depths of somewhere much cooler than here, watched with the amused detachment of a man who had just witnessed his summoner go through all five stages of grief in under forty seconds.

You cursed the gods.

You cursed the stars.

You cursed your entrance exam, your cactus, your birth, and at one point—yourself in third person.

He said nothing. Simply folded his hands behind his back and watched with the kind of serene interest normally reserved for people observing an exotic animal fling itself against glass.

Eventually, once your vocal cords began to shred from impassioned screaming (and possibly mild sobbing), you whirled toward him, red-eyed and wild-haired, and gestured at him in disbelief.

“Are you—” you wheezed, dragging a sleeve across your face, “perchance a dragon?”

He blinked slowly. His smile widened.

“Perchance?”

“I don’t know!” you shouted. “You’re tall! You appeared in a bunch of smoke! Your hair defies gravity! That could be dragon behavior!”

“Hm.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And if I say yes?”

You squinted. “...Do you breathe fire?”

“I’m more of a ‘poison your tea and watch what happens’ sort of creature,” he replied, pleasantly.

You screamed again—this time in cosmic betrayal—and stomped your foot so hard the candles trembled.

He made a note of this. You had good stomping technique.

“Well then what are you?!” you demanded.

He shrugged, like this wasn’t a magical emergency and more of a casual day.

“A Moray Eel, technically.”

You stared at him. Then at the summoning circle. Then at the empty microwave eel tray still on the floor. Then back at him.

“Oh my gods,” you whispered in horror. “The unagi redirected the target circle. I was summoning a power dragon and the ritual downgraded to ‘long sea worm.’”

He chuckled. “How dare you.”

“I wanted to cheat the system,” you whispered, falling to your knees like a tragic protagonist. “And the gods sent me seafood.”

“I’m standing right here, you know.”

You threw yourself to the ground and started sobbing into the floor.

Jade’s smile grew wider. He might stay. This was already more entertaining than anything back home.

And honestly, watching you spiral was kind of charming.

Jade made tea.

You weren’t entirely sure how or when. One moment, you were crumpled on the floor, dramatically mourning your dreams of becoming a cool elemental mage with a dragon familiar. The next, he was handing you a dainty teacup on a saucer you definitely didn’t own.

There was a slice of lemon in it. The mug was warm. You were terrified.

“…Did you summon this tea set too?” you asked, eyeing the porcelain like it was going to explode.

“No,” he said pleasantly. “It was in your cupboard.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He smiled wider. “Was it not?”

You stared at him. He stared back, sipping his tea with the calm of someone who knew exactly where every spoon in your home was and wouldn’t hesitate to replace them with slightly longer spoons just to gaslight you.

You took a sip of the tea to assert dominance. It was delicious. You hated that it was delicious.

He watched you, unblinking. “So. Why the desperate summoning?”

You groaned, slouching like the tea had robbed you of whatever spine you had left. “I got sorted into the botany stream.”

There was a silence. You sipped your tea again to drown in the shame.

Then his eyes sparkled.

You felt it. Like a shift in the atmosphere. Like the moment before a lightning strike. Like the second someone said, “Trust me,” and you woke up four hours later in a tree, covered in glitter and mild regret.

“Oh,” he said, delighted. “Botany.”

“No,” you said immediately. “Don’t do that. Don’t say it like that.”

“Fascinating field, truly.”

“Nope. You’re not going to help me switch out, are you?”

He leaned forward, chin in his hand, elbow balanced too gracefully for someone who had appeared out of eel magic and poor life choices. “Why would I do that? I think you’ll thrive.”

“You don’t understand,” you said, pleading now. “I killed a cactus.”

“Oh, I completely understand,” he said. “And I'm going to help you fulfill your potential.”

You froze. “…You mean, like, help me survive until I transfer?”

“No,” he said.

You dropped your cup. He caught it without looking. You wanted to scream.

The only thing worse than being a botany student… was being a botany student with a chaos eel who found fungi romantically intriguing as your familiar.

You were so doomed.

Unfortunately for everyone involved—and by everyone, specifically you—magic law was a clingy little thing. Once the summoning circle did its sparkly flashbang thing and delivered you one (1) butler-themed eel man, the universe basically clapped its hands, said “it is what it is,” and slapped a contract in your face.

Minimum term of servitude: one year.

“But I didn’t mean to summon him,” you argued to literally no one who cared. “There was fish involved! It was a mishap, not a magical invocation!”

Jade, very unhelpfully sipping tea that you definitely hadn’t bought, slid the scroll across the table toward you like a cheerful IRS agent. “Intent is only one part of the ritual,” he said with the infinite patience of someone who enjoyed watching trainwrecks in slow motion. “The contract is already half-formed. You really should sign it before your house explodes.”

You stared at the scroll.

Then at him.

Then at the scroll again.

“Do I at least get a trial period?” you tried.

“No,” he said, smiling.

“A free return policy?”

“No.”

“Is there, like, an eel clause I can exploit?”

He chuckled. You were going to die in this major.

With the kind of reluctant grace that only someone who’d just accidentally legally bound themselves to a smug sea-creature man could muster, you signed.

The moment the pen left the paper, the air shifted with a cozy little pop, as if magic itself was tucking you both in and whispering “congratulations on your joint custody of chaos.” A faint glow danced around Jade’s shoulders. Your window exploded.

(You’d ask questions about that later.)

“There we are,” Jade said, clasping his hands. “Familiar and mage, officially contracted. Shall I begin compiling a weekly schedule for our fieldwork?”

“Field—oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he beamed. “We’ll be revisiting the entire kingdom flora catalogue, starting with mosses.”

You suddenly understood the reason why some mages went mad.

And unfortunately, you’d just handed yours the clipboard.

The next morning, you dragged yourself to class like a condemned soul to the gallows, weighed down by a sense of impending doom and also by the deeply unsettling realization that your familiar had organized your bookshelf by spore reproduction categories sometime during the night.

Everyone else looked so normal. There was someone with a fire spirit coiled lazily around their shoulders, someone else with a giant spectral wolf that radiated unbothered energy, and even one smug jerk with a miniature dragon who was definitely using it to cheat on practical tests.

And then there was you.

With him.

Jade stood a respectful half-step behind you, dressed like a mildly menacing butler who might also commit tax fraud if given the opportunity. He carried your books. He bowed to your professor. He smiled at your classmates.

You didn’t trust that smile. That was the smile of a man who had definitely poisoned a royal court and got away with it by turning the queen into a toadstool.

Someone asked what type of spirit you’d summoned.

You opened your mouth to lie.

Jade answered for you. “They were aiming for a dragon,” he said, serene as ever. “But an eel will have to do.”

The entire class stared at you. You stared into the void.

“It was the unagi,” you muttered, already defeated.

No one knew what that meant, but it sounded stupid, so they all laughed.

Jade patted your back like a supportive guardian. You were ninety percent sure it was to check your spine for eventual harvesting.

Gods help you. It was only the first period.

The Academy was in shambles.

Centuries of magical history. Thousands of successfully summoned fire spirits, storm wolves, mildly angry raccoons. And you—a botany major with a dead cactus on your record—had gone and summoned a person.

Not a ghost.

Not an illusion.

Not even a creepy guy pretending to be summonable.

No. A fully functional person.

“Technically,” the Dean said, staring at the magical contract hovering over your heads, “you… own him now.”

You almost threw up on the ornate rug.

Jade Leech, the man in question, just smiled—sharp, calm, entirely too pleased.

“This is so cursed,” you whispered.

“Oh no,” he replied sweetly. “This is fate.”

And that was only the beginning of your descent into contractual hell.

Because Jade? Oh, he thrived under magical servitude. Took to it like a duck to water. Like an eel to crime.

He started calling you Master.

In public. Loudly. With emphasis.

“Good morning, Master,” he purred on the way to breakfast, gliding past stunned first-years who immediately assumed you were either very powerful or very into some stuff they weren’t ready to Google.

“Jade. Stop.”

“As you command, Master.”

You tried reasoning with him. You begged. You threatened to cry in front of the Headmistress.

Didn’t matter.

In fact, the more embarrassed you got, the worse it became.

“Master, shall I carry your books?”

“No.”

“Your lunch?”

“No.”

“Your emotional baggage?”

“Jade—”

“Ah, but you summoned me, Master. Now we’re bonded.”

You looked around, desperate for help, but every professor just kind of shrugged. Magical contracts were sacred. Breakable only through death, divine intervention, or, apparently, a system of interpretive dances before the moon goddess during a blood eclipse. None of which were happening before finals.

So now this was your life.

You were the “owner” of a smug eel man in a waistcoat who made you do your homework, made better tea than your own grandmother, and insisted on calling you Master while looking like a very polite threat.

You used to be a normal student with no future in botany.

You should've just failed your exams like a normal student.

Jade settled into your dorm room like he’d been planning it for years. Which was frankly insane, considering you’d only accidentally summoned him a day ago.

You woke up the morning after signing the magically binding familiar contract to find your room… different. Not horrifyingly so, just enough to make your eye twitch. Your desk had moved three inches to the left. Your bookshelf now had labels. Your cactus—previously deceased—was somehow thriving in a suspiciously fancy ceramic pot.

And then there were the jars. Oh gods, the jars. They lined the shelves now in neat, alphabetized rows. Some were normal—“Chamomile,” “Sea Salt,” “Lavender Sprigs.” Others were less so. “Tooth Collection (Domestic)” sat right next to “Rainwater (For Legal Use Only).” You wanted to ask, but Jade had a look in his eye that said whatever answer you get, you won’t like it.

He also brewed tea every morning. Not the relaxing kind. The existential crisis in a cup kind. You drank one (1) polite sip and suddenly understood what “the color eleven” looked like. Your body remained seated but your soul went on a brief vacation.

You had no idea how, but you were scoring higher in Botany. You still couldn’t identify a single plant, but Jade kept slipping you notes mid-lab with things like “This one bites. Do not sniff.” or “Lick at your own risk.”

So yes, your GPA was rising. Unfortunately, so was your blood pressure. And your heart rate. And your sense that you were, somehow, very much in danger.

Jade simply smiled every time you panicked. “You’re thriving, Master,” he’d say, and sip his tea like he wasn’t actively reorganizing your entire life.

You were not thriving. You were surviving. Barely.

The assignment was simple on paper: identify twenty local plants, label their genus, and list their magical and medicinal properties.

Which was all fine and dandy if you weren’t a person who had accidentally killed a cactus by underwatering it because you “didn’t want to overwhelm it.” 

You’d gotten through most of your academic career via a potent combination of vibes, frantic late-night study sessions, and an almost supernatural level of spite. But this—this was science. With labels. And botanical terminology. And leaves that all looked the same.

So, you did what any sane, desperate mage-in-training with poor decision-making skills and a total lack of botanical knowledge would do.

You brewed a bathtub-sized cauldron of universal poison antidote and decided you’d taste-test each plant to figure out which one was lethal and, by process of elimination, identify the rest.

Jade found you leaning over the cauldron, mumbling something about statistical mortality rates and chewing on a leaf like a feral squirrel trying to beat natural selection.

“I thought you were joking,” he said, in that same unsettlingly pleasant tone he always used when you were actively concerning him.

“I wasn’t!” you declared. “This is science, Jade. And survival. I’ve made enough antidote to survive an assassination attempt—”

“You made it in your bathtub.”

“—and I’m going to lick nature into submission.”

Jade sat you down at the table, folded his hands neatly, and asked you—politely but with the weight of an ancient curse behind it—to repeat your plan.

You did.

He stared at you.

You shifted in your seat.

He continued to stare, like a disappointed headmaster.

“...Okay fine,” you finally muttered. “It is a bad plan.”

“Thank you,” he said calmly. “Would you like to identify your plants using logic, reference books, and assistance from your familiar, or would you prefer a slow and humiliating descent into gastrointestinal regret?”

“I mean, when you say it like that—”

“Wonderful. I’ll prepare the tea.”

You hated how soothing (mostly) his tea was. 

You found out purely by accident.

Your friend sat down at lunch with a heavy sigh and a tear-streaked face, muttering something about how their fox familiar had gone limp and glassy-eyed after being ignored for two days straight in favor of midterms. Apparently, he needed “emotional engagement” and “frequent pets.”

You had not known this. You had not known any of this.

You returned to your dorm in a panic.

Jade, as always, was seated like an eerie portrait come to life, sipping tea and reading a book that looked suspiciously bound in scales. He raised one eyebrow as you burst through the door carrying three different types of fruits and a hand-sewn blanket you’d made in Home Ec two years ago.

“I heard that familiars need enrichment,” you blurted. “Do you—are you enriched? Are you feeling under-enriched? What’s your favorite snack enrichment type? Is it eels? Oh no wait, is that cannibalism? I don’t know your rules!”

Jade blinked slowly. “You believe I am in poor health?”

“I don’t know!” you wailed, thrusting the blanket at him. “I don’t know the maintenance routine for familiars! You could be dying from sadness and I wouldn’t know!”

He looked down at the blanket. It had uneven edges and a sewn-on mushroom that looked like it had witnessed terrible things. Slowly, he took it. Draped it over his lap. Sipped his tea again.

“You are a very considerate Master,” he said with a pleased little smile that absolutely shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d just earned an A+ in Familiar Wellness. “I feel much better already.”

You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or not. But then he let you tuck the blanket around his shoulders like a shawl, and even let you hand-feed him a strawberry.

You decided you didn’t care if he was messing with you. His ears were flushed. That was a win.

You needed Nightshade. Not the safe kind either—the real, reactive stuff that tended to hiss if the humidity wasn’t just right and once exploded in someone's bag for being stared at wrong.

Unfortunately, your professors had firmly, repeatedly, and increasingly frantically refused to let you anywhere near it. Something about “prior incidents,” “a trail of fire ants through the dorm hallway,” and “we are begging you to stop licking mystery leaves.”

But you had an experiment to finish, and a lack of official approval had never stopped a single mage in history. Which was how you found yourself sneaking into the restricted greenhouse under cover of darkness, with your overly smug eel-familiar following like he was on a stroll and not a felonious B&E.

“This is clearly illegal,” Jade said cheerfully, as he helped you pick the lock.

“You’re a summoned being. Laws don’t apply to you,” you muttered, shoving the door open.

“That’s speciesist,” he said mildly, and you ignored him on purpose.

The two of you tiptoed through rows of glowing plants, whisper-bickering the whole way.

“Don’t touch that. It screams.”

“You scream.”

“Yes, and I have a great voice.”

He huffed a laugh. You tried not to grin. You failed.

Honestly, it would’ve been a perfectly stupid and smooth heist—until the Shrike Vine noticed you. Apparently it was pollination season and it was feeling bitey. You froze as a thick green tendril snapped toward you like a whip.

Except it never hit.

Jade moved faster than you thought was possible. One hand caught the vine mid-strike, the other calmly flicked a tiny blade across it like he was trimming hedges instead of saving your life.

And then, because he was a menace, he leaned in close—just enough for you to catch the sharp gleam in his mismatched eyes—and murmured:

“I’m very good at protecting what’s mine.”

You were not about to combust in a greenhouse. You were not. Absolutely not.

Still. Your face was hot. You blamed the bioluminescent plants.

“Wh—That’s not—you can’t just say things like that,” you hissed.

He tilted his head, looking unbothered and devastatingly pleased. “Why not?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Pointed at the vine. “Is that one safe to lick?”

“Absolutely not.”

“…Cool, cool, just checking.”

The incident itself wasn’t even your fault this time, which was frankly insulting, considering you usually caused at least 70% of the department's arcane emergencies. 

No, this time it was Jeremy from Spell Calculus who accidentally overcharged a fire enhancement glyph and sent a wayward jet of magic careening through the lab like a feral gremlin. It ping-ponged off three protective wards, vaporized a desk plant, and promptly singed your familiar.

Specifically: Jade’s sleeve caught a little fire. For exactly three seconds.

The sleeve was barely charred. His skin wasn’t even red. He smirked.

You, however, reacted like you’d just watched him be stabbed in the heart by a divine lance.

“OH MY GOD YOU’RE BURNING—ARE YOU OKAY?! Is it fatal? It’s fatal, isn’t it?! What’s the protocol for familiar injury?! Do you need a resurrection spell?? Should I call the nurse or the exorcist—?!”

Jade, blinked once. Then calmly patted the faintest whiff of smoke from his robe and said, “I believe I’ll live.”

But the glint in his eyes said he smelled weakness. And he would absolutely exploit it.

The next morning, you showed up with a full care basket: enchanted cooling balm, a wonky scarf you’d panic-crocheted in the night, a potion for nerve regeneration (completely unnecessary), and a whole assortment of healing snacks from the infirmary vending machine.

You even hand-fed him a soothing honey drop.

That was your next mistake.

Because the very next day, Jade reclined across your bed like a drama major rehearsing for a role in “The Dying Swan: A Magical Tragedy.” He had a lukewarm towel across his forehead, your blanket wrapped dramatically around his shoulders like a cape, and a very deliberate look of fragile suffering.

“Alas,” he whispered, placing the back of his hand to his (completely fine) forehead, “I fear the lingering effects of the trauma are… worsening. There’s a tightness in my chest. I may never wield a kettle again. My tea senses are dulled.”

You squinted at him, deadpan. “You brewed two pots this morning.”

“For you, dearest Master,” he said, with an exaggerated wince. “But at what cost?”

You refused to indulge him. For about ten minutes.

Then he started coughing. Badly. Into a silk handkerchief. That you were pretty sure he’d dabbed with food coloring beforehand to resemble blood.

“Do you think you can bring… strawberry lollipops?” he asked, voice trembling. “Before I pass on to the next world.”

You shoved five into his mouth. “You’re not dying. But you are insufferable.”

He sucked dramatically on the sweets, sighing. “I find this treatment emotionally compromising.”

You fed him another one.

And started plotting your revenge with a very bitter herbal “recovery” tea. It smelled like wet moss and tasted like betrayal.

He drank it all. Smiled. Said it “added intrigue to the healing experience.”

You were no longer sure who was winning this war. But you were definitely losing your mind.

It started subtly. Jade would casually set a teacup in front of you in the mornings, unprompted. You’d ignore it. He’d raise an eyebrow. You’d argue that caffeine was a food group and you didn’t need anything else, thank you very much. 

He’d say something cryptic like “I’d rather not have to explain malnutrition-related hallucinations to the administration,” and then slide you a plate of suspiciously elegant finger sandwiches.

Somehow, you’d end up eating them.

A week later, you found yourself sitting down for actual breakfast—tea, toast, even fruit—without remembering how it happened. He’d simply adjusted your routine. Quietly. Steadily. Like a moss infestation with an agenda.

He began packing you lunch. Bento-style. With little hand-drawn labels.

You didn’t even know when he started doing it. You just opened your bag one day, reached for your emergency gummy stash, and pulled out a thermos of miso soup and a side of rice balls shaped like sea creatures.

He started accompanying you to the dining hall under the excuse of "needing seaweed access." He monitored your meals. Commented on vitamin intake. Replaced your sugar gummies with dried fruit. Told you that if he caught you drinking energy drinks for dinner again, he’d report you to botanical safety for trying to poison a living plant (Vermin had still not recovered from the one time you tried to share a Monster with it).

Eventually, your friend—sweet, concerned, possibly one skipped breakfast away from passing out—cornered you between lectures.

"Hey," she said, tugging your sleeve with wide eyes. “I need to ask you something and I don’t want you to freak out.”

You, holding a bento box labeled ‘Don’t Forget to Finish Your Spinach, Master’ with a small smiling mushroom drawn on it, tilted your head. “Okay?”

She glanced around, lowered her voice, and whispered, “Who’s the familiar here?”

You stared at her.

She stared back.

In the distance, Jade waved at you politely while handing a professor a jar of suspicious glowing jam.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Thought about how he’d reorganized your pantry by nutritional pyramid. Thought about how your life had improved and yet somehow spiraled out of your control in the exact same breath.

“I… don’t know anymore,” you whispered back.

And that was the beginning of your existential crisis about power dynamics, dietary fiber, and eel-based emotional manipulation.

The more you thought about it, the more the terrible, horrifying truth settled in: Jade had been slowly taming you.

Not in a leash-and-collar kind of way (though you weren’t entirely convinced he wouldn’t enjoy that visual), but in the slow, methodical way one might tame a particularly wild housecat. One that hissed at vegetables and believed microwaved instant noodles were the pinnacle of culinary achievement.

When you’d first summoned him—on accident, via unagi-induced chaos and a summoning circle that was technically illegal in five countries—you’d been expecting a fae general. A terrifying beast of war. A dragon, maybe. 

What you got was a polite, well-dressed man with a smile that could curdle milk and the calm demeanor of someone who’d enjoy watching your academic career spontaneously combust. 

You were sure he would spend his time reclining in your dorm like some cryptid, sipping tea while you panicked over assignments and singlehandedly ruined your chances at survival in botany.

That had been your first impression.

But it wasn’t what happened.

Instead, Jade made it his mission to ruin you in the most terrifying way imaginable: through care.

He made sure you ate. He brewed tea tailored to your stress levels. He reorganized your notebooks by topic and color-coded them while claiming he was “bored.” He calmly extracted you from five different poison ivy incidents. He taught you how to pronounce “photosynthesis” correctly after you spent an entire presentation calling it “plant vibes.”

And you hated to admit it—but it worked.

You stopped waking up in a panic. You stopped considering glitter glue a legitimate potion ingredient. You even passed a midterm without attempting to bribe a forest fairy.

It was subtle. Devious. Soft.

And worst of all, it was making you feel warm. Cared for. Grounded.

You used to dream of summoning a dragon—a grand, legendary familiar that would impress the entire academy and maybe light your homework on fire for dramatic effect. But now?

Now you watched Jade hum to himself in your kitchen, cooking something that smelled like lemon and dreams, and you didn’t care about dragons. Or status. Or changing streams.

You just wanted to figure out if there was a spell that could describe the exact way your heart skipped when he smiled at you and called you “Master” with that infuriating glint in his eye.

And if not… well. Maybe you’d make one.

From Jade’s point of view, your summoning had all the signs of an impending disaster—and thus, a highly enjoyable evening.

The circle was sloppy, the candles were the wrong color, and the ambient magical pressure was off by several kilopascals. The unagi that had plummeted into the center as a last-minute offering had been particularly concerning. Jade had arrived in a flash of light and fish-scented smoke, bracing for either mortal peril or at least a good laugh.

And then he saw you.

Wide-eyed. Covered in ink. Mumbling about “hoping for a dragon or something.” The perfect storm of magical desperation and zero planning skills. He had thought you’d be amusing. A novelty. A fun little side project to pass the time while bound by contract for a year.

And at first, that was exactly what you were. You were so spectacularly bad at botany that Jade was convinced you were a social experiment.

You called mushrooms “leaf meat.” You once referred to an entire genus of plants as “the crunchy ones.” And your plan to identify herbs by tasting them like a medieval poison tester had nearly given him a stroke. (Emotionally. He’s far too composed for physical symptoms.)

But somewhere between force-feeding you actual meals and dragging you out of exploding greenhouses, Jade started feeling… something. Not just amusement. Not just secondhand horror.

Affection.

It was awful.

So naturally, he did what any emotionally stunted eel-man would do—he ramped up the teasing. Called you “Master” in public. Smiled just a little too sharply. Hovered with a quiet attentiveness he pretended wasn’t genuine.

But when he thought back to that summoning—your hopeful eyes, the half-charred fish, the complete magical disaster—Jade realized something horrifying.

He owed his current happiness to a piece of grilled eel.

The next time he saw unagi on a menu, he gave it a respectful nod. After all, not every familiar bond is forged through fate, fire, and ancient prophecy.

Some are forged through sheer dumb luck and seafood.

You had always believed, deep in your feral little heart, that if you ever fell in love, it would be with the intensity of a meteor crashing into the earth. There would be pyrotechnics. An orchestra. Maybe a cursed bouquet of sentient mushrooms arranged in the shape of your initials. Something properly dramatic.

You were prepared for a sweeping romance. A declaration shouted from a balcony. A confession under a blood moon. At the very least, a sword fight followed by heavy breathing and an emotionally repressed kiss.

What you were not prepared for was... a random morning.

More specifically: today morning at 6:42 a.m., in your tragically unventilated dorm kitchen, where you shuffled in half-awake, wearing a blanket like a disgruntled ghost. Your hair looked like it had seen war. Your socks didn’t match. You were only conscious due to residual academic panic and caffeine withdrawal.

And there Jade was. Crisp and awake and annoyingly gorgeous, as usual, humming some eerie little tune while cooking god-knows-what on your stove. The sunlight framed him like he was in a toothpaste commercial. There were suspicious jars open on the counter labeled things like “Fenugreek??? (Maybe)” and “Do Not Inhale.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder, amused. “Good morning, Master.”

You grunted. It was too early for sarcasm or formal titles.

So, with the sleep-deprived logic of a creature who had survived exclusively on coffee and academic desperation, you trudged over to him, latched onto his waist like a needy koala, and rested your cheek against his back.

You did not plan this. Your body moved on its own, possessed by the Spirit of Affection.

To his credit, he didn’t question it. Jade simply chuckled, adjusted his stance, and offered you a spoonful of something suspiciously green and steaming.

You tasted it. Your neurons barely fired. It was delicious and probably illegal.

And then, without thought, without warning, still pressed against him and one brain cell away from sleep, you mumbled, “I love you.”

There was a beat of silence.

You blinked.

Wait.

Wait—

What the hell did you just say—

YOU SAID THAT OUT LOUD—

Jade paused with the spoon still in his hand, his entire body going still like a predator that just heard something interesting. Then—slowly, like he was savoring it—he turned.

He looked at you. He really looked at you. And then, in true chaos spirit fashion, he grinned.

Not his usual polite smile. No. This was different. This one had teeth.

“Oh?” he said, softly. “Oh?”

And that was the moment you realized: you had said those three words to a man who considered emotional vulnerability an invitation to hunt.

You tried to backtrack. Tried to say you meant “I love you—r soup.”

Or “I love you as a friend. A colleague. A sentient eel.”

But before you could decide on your lie of choice, he leaned down and kissed you.

It started sweet. Gentle. Thoughtful, like maybe he was giving you time to flee.

You didn’t. That was your mistake.

Because then his hand slid around your waist, and the kiss deepened, and suddenly your kitchen felt too small, and too warm, and definitely not rated for public indecency. Your legs threatened to give out. Your brain flatlined.

When he pulled away, you were breathless and dazed. You looked at him, heart hammering, pupils blown wide.

He tilted his head, still grinning, and said, “You taste like honesty. How rare.”

You briefly considered combusting on the spot.

And as he turned back to the stove like nothing had happened, humming again, you realized something terrifying:

You were in love.

And you were the prey.

And you were kind of okay with that.

When familiar contract renewal season arrived—accompanied by the usual administrative chaos, enchanted paperwork that bit fingers, and panicked first-years realizing their mushroom toadlings had exploded again—you were… calm.

Weirdly, suspiciously calm.

You should have been stressed. You were, after all, still a mage in training with a botany grade being held together by duct tape, blind luck, and the sheer force of your familiar’s passive-aggressive hovering.

But no. You weren’t worried. Because somehow, over the past year of accidental poisonings, illegal greenhouse heists, and near-romantic tea-induced hallucinations, you and Jade had fallen into something far more dangerous than summoning magic: mutual affection. Possibly even love. Terrifying.

And yet, when the day came, you expected a conversation. A little back and forth. Maybe some dramatic flourish on his part—Jade had a flair for drama and mild emotional terrorism, after all. At the very least, you thought he’d present a contract with a smirk and some cryptic line about “servitude never being quite so delightful.”

But he didn’t.

You woke up one morning to find him already seated at your desk, as if he’d been waiting all night. The early sun filtered through your window, highlighting the soft teal of his hair and the amused glint in his eyes. You were still blinking the sleep out of yours, shuffling over in your raccoon-print pajamas with all the grace of a zombie when he slid the document toward you.

A thick, arcane-heavy contract. One that glowed softly at the edges. Titled:

“PERMANENT FAMILIAR CONTRACT — LIFELONG BOND”

Your eyes snagged on the signature line.

His name was already there.

Signed in an elegant, curling script with a wax seal that looked like an eel tail. No jokes. No teasing. No loopholes.

You stared at the paper. Then at him.

“…You want to be stuck with me forever?” you asked, because your brain short-circuited and apparently decided that was the most romantic response it could muster.

Jade raised a brow. “You make life—interesting,” he said, voice inflected with all the warmth and amusement of someone who once watched you attempt to eat a venomous berry “for science.”

You blinked again. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s a yes,” he said easily, his smile softening. “I’d like to be yours. If you’ll have me.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You picked up the pen and signed your name beneath his. The moment the ink dried, the paper vanished in a swirl of moss-green smoke, the pact sealed with a pleasant little magical ding.

“So,” you said, heart thudding in your chest as you looked up at him, “we’re really doing this.”

“We are,” he said.

“Forever is a long time.”

“Not nearly long enough.”

And you had to kiss him after that, because what else do you do when your familiar—not-quite-boyfriend-but-very-possibly-soulmate says something like that?

He kissed you back like he’d been waiting years. And you let him, sinking into his arms like it was the only place you’d ever belonged.

You, a chaotic disaster of a botany student. Him, a merman familiar who brewed tea that could bend time.

A perfect, absurd, slightly terrifying match.

Later that evening, when you sat together on the windowsill, legs tangled and laughter echoing, you realized something else: you'd meant to find a way out of the botany stream. A bigger future. A stronger school of magic.

But with Jade by your side, maybe botany wasn’t a prison—it was just where you bloomed.

It started, as most disasters in your life did, with you tripping over your own feet. Specifically, you’d tripped face-first into a rare carnivorous plant while trying to impress your professor with your “innovative approach to hands-on learning.” (Your professor had screamed. The plant had screamed louder. You still didn’t know plants could do that.)

And while you were nursing your slightly-bitten pride and applying salve to your dignity, some golden-haired, obnoxiously perfect fourth-year had wandered over, all pristine robes and condescending smiles.

“You know,” he said to Jade, completely ignoring you like you were a decorative shrub, “it’s a shame. A familiar with your magical potential? Tied to someone who’s clearly... not invested in their future.”

You scoffed. Loudly. “Excuse you. I am very invested in my future. I just think the universe should meet me halfway and stop putting venomous moss in my study patch.”

The student didn’t even blink. “You deserve a master who challenges you. Who brings out your best.”

Jade tilted his head, politely smiling the way a shark might if it had impeccable manners and was about to swallow a surfer whole.

“I see,” he said, sipping his tea. “And that would be… you?”

“Why not?” the student said, and you hated how confident he sounded. “They're wasting you.”

You froze.

You knew it wasn’t true. Jade had chosen you. Signed a lifelong contract. Literally brewed you soup after you set your eyebrows on fire.

But the words stung in a way you hadn’t expected.

You tried to play it cool. Shrugged. “If he wants to leave, he can. No one’s stopping him.”

Jade’s eyes flicked toward you, a tiny crease between his brows. “Is that what you think?”

You shrugged again. Forced a smile. “Why wouldn’t it be? Go ahead. Take your tea. Find a master who challenges you.”

And with that, you walked away, head high, hands clenched so tight your knuckles cracked.

You spent the rest of the night trying not to cry into your pillow.

The next morning, your pillow was suspiciously warm. And breathing.

You cracked open one eye to find Jade wrapped around you like a clingy snake with boundary issues and an attitude problem.

“What—Jade—get off—!”

“I’m sleeping,” he said.

“You are not! You’re emotionally ambushing me!”

He didn’t move. Just curled tighter.

You squirmed, shoved, flailed. Nothing worked. The man had the tensile strength of a vine and the stubbornness of ten toddlers.

Eventually, you gave up and pouted at him. “You were mean yesterday.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he admitted cheerfully, his tone dangerously close to smug. “But in my defense, I expected my master to realize I have taste.”

You sulked harder. “You owe me.”

“Oh?”

“And I’m cashing it in later.”

“Of course, Master.”

“…Stop calling me that in the dorm.”

“No.”

You didn’t bring it up again. But the next day, as you passed that fourth-year in the hallway, he looked pale, shaken, and was clutching a charm pouch so tightly it might’ve become a fossil.

You glanced at Jade. He looked serene. Suspiciously serene.

“…What did you do?” you whispered.

“Me?” he smiled. “Nothing serious.”

You stared at him. He sipped his tea.

You decided you definitely weren’t asking.

But later, when he draped himself across your bed again and offered you a cup of calming lavender-citrus tea with a wink, you realized one thing:

You may be a borderline disaster of a mage, but Jade Leech was yours. And gods help anyone who forgot it.

You'd been holding back.

It wasn't that you were scared. Okay, no—you were absolutely terrified. Because the “what are we” question carried the weight of galaxies, of shifting dynamics and possible heartbreak, and you weren’t emotionally prepared to deal with that when you were already behind on your fungal studies and had just accidentally set your robe on fire trying to dry herbs.

Still, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the fact that Jade Leech, your familiar, your chaos partner, your maybe-something-more, had kissed you good morning again that day. Just a soft brush of lips while you were half-asleep, before you could even form coherent thought. And you’d just blinked at him, dazed and blushing and maybe a little dead inside.

And then that horrible, arrogant, no-chin-having senior from the advanced familiar studies track said—loudly—that if someone like Jade were his familiar, he’d “treat him properly” and “not waste potential on a person who still mistakes fertilizer for potion ingredients.”

You saw red. Possibly green. Maybe fuchsia, depending on how much of Jade’s tea was still in your system. But whatever the color, something snapped in your soul.

Because no one was taking Jade from you.

Not when he brewed you anti-headache tea with honey because he knew you hated bitter things. Not when he cleaned your desk with the gentleness of a man legally married to your organization system. Not when he smiled at you like you were a curious algae bloom he couldn't stop poking at. Not when he kissed your forehead, your temple, your nose, your cheek—like loving you was as natural as breathing.

So.

You marched.

You stormed into your dorm room where he was casually rearranging his jar collection (you didn’t ask, you'd learned not to the hard way.) and pointed an aggressively trembling finger at him.

“Be mine!” you shouted.

Jade blinked once. Then tilted his head, that infuriatingly pretty smile already forming. “I thought I already was, Master.”

Your brain combusted. You flailed. “Huh?!”

“I assumed the constant kissing and emotional intimacy might have been a clue.” His eyes sparkled. “Should I have drawn a diagram? I could make a chart—”

You launched yourself at him in mortified fury. “No charts!”

He caught you with practiced ease, laughed that horrible, lovely laugh of his, and kissed you again—this time slower, deeper, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

You melted. Fully collapsed like overwatered moss in his arms.

When you finally came up for air, dizzy and giddy and mildly offended at how good he was at this, he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear and murmured, “Now that we’ve established that… shall we discuss what we’re calling the wedding mushrooms?”

You screamed into his shoulder.

He laughed again.

And that night, you dreamed of rings made of sea glass and mushrooms that glowed softly in the dark.

You smiled slightly in victory.

That expression ruined the rest of his evening immediately.

Afterward, the nights began stacking together slowly enough that neither of you noticed the accumulation until it was already far too late to pretend otherwise.

Vil would arrive after filming or interviews or rehearsals and the worst part, Vil eventually decided, was how naturally your apartment learned him.

The place adapted around his existence slowly enough that he only noticed once the transformation had already rooted itself into every room.

His preferred tea appeared stocked in your cabinets without discussion. The couch permanently carried the faint scent of his perfume soaked into the fabric from too many exhausted late nights collapsed sideways against the cushions. Your bathroom mirror became crowded with expensive skincare products arranged in neat gleaming rows beside your chaotic collection of half-empty bottles.

Even the lighting changed.

You started leaving lamps on instead of overhead lights because Vil complained once that bright lighting after midnight made him like he was still under the spotlight and afterward your apartment remained permanently dipped in warm gold and shadow.

It made everything softer.

The edges of furniture blurred slightly at night. Steam from the shower drifted lazily through hallways glowing amber beneath low lighting. Reflections stretched across windows after rainstorms while synth-heavy playlists hummed endlessly somewhere in the background, all slow basslines and dreamy melodies that wrapped around conversations until the nights themselves started feeling suspended outside ordinary time.

Vil became addicted to that feeling almost immediately.

He arrived one evening long after midnight to find you sitting on the kitchen counter eating strawberries directly from the carton while staring blankly into space.

“You look haunted,” he informed you after stepping inside.

You blinked slowly.

“You ever get so tired your bones feel microwaved?”

“What a deeply upsetting sentence.”

You held a strawberry toward him without looking.

Vil accepted it automatically.

Everything between you had become automatic; especially touch.

At some point during the past few months, both of you had stopped noticing the constant small collisions drawing you together throughout every night. Knees pressed together beneath blankets. Fingers brushing absentmindedly during conversations. Your ankle hooked lazily over his foot while sitting beside each other on the couch.

Vil found himself reaching for you unconsciously now.

A hand against your waist while passing behind you in the kitchen. Fingers smoothing your damp hair away from your face after showers. His thumb tracing idle circles against your wrist while neither of you paid direct attention to it.

The intimacy accumulated slowly until the apartment itself felt thick with it.

One night the two of you ended up in the bathtub again sometime around three in the morning after Vil complained his muscles hurt from rehearsals.

Your building’s hot water system was criminally inconsistent, meaning the bath had already begun cooling by the time you climbed in beside him.

Steam fogged the mirrors completely. Music drifted softly from your phone speaker across the room, muffled slightly beneath the sound of water shifting around both of you.

Vil leaned back against the tub with his eyes closed while you traced meaningless patterns through condensation gathered along the tile wall beside his head.

“What are you drawing,” he murmured sleepily.

“Nothing.”

“I'm calling it, it'll be a cat.”

“It’s abstract.”

Vil opened one eye just enough to look at you.

Your hair is damp, strands sticking lazily against your neck ans forehead while warm light from the lamps painted gold across your skin. You look relaxed and that has softened your entire expression. You looked loose around the edges somehow, comfortable in a way Vil rarely allowed himself to become around other people.

Then your finger drifted downward absentmindedly through the fogged tile until you drew a tiny heart directly beside his shoulder.

You stared at it afterward as if surprised by your own hand.

Vil’s chest tightened painfully.

The silence afterward stretched warm and heavy.

“Your hair is falling out of the clip,” you mumbled eventually.

“You say that every time I attempt to relax.”

“Because every time you attempt to relax you start unraveling physically.”

“You make me sound defective.”

Then your head drifted sideways against his shoulder naturally enough that he doubted you even consciously chose to do it.

The movement nearly stopped his heart anyway.

There were moments now where the closeness between you became almost overwhelming in its density. Nights where the apartment felt too warm despite open windows. Too quiet despite music playing softly in the background. Too full of unspoken affection pressing invisibly against every room.

Vil had never experienced emotional intimacy this prolonged before.

Passion, yes. Attraction, endlessly. Admiration from afar practically followed him professionally.

But this?

This slow drowning sensation of becoming intertwined with another person piece by piece until even solitude started feeling incorrect? That was new.

The nights grew stranger after that.

Sometimes the two of you would fall asleep halfway through conversations without meaning to. Vil sprawled across your bed still wearing reading glasses while you rambled softly beside him about absolutely nothing. One moment he would still be listening to your voice through heavy exhaustion, and the next he’d wake hours later to find your face pressed sleepily into his chest while dim blue morning light leaked through the curtains.

Other times neither of you slept at all.

The city would stretch endlessly outside your windows while music looped quietly through the apartment and both of you drifted through rooms half awake, sharing fruit directly from the fridge at four in the morning or brushing teeth side by side while Vil lectured you.

“You use entirely too many products,” you informed him one night while leaning against the bathroom counter.

“You use entirely too few.”

“My skin survives.”

“Barely.”

“You looked at my face and said barely.”

“I say many truthful things.”

“You’re evil.”

“And yet you continue allowing me into your home.”

You stared at him through the mirror for several long seconds before dissolving into helpless laughter again.

Vil watched your reflection quietly while smoothing moisturizer across his skin.

Then slowly, without fully thinking about it, you wandered toward him and rested your forehead against his shoulder.

Vil immediately wrapped an arm around your waist.

Your sigh against him sounded so soft it almost disappeared beneath the music.

That sound haunted him for days afterward.

The closeness became greedy over time and then increasingly impossible to ignore.

Vil started lingering after kisses instead of pulling away immediately. He started touching your face absentmindedly during conversations. He was staring too long whenever sleepiness made your expression go soft around the edges.

And every single night ended the same way.

With Vil wanting one more hour.

One more song. One more conversation. One more moment stretched beneath dim apartment lighting while the outside world remained mercifully distant.

Because inside your apartment, surrounded by low music and warm shadows and the unbearable sweetness of your presence wrapped around every room, Vil sometimes felt frighteningly close to happiness so complete it bordered on unreality.

A fantasy.

One he increasingly feared waking from.

Available on Ao3 and Quotev too.

a/n: Reader is a Beast Master. I originally wrote this back when Backburner by NIKI first dropped, so... 2022? And I had to pour my feelings into something. Of course, I revised it later because oh my gosh, reading my old drafts makes me sick to my stomach T_T it was ass. This was also written before Book 7 fully came out, so the characterization might be a little off in some places. Anyway, enjoy Sebek's pain. Songfic: NIKI - Backburner

I can’t lie, it feels nice that you’re calling.

You sound sad and alone, and you’re stalling.

He couldn’t lie, not to himself.

It felt good when you called for him. When you needed him. You were a fragile little human, born without magic yet forced to live among those who wielded it like second nature. Poor thing.

And yet you always looked so sad.

Your eyes would drift toward the horizon from that crumbling balcony, searching for something far beyond this world.

He often watched you from behind a pillar, unseen, his chest tightening with something he refused to name.

It couldn’t be helped, he told himself.

You were human.

And he was not.

It’s pathetic, but at least you are, too.

I don’t know what to do,

I don’t like anyone except sometimes you.

It shouldn’t be like this.

It can’t be like this.

He thought it was just some strange symptoms. He even asked Lilia for help, but the man only laughed.

Why did his heart race faster than it should? Why did his face burn whenever you were near? Why did his shoes suddenly become so fascinating to stare at? It was strange, seeing himself lose composure like this.

And it always happened around you.

That human who always tiptoed around him, yet never failed to greet him. That human who smiled even when Malleus was beside him, utterly unafraid.

You—

with those eyes that glowed whenever you saw a beast you should have avoided, with hair that clung to your cheeks when you insisted on helping a Kelpie dress its wounds.

See? He was rambling again.

And it was because of you.

So began his mission to avoid you at all costs.

Spot you in the hallway? He suddenly needed to use the bathroom.

See you in the cafeteria? He’d lose his appetite and trade his shift with Silver.

Catch sight of you in the library? Homework, apparently, was best done in the comfort of his dorm.

Oh, how it backfired.

One afternoon, as he walked down the hall with Malleus, Lilia, and Silver, you appeared out of nowhere.

Completely off guard, he froze.

“Sebek, do you have a moment?” you asked, all innocent eyes and disarming smile.

“My, if it isn’t the child of man,” Malleus mused. “Do you have business with Sebek?”

No, she does not, my Lord! Please, no!

“Yes, Horntorn. Can I have him for a moment?”

Crap. You'd cornered him perfectly. First by surprise, now by manners. You knew he couldn’t disobey a command from his lord.

A sly fox, this human.

And what do you mean by having him for a moment?!

“Of course,” Malleus said, smiling far too kindly. “He has a few minutes to spare.”

Sebek’s panic rose. Quick, excuses! Anything!

“Actually, I have homework to finish, and it’s due very soon,” he blurted.

“Hm?” Lilia’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Didn’t you tell me yesterday that you’d finished all your work so you could guard Malleus all day today?”

Sebek wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Betrayal. Lilia knew exactly what he was doing.

Silver was his last hope. As much as it’s hurt his pride, he has no other option. He turned to him, eyes begging for rescue.

Silver, the traitor, suddenly found a gargoyle on the wall worth his undivided attention.

Hopeless. Completely hopeless.

“Well then,” Malleus said, amused. “It won’t hurt to spare a moment for the child of man. We’ll be in the dorm.”

And just like that, they left. Malleus, Silver, and Lilia. All gone, leaving him alone with his doom.

The Great Thorn Fairy, please save him. Sebek’s eyes darted everywhere, desperate to find anything. A crack in the wall, a speck of dust, a passing fly, more appealing than your gaze. Thank the heavens the hallway was empty, most students had long returned to their dorms by now. This ridiculous little beast must be the only one insane enough to linger after hours just to match Malleus’s fae-time.

And you still hadn’t spoken.

“What is it you want, human? Speak quickly. I’m quite busy.” He crossed his arms, trying to air off some superiority.

“Do you hate me that much?”

He froze.

“Huh?”

“I’m asking, do you hate me that much?”

His frown faltered. “Why would I hate you?”

You shrugged. “Because I’m human?”

Sebek scoffed. “If that were true, Silver would be long gone by now.”

“Then did I do something to upset you?”

“I don’t understand where this is coming from, human.”

“You’ve been avoiding me these past few days. Did I do something wrong?”

Yes. Everything. By existing.

But he couldn’t say that, because even he didn’t know what you'd done wrong.

“You didn’t do anything. And I’m not avoiding you. Now leave. I have duties to attend to.”

He turned sharply, but you followed, struggling to match his pace.

“Wait, Sebek! Please, just listen to me for a sec—Ah!”

A sharp sound. He turned. You were on the floor, clutching your leg, a red mark blooming on your heel.

“Great Seven…” He knelt beside you, inspecting your foot. “You stupid human. You should know how fragile your body is. Look what you’ve done.”

“You didn’t stop…” you mumbled, wincing.

He sighed. “Let’s get you to the infirmary. Take my hand.”

“No!”

Of course. Stubborn as always.

“Stop being difficult.” He reached for you, but you resisted.

“HUMAN, STOP STRUGGLING AND LET ME HELP YOU!”

“Nooooo!”

He clicked his tongue in frustration. “Honestly. What do you want?”

You stopped flailing and looked at him with those wide eyes. “Promise to stop avoiding me.”

“I did not avoid you.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“Then promise to say hi when I greet you in the hallway.”

He groaned. “Fine. I will. Now let’s go.”

“Promise to talk to me if we’re in the same class?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Promise to hang out with me and the others like you used to?”

“When did I ever hang out with you morons—”

“Sebek!”

“Yes, okay?! Yes! Great Seven! What more do you want from me, woman?!”

You smiled, radiant and utterly pleased with yourself. And Sebek instantly regretted everything.

“Okay then. Let’s get to the infirmary,” you said, lifting your hands.

He sighed again and picked you up. You laughed softly, face glowing, and didn’t stop smiling the entire way there.

He thanked the Thorn Fairy once again for the blessed absence of souls in the corridor. Truly, he’d rather be strangled to death than face a mob of furious students watching their beloved idol grinning in his arms.

Being the only girl in an all-boys school sure is tiring.

And now you’re sounding like a hurt puppy,

You look ugly when you cry.

But I’m the one you think to call.

How do you feel lucky and appaled at the same time?

He is defeated. He has fallen for you. Everything is painfully, humiliatingly clear now.

It happened the moment he saw you nearly fall to your death during flight class. Your broom, enchanted by Grim, veering out of control, spiraling toward the ground. Sebek didn’t think. He rushed after you, wind roaring past his ears, and caught you just in time.

They hit the ground hard, but alive. He held you tight, refusing to let go, even as you gasped and tried to assure him you were fine. Your voice trembled with laughter, but he could feel your heart racing against his chest, nearly matching his own.

Stupid human. How could you still try to reassure him when you were the one who almost died? How could you smile at him like that, soft and unbothered, when he could barely breathe from the terror still clawing at his chest?

This is why he hates you.

He hates how reckless you are. How little you seems to care for your own safety. How you throws yourself into danger just to help others.

He hates you.

He hates how you'd managed to capture his heart so easily, with every reckless, shining day you spends in his orbit.

So he lashes out. Screams at you for being foolish, for being weak, for not thinking. His words cut deep, dragging every part of you into his fury until Jack grabs him by the collar.

“You’re too much,” the beastman growls.

Sebek jerks free and storms off the field, leaving you behind, crying, surrounded by their classmates’ awkward comfort.

After everything you put me through,

I somehow still believe in you.

Idiot.

Idiot is the best word to describe him.

After the fiasco during flight class, Sebek had been given detention for five days, and now, grounded by Lord Malleus himself.

Not only did he shame himself in front of everyone, but he also drew his prince’s displeasure.

“For lashing out at a child in public, you must reflect on your actions. Stay in the dorm during your detention.”

An ultimatum.

And so here he was, confined to Diasomnia, drowning himself in textbooks to make up for the classes he’d miss. He even borrowed notes from his classmates, refusing to let detention blemish his academic standing any further.

But on the third day, he caught a familiar silhouette at the corner of his vision.

You were hiding behind a wall, peeking into the common room where he sat reading. You probably thought you were subtle, but for a guard trained for protecting Malleus Draconia, even the flicker of a shadow was enough to draw attention.

The problem was, you have been standing there for nearly an hour, making no move to approach. A few students passed by and you hastily pressed a finger to your lips, forcing them to keep quiet. They looked between you and him, shrugged, and went on their way.

Sebek sighed. Again. Why did you always make him sigh?

“How much longer are you planning to stay there?” he said without looking up.

You froze, then stepped out, looking sheepish.

He set his book aside and leaned back on the sofa, arms crossed. You fidgeted as you walked toward him.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly.

There you go again, worrying about others instead of yourself.

“I am fine,” he replied, clipped and cold.

“Are you lonely?”

He gave you a flat stare. “I am not.”

“Can I come tomorrow?”

“For what?”

“Casual hang out?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on! You haven’t come out in three days. Lilia told me you’re grounded by Malleus. Lol, what are you? a kid? haha. But anyway, I’ll come tomorrow.”

He groaned inwardly. You weren’t going to back off. You never did.

“Please, Sebek? I miss you, you know.”

And there it was, the final blow.

Sebek’s thoughts scattered. His ears burned red, and he tried to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth behind his hand. You always knew exactly how to undo him.

“Fine, whatever!” he barked, too loud.

Your face lit up instantly. “There you go! That’s the Sebek I know. See you tomorrow!”

For the rest of his detention, you came to visit after school. Always with your notes, always smiling. The first day, you brought Grim. The next, the other first-years. Much to his annoyance, they filled the quiet common room with chatter and laughter.

Even Malleus, Lilia, and Silver joined in at times. And without realizing it, Sebek smiled too.

But I know in a week or so you’ll fade away again.

And i wish that I cared. Hey, are you still there?

Good.

Maybe I’m just not better than this, I haven’t tried.

Maybe you’ll finally choose me after you have more time.

“Is it true?”

You were startled when Sebek appeared before you without warning. You both stood in one of the quiet college courtyards, far from the main building, where the air was still and heavy with the scent of earth and magic.

“What’s true?” you asked, blinking in confusion. Yourhand paused mid-motion, brushing the fur of a resting beast by your side. He didn’t even register what kind of creature it was, all he could see is you.

“You,” he said, his voice trembling ever so slightly, “having a relationship with him.”

You froze. Then came a soft, weary sigh.

“Oh.”

That word landed heavier than a slap.

He didn’t know what he expected. Denial? surprise? hope? But not that quiet, resigned sound.

You turned to face him at last, your expression unreadable. Your eyes didn’t shine the way they used to when they found him in the hallway, when you'd wave so eagerly just to hear him scoff and turn away.

“Yes,” you said at last. “Me and him are dating.”

Silence.

He stood there, unblinking, trying to make sense of the words echoing in his mind.

He had known, deep down, that you liked him. It wasn’t subtle. Your constant greetings, your persistence in joining group activities when he was involved, the way you'd sit near him in class and light up whenever he spoke. Even when he dismissed you, even when he snapped, you’d smile and say, ‘You’re just tired, Sebek.’

And every time, he’d tell himself it was nothing. That you were just a foolish human who didn’t understand boundaries, who couldn’t possibly understand him.

He’d told himself that fae and human could never mix, that it was better this way, that you’ll get over it eventually.

He’d convinced himself that keeping you at arm’s length was protection, not cruelty.

But now, seeing the calm in your eyes where warmth used to be, he realized what he’d actually done.

You had waited. You had tried, again and again. Until the hope you carried for him had worn you down to exhaustion.

And when you finally stopped trying, someone else reached out to hold what he had so carelessly pushed away.

Sebek’s heart clenched. His chest burned. His throat felt raw, though he hadn’t even spoken yet.

He could see it now, the faint sadness in your eyes, the hesitation in your smile. You still cared, but it wasn’t the same. The light had dimmed.

He turned away before you could see the cracks forming in his composure. He didn’t wait for you to say anything more.

He didn’t need to. He didn’t want to.

But as he walked off, your image stayed with him. The girl who once waited at his side, laughed at his outbursts, cried in secret when his words cut too deep. The girl who had loved him until you simply couldn’t anymore.

It was his fault.

Would you have chosen him if he weren’t a fae?

If he’d reached for you sooner, before prejudice built its walls?

Would you still be his if he had the courage to see you as his equal?

He will never know.

Maybe I blame my mother bleeding into my stride.

Maybe it was my father and his wandering eyes.

He thought it would be fine. After all those years spent mending invisible wounds, he should be fine. He could look you in the eyes just fine, even when his heartbeat still drummed against his ribs. He could hold a conversation just fine, even when his fingers still fidgeted against his shoes.

But when the invitation arrived in his hand that day, he wanted to scream.

So he left.

For the first time, he left Malleus alone without his guard. He vanished to a quiet cave hidden among the hills. And he cried.

He was seventeen again. That stupid boy too afraid to make a move, too proud to admit his heart. The same coward who stood by the sidelines and watched his world slip away piece by piece.

Your name looked so pretty printed on the colorful paper.

A shame the name before yous wasn’t his.

For the longest time, he told himself he was fine. That you had succeeded. That you got everything you ever wished for. That you were happy, and that should be enough for him.

And so he cried.

He cried because you were happy. Because he loved you. Because he loved that you were happy.

Unaware of a silver-haired man quietly keeping watch by the cave’s entrance, crying softly along with him.

I’ll always be in your corner,

‘Cause I don’t feel alive ‘till I’m burning on your backburner.

And I know that it’s sad that I settle for the backburner.

Originally, he hadn’t planned to come today.

But this might be the last time he would ever see you. After today, he’d be transferred to a new region for field work. Malleus no longer needed his guard, or so he told himself.

Silver helped him hide his puffy eyes with a bit of magic. Normally, he would’ve been mortified to ask for such a favor, but nothing about today was normal. He had thrown his pride away long ago when it came to you.

Your beautiful white gown swept gracefully across the floor as you walked down the aisle. A radiant smile never left your lips. Your eyes were fixed on the altar, on the man waiting for you with a wide, adoring grin.

The vows were said. The crowd cheered. His heart went numb.

He could hardly recall what happened afterward. He busied himself chatting with old friends he’d avoided for years just to avoid you. Ace. Deuce. Epel. Jack. He even exchanged words with Leona Kingscholar, who greeted him with that infuriating grin that stretched ear to ear. Some things never changed.

And then came the moment he’d been dreading all his life.

A heart-to-heart with you.

They wandered far from the crowd, into a quiet stretch of sand overlooking the ocean.

“Hi.”

Your voice was so soft it was nearly a whisper. Sebek wanted to run. All the courage he’d built up over the years vanished at that single word. Though, technically, there were no windows for his courage to leap out of. It was an outdoor ceremony by the beach, after all. The kind of wedding you once dreamed of, back when you still loved him.

You smiled, that same gentle smile that haunted his dreams. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been sent on field work far from here,” he answered, trying to return the smile.

“Really? You’re not guarding Hornton anymore?”

“You still call him Hornton?”

“Why, yes. Fun fact, he was the first person I invited today. Lilia said he was so overjoyed that flowers bloomed for days at the castle.”

Sebek chuckled. He could picture that. Though Lilia and Silver hadn’t told him anything, perhaps out of mercy.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” you said, your tone turning softer.

“How could I not?” His voice almost broke. How could he, when this might be the last time he’d ever see you? The first and last time he’d see you in a wedding gown, even if you weren’t walking toward him.

“I’ll be transferred to a faraway land after today,” he admitted. “This might be the last time we can talk like this.”

Your smile faltered. Your eyes dimmed with quiet sadness, and for a fleeting second, he thought you might cry.

“Can’t you ask Malleus to move you somewhere closer? Somewhere safer? I’m sure he would. Or should I talk to him?”

“No, please don’t.” He couldn’t tell you that he was the one who asked for the reassignment.

The sorrow in your gaze almost made him waver. Who knew, after all this time, he was still a fool for you.

“Don’t be sad,” he murmured.

“I’m losing one of my best friends again,” you said, voice trembling, “and you’re telling me not to be sad?”

He hesitated, then reached out to pat your head carefully so as not to ruin your perfect hair-do. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t make you cry on your special day.”

Your eyes glistened, and his own tears threatened to follow.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I’ll always be around you, even when you can’t see me.”

There were so many things left unsaid. Apologies. Regrets. The words I loved you that he no longer had the right to say. None of it mattered now. Not when you looked so breathtaking beneath the sunlight that he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

For the first time, there was no regret. He had finally accepted the path he chose.

“Maybe,” he began, voice barely audible, “when we have another chance, when you and I don’t have to lie.”

He turned to leave, carrying a quiet promise. Of another life, another world where they could hold hands without fear. Where they could face the ugliness of the world together and win.

“Another universe.”

He stopped in his tracks. Turned. You were looking at him, eyes filled with regret and hope.

“Find me first.”

He couldn’t stop the single tear that rolled down his cheek.

That was it.

A final blessing from the moon herself, his moon.

“I look forward to it,” he said softly.

Guess I won’t ever mind crisping up on your backburner,

As long as you still think of me.