#key's-vault

you walk through the silent night of the town, it seems like everything’s frozen in place during the colder times of the year—everyone’s safe at home, toasty under their covers and you’d imagine thoroughly enjoying going to bed at 7 pm.

you do too, sometimes. there’s less to do when the ground is too frozen to plant any crop.

there’s a lot more free time out of the farm during the winter. you’ve really started integrating yourself with the townspeople—helping haley find her bracelet, befriending sam’s prickly coworker shane, and even discovering a shadowperson named Krobus in the town sewers. it really is starting to feel like home.

walking, you cut the corner passing by emily and haley’s house—and there he is.

he looks devastatingly handsome all dressed in winter clothing. his regular denim jacket switched out for a dark woolen coat, his pants are unripped and, surprisingly, not smeared with dirt.

though what you like most about his winter attire is his hair. those wild golden locks are laid flat under a woolen beanie—a stark difference from the spiked updo he usually does (though you like that one too). the tips of his hair are slightly curled upwards, revealing that family trait of curly hair.

you creep closer, just watching him wait for you—the way he folds his arms in an attempt to warm up, and the little shuffle he does on his feet. you laugh softly, he must’ve been waiting a while—just like you have for him.

sam turns at the sound of your laugh, his body unconsciously tilting towards you, like a magnet’s uncontrollable attracting to metal. “you made it,” he breathes, his nose, ears and cheeks pinkened by the cold.

you nod, unable to stop a bashful smile from forming on your lips. “i made it.”

a big grin splits his face, mimicking yours. underneath the lone lamplight he looks jaw-droppingly handsome. you feel yourself become warm just in proximity to him.

“i wanted to talk to you in private,” he says. sam’s buzzing with energy, surveying the dark streets before meeting your gaze with his. “it’s kinda cold out here though… i, um—i can sneak you into my room…”

your heart skips a beat, like you’ve skipped a step on a staircase. “what?” you croak.

your eyes catch onto him wringing his fingers, a nervous habit you can’t help but always notice (not because his hands are nice and interesting to look at, not at all).

“you don’t wanna?”

“no!” you inhale, trying to alleviate the twisting sensation in your gut. “i do wanna, ahem, lead the way.”

sam smiles at you, dimples and all. he leads you towards the tiny bedroom window in front of his house. the window is already open—you assume that’s where he jumped out of to meet you.

he climbs through the window with minimal effort, landing on the flooring with a dull thump!

you raise a brow. “have you done this before?”

sam stretches his hand out to you, waiting. his smile turnt sheepish. “i mean, i think we were all rebellious teenagers once.”

you resist the urge to snort—sam’s nervous, you can tell. he doesn’t have his quips and jokes tonight. and he’s shy, but eager. like a puppy, excited and curious about the world.

“o-kay,” you say, one hand in his hand the other set firmly on the windowsill. “make sure i don’t fall please.”

sam nods, eagerly. the curled ends of his hair shake along with the motion as he does.

how endearing.

you tighten your grip on his hand, hauling yourself through the small window, trying your damn best to not make any sudden noise. which is successful for the most part, only a tiny huff of exertion escapes you.

annoying, yes. but the chill of winter burns through any energy you have faster than other seasons.

your feet connect with the wood of his floor, hand still clasped in his and the chill merely at your back. it’s warm inside, with him.

his room is the same as it’s always been when you’d visit before—shelves, band equipment, posters—but the ambiance is different. a little more charged with tension so thick you could cut through it with a knife.

sam does not bother turning on his light, you don’t mind it all that much. but it takes some effort to avoid tumbling over stray objects that clutter his bedroom floor.

“look, I know I’ve been about nothing but the band for a while now…” he starts. “but I don’t want you to think that’s all i’m interested in.”

you chuckle, clasping your fingers behind your back. “it certainly takes up a big chunk of your interests.”

he pouts, literally pouts. it must be the love bug you caught because you think it’s just plain adorable. “i’m really trying over here!”

“sorry!” you grin, “okay, continue.”

“well, um… shoot, this is kinda hard, huh?” he forces an awkward chuckle. “and nerve-wrecking… but what i’m trying to say is…”

“i’m really happy that we’ve grown this close, and well…” sam looks at you, he’s stupidly red—the color spreading all over his face. “i—i’m just wondering, do you think of me as… just a friend?”

your breath stutters, and you feel yourself blushing before you can do anything to stop it. you stare at him as he does with you. the two of you locking eyes for a second, it feels like it’s just you and him in the world.

you feel your shy admittance at the tip of your tongue. no, you’d say, you’re more than that for me, if you want to be.

sam smiles at you, shy but so, so overwhelmingly bright—it’s blinding. your head is running a mile a minute when you finally get the courage—

“sam!” you hear jodi’s groggy voice from outside the door. your stomach drops with dread. “somebody’s at the door! go and check please?”

you lock eyes once again, this time for entirely different reasons, and with entirely different feelings.

“oh my god, sam,” you whisper hurriedly, panic gripping you. “your mom doesn’t know i’m here—what do we do—”

“hold on—” he replies, with the same sense of urgency as you. “okay, okay—i have a plan, just trust me, ‘kay?”

you think you might break out into a cold sweat. you look at him quizzically, “what?”

sam gives you an apologetic smile with that stupid beautiful face of his, he moves forward, grabbing you by your wrists, and moving you with him—towards his bed.

“sam!” you hiss, alarms are blaring in every corner of your mind as sam all but drags you under the toasty covers of his bed. he lifts the blanket and stations you by the edge, covering you in the blanket—which is now a lumpy mess.

this is his childhood bed you’re in, where his mother and brother are just by the door.

and his mother is calling him.

“i’ll get this over with quick,” he says to you, already heading towards the door of his room. “hang on tight, ‘kay?”

you breathe a sound of agreement, way too jittery to formulate any proper response as you quieten under the covers.

though the sheets do feel nice, and smells overwhelmingly of that specific cologne he uses (stolen from joja inventory, he told you once). you will yourself not to relax and melt into the sheets so fast. instead, you listen for each and every sound that may give hint to whatever the hell is happening.

there’s a commotion that you can hear happening, the door swings open, the hinges creaking along with it—this whole surreal experience feels a little like the confrontation part of a horror movie, the helpless victim hiding and the heavy footfalls of the killer.

though in your case, it’s not one set of footsteps, but two.

“what are you two doing here?”

“you’re the one who called us over, remember?” you can recognize the band’s shut-in pianist’s voice from anywhere. “you were all like, stop skipping practice, seb.”

sam’s voice is oddly pitchy when he responds. “…well, tonight’s no good!”

you hear the other person huff, you strain your ears harder to listen. the huffing person clearly fed up with the strange behavior sam’s putting out right now.

“my mom and vincent are asleep,” he adds hurriedly. “they’d wake up—”

you resist the urge to groan, stifling your mouth under a sweaty palm. jodie was just speaking to him minutes ago, there’s no way they’d buy that. he cannot be a more obvious liar.

thankfully they gloss over the fact. “sam, why are you acting so damn weird?” sebastian asks, straightforward as ever.

“yeah,” the other voice adds. feminine but strong. which you now identify as abigail’s, you hear a pinch of impatience in her voice. “and why are you red? did you sit outside in the snow or something—”

sam chokes, which he tries to conceal as an odd sounding cough. abigail pauses mid-sentence. the shift in the atmosphere is palpable. you screw your eyes shut, hearing the rapid rate of your heartbeat. it’s so loud you’re almost convinced the trio can hear the thumping from your hiding spot under the sheets. this is it, they’re going to discover you.

“oh, oh i see,” abigail grins. “on second thought, i wouldn't risk catching all those germs. i’m feeling starved, let’s hit the saloon, seb.”

the aforementioned man grumbles, seemingly puzzled by the sudden switch in abigail’s attitude. “huh… why?” abigail must have whispered something to him—you can barely hear over the muffle of sam’s blanket comforters. “ugh, alright. fine. you owe us one, sam.”

“oh, of course! mhm, yup,” you cringe at the immense awkwardness of sam’s response, feeling the overwhelming urge to pull out your own hair. “i’ll see you guys tomorrow, yeah? now shoo! wouldn’t wanna get you both sick or somethin’…”

“huh?” sebastian replies, rightfully puzzled as they’re forcefully pushed out of the room. “why would we see you tomorrow if you’re sick—”

“well seb,” abigail says smugly. “let’s just say sammy here is taking care of some important business—”

“okay, bye!” you hear the door click shut. to your utter bewilderment, sam shut the door in their faces.

the room is deathly quiet, the air is stagnant and stuffy. once you feel it safe enough, you crane your neck out of the blankets to check over him. to trace any lingering feeling the sudden visit might’ve given him. sam’s got his back rested against the wood of his door, his back slumped.

“i—i wasn’t expecting that,” you say quietly from your hiding spot on his bed. peeking the top half of your face, watching the door carefully. “kinda nerve-wracking.”

and embarrassing.

“i know—i’m sorry,” he sighs, rubbing his temples. “i didn’t expect them coming over.”

“sebastian said you invited them for practice, though.” you point out.

“maybe i did,” he admits, creeping closer to you on the bed, even if he’s guilty and embarrassed. “i totally forgot—i mean, i was really nervous! my mind blanks when i get nervous…”

sam stops right by the side of the bed, as if he’s waiting for your permission to get in with you—in his own bed. and to be perfectly honest, you really want him to.

“kinda ruined the atmosphere too,” he looks away from you, eyes downcast and melancholy. “i had this whole thing planned too, and i, just… ugh…”

your eyes soften. “sam, it’s really fine. okay, maybe a little shocking but you know it’s not enough to scare me away.”

he looks down at you, worried. his eyebrows are ever so slightly pinched—you wish you could run your fingers over it, and smooth it out yourself.

“plus,” you murmur, reaching over the small amount of space between the two of you to clasp his wrist. “i’m not just gonna leave… just tell me what you were going to say—before the… interruption.”

that gives you the final push to gather your courage to tug him into bed with you. sam follows, flopping onto the empty bedding next to you without a fight. for a moment, it’s just the two of you, side by side, slowly huddling closer and closer for warmth.

and sam is warm. he’s practically radiating comfy heat you wish to burrow into—or wrap yourself around. the perfect bed-partner for winter nights like these.

you find yourself becoming addicted to the feeling.

sam angles his body towards you. you on your back and him on his side, it feels intimate and special. and for some reason, it feels familiar—like you’ve always belonged by his side.

“i think you know already,” he tells you, his eyes are not clear in the dim light but you know, there are practically hearts in them. “that i like you.”

you giggle softly. “and i think you know the same about me.”

sam tentatively grasps your hand, the freezing fingertips thawing under his careful touch. the caress of his hand on yours sends tingling electricity down your spine, your whole body feels alert—alive.

he speaks again, but this time his tone is a whisper of what it usually is. “stay awhile?”

“yeah,” you swallow, squeezing his hand in your grip. a small smile on your lips. “yes, i want to.”

“good,” he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the edges so softly and the dimples on his cheeks deepen. there really is no one else who can compare for you. “hey, you’re really cold… let me warm you up?”

you turn to your side, facing him. at this angle, your faces are mere inches apart. you can trace every dip, line and curve of his face, and he yours. your hand tingles with the overwhelming urge to reach for him and squeeze.

“it is cold,” you agree. “i’d very much like that.”

“phew,” he softly sighs. sam drags his fingers up your arm, stopping at your elbow. wherever he touches, a whisper of him lingers on your skin—a bone deep imprint you yearn for him to spread all across your skin.

you roll into him with little to no effort at all. sam drags you to his chest, your ear perched right above his heart, you can hear the steady thump! of his heartbeat from underneath. sam winds his arms around you, intensifying the heat you feel by tenfold—it’s not uncomfortable at all, though. you like it.

your bodies fit perfectly together, just like puzzle pieces. a mess of limbs tangling together. the warmth of him making you shudder in honey-like delight. it feels syrupy and soft and warm wrapped in his arms.

his hand at your back travels downwards, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake you feel even through the thickness of the fabric separating the skin of your back and his fingertips. his hands feel rough and calloused at the small of your back—from playing guitar and his skateboarding incidents—but you enjoy the feeling.

you trail your fingers under the thick fabric of his jacket and shirt, feeling the smooth skin underneath—the action has no deeper meaning than you wanting to feel.

sam’s uncharacteristically quiet. his breaths are slow and long, like he’s on the verge of sleep. yet his arms are wound tight around you—like he never wants to let go of you. your nerves make you feel like a slow simmering soup. warm and slowly cooking over the fire.

you two stay entangled for a while, in comfortable silence. sometime during the night you’ve matched your breathing to his, and he pulled you somehow even closer to his body.

but, a thump comes from his window, a light tapping sound. soft but persistent. the two of you opt to ignore it, in favor of snuggling closer to each other. yet the taps continue, and become louder and faster.

disrupted by the noise, sam mournfully throws the covers from over him to check, untangling himself from your grip. leaving a very him-shaped indent on the bed left in his wake. you groan, sticking your bottom lip out, you miss the warmth of him already.

“oh shit.”

the expletive makes you sit up in his bed, the comforter draping off your middle. you can make out the shape of him even with the dimness of the light—sam’s back is towards you, and if your eyes dare deceive you, he looks like he’s shrinking into himself a tiny bit.

“what is it?” you whisper-shout to him.

he slowly turns to you, wide eyed, his shoulders stiff. sort of resembling a kicked-dog. sam bows down his head—with what you think is shame, for what reason, you can’t tell. rubbing your eyes of sleep, you furrow your brow, craning your neck to look out the window behind him.

abigail and sebastian are there, waving wildly at you. your eyes widen. abigail and sebastian are waving at you with smug smiles plastered on their faces.

your stomach drops for the umpteenth time that night. you honestly feel too horrified to speak.

you bury yourself under the sheets, a feeble attempt to conceal your mortification. so that’s why abigail was playing along with sam’s urgent ramblings—she knew (not that sam was any good at keeping a cool facade, he is totally incapable of lying smoothly). you groan, you feel like a rebellious teenager again, only the part where you get caught and utterly humiliated.

outside, you can hear the loud roaring laughter of the duo through the glass, alongside the awkward, embarrassed chatter of your newly-minted boyfriend. (not technically official, but the title succeeds to relieve your horror by the tiniest bit)

still, you stay put. through the mortification and embarrassment you still stick yourself to sam’s side, or more literally, on his bed—because you know, there’s no other place you’d rather be.

you spare another glance out of the covers at the trio—to your surprise, sam’s beat you to it. looking at you with heart eyes and the most lovesick expression (you’re pretty sure yours looks the same).

you know there’s going to be a lot more explaining to do in the morning. but it doesn’t matter to you, not right now when you’re in sam’s bed on the verge of sleep.

not when you feel so warm.

You can’t sleep; not one bit tuckered out after a whole day toiling the fields. Though your mind is blissfully blank, your hands are preoccupied with bringing your mug to your lips.

The cacophony of crickets chirping echo through the flat farmlands of your property. It’s quiet, peaceful. Yet you are wide-eyed and awake, sipping on  herbal tea—a mixture of herbs from your crop beds—in the hopes you can knock yourself out. 

You are hyper aware of your surroundings, unable to pull yourself into the sleepy state you want. You feel the sheen of sweat drying on your skin, the warm summer breeze tickling the nape of your neck, the sweet smell of almost-ripe melons growing on your farm. The rhythmic sound of trees swaying with the wind.

The odd sound of a twig snapping is enough to pull you out of your reverie. 

Your gaze snaps to the side, past your mailbox and to the dark path leading to town. Eyes adjusted to the dark, you see vague impressions of familiar surroundings. You drag your eyes to and fro, scanning.

A head of blond hair flashes through the otherwise dark veil of night, lamplight catching the brilliant golden hues of it. Doubting your eyes you furrow your brow; squinting your eyes, shifting on the porch steps, aiming to get a clearer look. Your mug is forgotten on your lap.

The figure shifts, tilting their head upwards and towards your direction. Then blue eyes lock with yours, the warm light of your porch lantern illuminating his expression. Recognition dawns on your face—

“Sam?”

Sam stops mid-step, face contorting into shock that outdoes your own. He flails, struggling with his words as to why in the world he’s caught on your farm in the wee hours of the night.

Both of you freeze, staring at each other in silence. Your fingers tighten then loosen around your mug. A tight line is made out of your lips.

“What are you doing?” you ask, tilting your head in confusion.

“It’s not what you think!” he holds his hands up in immediate surrender. “I was walking, and—and, my mind was blank. I just followed the path, I swear.”

You blink, once then twice. “Sam—”

“And–and,” he blabbers, “I guess… your farm was the best bet… The safest.”

That eases the nervous pitter-patter of your heart. It’s rare you get anyone on the farm aside from Lewis this late. You’re relieved, perplexed by his skittish behavior. It goes against what you already know about him. 

Your eyes crinkle whilst you squint up at him, giving him a once-over. Like this, he reminds you of a teenager caught red-handed, eyes practically bulging out of his head with anxiousness.

An amused chuckle slips past your lips before you register it, smiling. “Sam. Can I speak?”

Sam turns back to face you, finally still. It gives you a clearer look at his appearance. Wild flaxen locks are tapered down by the beanie shoved over his head. His shirt is inside out, hanging awkwardly on his frame. He looks like he just rolled out of bed. 

“Oh—oh yeah… my bad.”

A hand goes to pick back up your mug. “You’re good.” You take a sip of your tea. “Plus, I’m not bothered.”

“Oh…” Relief lets his shoulders go lax with a puffed breath. Then he looks back at you, conflicted on his face. “Hang on...You think me walking into your private property is—nothing?”

You snort. “You’re the last person I’d think would be worried about that.”

Sam paces, rocking back and forth on his heels, sporting a grim frown on his face. His gaze drops back down to the path, kicking at the pebbles. You wince internally; he doesn’t seem in good enough shape for jokes. It tugs at your heartstrings, a deep sigh pulled from your mouth and out into the humid air.

“Kidding. But it’s really no biggie.” you wave off. “Come by whenever. I’m always restless during the summer.”

He stares, breathing uneven and nervous. “Seriously?”

You nod, unusually calm in the face of his supposed trespassing. “It’s a me problem. It’s too humid to sleep comfortably. I even get more tired once I wake—”

“No, I mean,” he interjects, eyes wide. “I can come over? Anytime?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, rolling the muscles in your shoulders. “I’d love your company.”

“But what if you’re busy?”

“You’ll have to help me in the fields, then.” you tease, eyes crinkling. “You’ve got good legs for it already.”

A grin cuts through the grim lines of his face, “Are you 100% sure?”

You nod, eagerly. “Mhm.”

“Ah,” he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “That’s good. Super good. I wanted… well, I was kinda hoping to see you too.”

“Well now you’ve seen me.”

“Yeah, I’m glad. But ugh—I dunno, I guess my head’s a little messed up right now.” He runs a hand over his face, a frustrated groan along with it. 

You watch him. There is never a part of him that keeps still, even now. 

Maybe that’s why the words seem to come out so naturally when you’re with Sam. The restlessness—always grasping, bouncing, and shifting. “D’ya wanna come inside? Maybe it could help.”

“Yes, yeah. I want to.” he replies, instantly but then he double takes, checking in with you. “Can I?”

“I invited you too,” you laugh, pulling yourself up. “Calm down Sam, you’re fine.”

“Come in,” you call, pushing open your door. You do not turn and wait for him, traveling through the dark with the familiarity one has only in their own home. 

You hear him pulling off his shoes by the doorway, then the padding of his feet trailing after yours.

Humming, you switch on your lamplight, propping it up on your kitchen table, pulling the chair back for Sam to sit in. You set your mug down on the opposite side.

The cabinet creaks when you swing it open, revealing your countless containers of seasonings and spices collected over the seasons. The rich smell of all of it mingling together wafts through your nose. 

A pack of apple cider bottles stands by the cinnamon sticks, a welcome gift from months ago you haven’t gotten into yet. 

You tilt your head back to glance at him, finding him sitting statue-still in your chair, then turn back to your cabinet.

“I have some apple cider, you want some?”

His eyes snap to yours, “Oh, yeah.”

Nodding, you tiptoe, grasping the glass bottle by the neck from the far end of the cabinet. 

You sit the bottle down on the counter, popping off the cap with the flat edge of a knife. The cider fizzes, bubbling up until the neck then reducing. The sharp fruity scent of carbonation and apple mingles with the humid air. Sam takes it from your outstretched hand with a murmured ‘thanks’.

You sit opposite him. With your legs pulled up to your chest, you wiggle in your seat, leaning your cheek against your knees. Your eyes low as you cradle your own drink in your hands. Sam takes slow sips of the cider, the bubbles painting the edges of his lips then fizzing away. 

It feels natural to watch him like this, like all normal neighborly decorum has flown out the window, making room for this—whatever this silent companionship may bring. 

Curious, you break the veil of silence. “So what brings you here?”

Sam runs his tongue over his bottom lip, catching the stray drop of apple cider by the corner. His gaze goes faraway, eyebrows furrowing automatically without him aware. He’s silent as he thinks over your question, face contorting.

“Just—something at home, I guess. I wanted a breather.”

You swirl the string of your teabag, looking up from under your lashes. “Family stuff?”

“...Yeah, family stuff.”

You hum, voice low. You have a faint idea on what he’s talking about. Sam’s father, Kent, has been having a difficult time adjusting back to civilian life after being discharged—you heard. 

Your eyes track over his form, his shoulder hunched and lower than you’ve ever seen them. Under the low light of your kitchen table, you pinpoint the signs of weariness marking his face—eye bags under his eyes and a perpetual wrinkle in his brow deep enough you see the shadow of it under his mess of hair. 

“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t feel like it,” you simply say. 

You look out the windows, eyes tracking the swirling the flickering lights of lightning bugs outside. Gaze low as you stew in silence. Your fingers tap idly at the table. You feel calmer, sleepier. That persistent buzzing under your skin dissipating into the boneless way you sit. 

There will be more sticky summer nights like these, you’re sure. Maybe he’ll share what’s on his mind then but right now, you’re quite content with the silence. It cradles you like a refreshingly cool gust of air, tapering the heated expanse of your skin. 

“Maybe next time,” Sam murmurs, staring into the steaming cup. “When I come over again.”

A smile unfurls on your lips when he raises his head to look at you. “When you come over again.”

The sun is setting, the day is coming to a close yet Sam wishes it wouldn’t, silently pleading with any higher being to somehow stretch time. He is barely a religious person, but the weight of his want is enough to transcend his own beliefs. Every second with you barely feels like enough; like sand slipping through his fingers.

One thing’s for certain, Sam isn’t going to just let it end here.

“We should hang out like this again,” Sam says, a little hurriedly, captured all in one breath. Shy and tentative, like a bashful child with a school crush. “Uh, I mean, do you? Wanna? Hang out with me?”

You can barely suppress a delighted chuckle from slipping past your lips, your chest warming with fond affection. “I’d be more than happy to. Yoba knows I need a break or two or I’ll actually explode,” you huff while Sam hums in agreement. “We can even invite Abigail and Sebastian… so can demo that new song for me, I see you all working very hard when I visit sometimes.”

He should be happy to hear that; that you’d be more than happy to spend your precious off time with him out of all people. You and him, him and you, Sam and the farmer. Your name connected to his with ‘and’, it makes him giddy, causes his cheeks pinken and pinken. 

Just the two of you, though. Sure, he loves his friends, Abby and Seb have been with him since day one. But it feels out of place—

(Sam, Sebastian, Abigail and the farmer doesn’t have that ring to it…)

“Yeah, I—I dunno, it’s just…”

The unfiltered truth is stupid, at least to him. Vincent is far too young for some of the things Sam longs to say. There’s a reason Abby and Seb hang out under his nose, he won’t blame them, they have their own secrets he isn’t privy to—too serious, too dull for him.

(And now with you, he thinks you might just be the one he can share his own secrets with. Because even he has his own serious, dull thoughts. Thoughts that he doesn’t want brushed away with a snarky remark or a sarcastic laugh.)

“I kinda like that it’s just the two of us?” 

His voice sounds unsteady, squeaky. Trailing off at the end, lost in the sound of water crashing at your feet. Phrasing his statement into a question that you could deny, that you could easily brush off—because if you did, he would too. 

(It would be a bummer if you did though, but Sam is cool with that, chill with any decision you make. Really, he totally is.)

You grin, bumping your shoulder against his, your ice cream is dripping down, down, down your knuckles. Once your skin meets his, you don’t pull away, you press closer and closer to his side. Leaning your head against his sunburnt shoulder—but he barely registers the sting—and your arm against his own. It’s a pleasant weight, having you against him—grounding and tethering him to you.

“I do too. Like it, I mean. I think I get to see so many other sides to you, Sam. Without the others and all that.”

Sam feels his breath hitch, his cheeks flush even pinker even with the sunburns. “Woah, phew, I mean—awesome… When, when do you think we can meet next?”

You tilt your head, running calculations through your mind. You’re very busy on that farm, he knows; but Sam can’t help but keep his hopes up, you’re fun company. Maybe the best he’s had yet.

“I know I won’t have enough time until my melons are ready for harvesting—and don’t you dare try making a joke about that,” you smile, wide and cheeky. Right as Sam readies an innuendo at the tip of his tongue; it makes his blood pump faster and his breathing stutters at the thought of you knowing him so well. 

“So how about this?” you propose slowly. “We spend one day every month doing all the stuff we wanna do, together. just you and me—fun right? I’ll even sleep a little earlier the night before.”

Sam bites into his ice cream—chocolate and your treat, at your insistence—though he isn’t quite sure if the immediate smile on his lips is due to its sweetness, or yours.

He leans closer into you, resting his head on top of yours, strands of your hair tickling his lips. Lowering his voice into a whisper so only you can hear.

(The secret is that you make Sam want. Want, want, want like he’ll never get sick of it. He hoards these stolen moments with you so greedily yet wants more.)

“…two days, two days each month.”

He feels your body shake with the strength of your laughter, warmth swirls all throughout his body, tingling wherever your body brushes against his own. Sam finds that he likes the feeling, the buzz of it—it’s addicting.

“Yeah, alright then,” you reply, mirth dripping from each and every word. “two days. We have a deal. Better?”

“Yeah,” he turns back to face the water, the ocean spray misting his face. “Yeah, a lot better. That does sound fun.”

It’s Valentine’s Day, and the most unusual thing to ever happen to you—happens.

A pristine white note falls out of your locker, and you never thought you would see the day. You’d assume, being a workaholic and being relegated to tasks (due to people pleasing tendencies you can’t seem to shake off), that you’d finish off the school year without falling victim to Valentine’s day sickeningly sweet confessions.

Please meet me in the homeroom lab after classes. – H

If it was any other day, you’d assume one of the teachers wrote you this note, and that you were going to be subjected to a ruthless talking-to. Yet, coincidentally, it’s that time of the year, and everyone else is getting notes like these too.

For the fun of it, you still decide to go where the note directs you. Mostly because you’re deathly curious to who this H person is. No expectations, of course.

When the dismissal bell rings, you quickly scramble out of your classroom, pointedly ignoring your friend’s confused call of your name. Leaving your bag and belongings behind. You’ll get back to her later—but now, the curiosity is killing you.

You navigate the sloppily decorated hallways; passing by lovestruck couples and through streamer paper decor of pinks, whites and reds. Cupid balloons and the overwhelmingly sweet scent of roses suffocate your senses.

The homeroom lab is at the end of the hallway, where all the decorations dwindle or are practically deflating with the lack of attention to detail—it irks you slightly, if this is a confession like you suspect, the surroundings could afford to be somewhat romantic. Not this cheap, unenthusiastic mess, it certainly wouldn’t be helping your case.

Your eyes lock onto one heart helium balloon, it drifts aimlessly across the floor—not enough to float up but not completely deflated. You glare at it, like trying to pop it with only your gaze, then to the door.

Steeling yourself, you take a breath then slide it open.

The last person you ever expect to be there, is there too.

“Alhaitham?” you ask, breathless and puzzled.

Was it him that sent you the note?

You shake that thought away, although you got your hopes up the tiniest bit, it’s probably unrelated to anything hearts themed. You’re pretty sure he’s been actively avoiding people confessing to him today. Maybe that’s why he hid in here, you muse.

“It’s me, yes,” he nods. “I assume you read my note?”

You laugh, shutting the homeroom lab door unceremoniously behind you. “That was you? Dude, you could’ve just told me, what’s with all the secrecy?”

“There’s something that I need to discuss with you.”

“Discuss with me,” you repeat, walking over to lean against the working table. Which, thank heavens, is pristinely clean. “Am I in trouble?”

“No,” he responds and you hum in faux relief. “Though there is something else.”

Alhaitham produces a sleek black chocolate box from seemingly nowhere—or maybe you hadn't seen him hold it—and holds it out to you.

“Sweet!” you grin, snatching the chocolates and examining the box. “This is some really good chocolate, Haitham. Who gave you this one?”

“No one,” he says. Alhaitham picks at his black painted nails—ones that you yourself painted a few weeks ago in his apartment. The polish is immaculate, almost looking freshly painted if it weren’t for the new nail growth starting underneath. “Those are completely from me, for you.”

You double take, taking a long lingering look at the gift. On the smack middle of the box, is the same type of note from earlier in your locker, but this has your name written in elegant cursive:

Happy Valentines. It writes, and you feel strange tingles travel down your spine. Not entirely unpleasant.

“You shouldn’t have,” your eyes widen. “I didn’t get anything for you, I never thought we were getting each other friendship chocolates!”

There’s a lengthy pause before you hear any reaction from him. Alhaitham makes a strangled noise from deep in his throat. “Friendship chocolates?”

He stresses your name, while massaging his temples. “...I wrote you that note, I waited in here for you and have the audacity to think what I gave you are friendship chocolates. Does that sound logical to you?”

“Of course,” you snort, putting down the chocolates to rest on the low table. “The only other reason I can think of would be because you like me, which I doubt—”

His lips flatten in unamusement. “So what if I do?”

“Wait, what?”

He inhales deeply, and you swear you see the slightest hints of pink on his ears that peek from underneath silver hair. The silence now is absolutely deafening, and the anticipation even more so. To you, the knowledge of his bashfulness makes the situation feel all the more real.

Alhaitham utters your name softly, like he’s pleading you to understand so that he needn’t repeat himself. Which he never does, the damn prideful man.

You’d make a teasing remark if you weren’t so frozen with nerves, the sound of your name from his lips is causing ticklish shivers up your spine. It sounds so intimate when he says it.

Like a secret, even. Although Alhaitham might be the most self-preserving and unambitious person you know, when it comes to the things that matter to him—he takes initiative right away.

“So you like me–” you breathe, the button up collar of your shirt feels all too tight all of a sudden, you tangle your fingers together and squeeze tightly. “Like, like like me?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you,” he sighs, low and long-suffering. “For three whole years.”

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Your eyes widen and you feel a low simmering heat spreading all over, even till your fingertips. You recall all the other times, past Valentine's days and recounting his strange behavior. All the dots start to connect together and you wonder how you never noticed. “What the hell.”

“So that one time last year when you were offering me your button—” you gasp. You remember, it’s a stupid highschool tradition, a boy would offer the second button of his uniform to a girl if he liked her. It’s the closest to the heart, but to you, it’s a thoughtless way to ruin perfectly good clothing. “Haitham, did you ask Kaveh for advice or something?”

“Matters like these are irrelevant to argue with him about,” he scoffs. Alhaitham folds his arms across his chest. “He ran off and came to the conclusion himself. Ever since then, he’s been bothering me with trying all types of confession tradition.”

Laughter starts to bubble out of you, disbelieving and flustered to the maximum level. “Dude, I basically friendzoned you and had no idea! You should’ve told me.”

His shoulders stiffen and he gives you such a disarmingly attractive look. And if your eyes dare deceive you, he looks the teensiest bit hopeful too. Right now, you feel like your heart is beating right out of your goddamn chest. The sound is so loud, the quickening thumping sound of your chest that you swear he might hear it too.

“...I see that now,” he says, his expression is exasperated—but so unbelievably soft. You feel yourself melting like butter under his gaze. “Though I am disappointed in your lacking ability to identify context clues.”

“Oh whatever,” you bump your shoulder against his, though you don’t move back away. The warmth of him is all consuming and comforting as hell, you could burrow yourself in him and never resurface, you think. He accepts your closeness with a strong arm wrapping behind you to hold you by the hand. Your stomach does somersaults in your stomach. “It’s all your fault. You’re an idiot for not telling it to me straight.”

“Does that mean you reciprocate?” he murmurs, leaning closer to whisper in your ear.

You pull back enough to take the box of chocolates, opening it and popping one in your mouth. “This chocolate is pretty good. Guess I’ll have to let you stick around for more.”

I like you too.

He nuzzles into you, leaving a chaste kiss on the crown of your head. “I guess you do, don’t you?”

Valentine’s day comes rolling around the next year, and you are sadly not present to witness Alhaitham lengthen his trail of broken hearts. A shame, really. This year, you were looking forward to bringing popcorn for the occasion—just to see him squirm.

You’ve been cooped up in the homeroom lab for the better part of the week, sewing and snipping away at one of the costumes for the school’s fair. Unlike last year, you don’t have your seniors to help you pin fabrics right or to assist in hand stitching plastic beads, as the newly appointed tailor's club head you have a lot more duties to take on.

It’s exhausting, you feel the deep creases underneath your eye—dreading to head to the bathroom and accidentally look into the mirror to face your own haggard appearance—and the dull ache in your hands and back is blocking any sense you could have.

The club room is otherwise quiet if not for the lo-fi beat playing from your phone’s speaker and the rhythmic snips of scissors gliding over fabric. You focus all your brain power on the task—fabric is not cheap and you don’t have enough mora in your wallet if you lose focus and mess up—and remain blissfully unaware of any potential distraction.

To be honest, it hadn’t even registered in your head that you weren’t alone in the room anymore, until the gentlest tap on your shoulder has you snapping your focus away from the brocade.

The sight of just who has you unconsciously gaping your mouth like a blubbering fish in shock—Alhaitham.

He stares at you blankly, his gaze is so intense it’s a little unnerving, you freeze up before him, and probably make yourself look like an idiot in the process.

Suddenly, the state of your appearance becomes a presiding worry. Having skipped lunch in favor of patterning tulle perfectly on the dummy mannequin. Your uniform is crumpled, creased with the lack of motion, stray threads and fabric fibers cover you head to toe similar to lint. It’s almost humiliating to be seen so disheveled by Alhaitham—when he himself looks like the epitome of put-together flawlessness.

“Haitham,” you start, smoothing out the fabric laid out on the table, it’s soft and smooth under your fingertips. “Need something?”

He spares a glance to whatever you’re fidgeting with behind you then to your face, which in turn makes you fist the work-in-progress fabric tighter in your hand.

Alhaitham seems to search for something in your expression, his gaze feels like it’s poking and prodding in your soul. Your hands itch to cover up whatever’s he’s fixated on, but you settle on the second best option; staring back just as hard and ten times more intensely.

“The second button of my shirt,” he says, Alhaitham points at his stark white button up, right where a button lay missing. You arch a brow at that, he’s most definitely only here to ask you to mend his shirt. No other reason.

And you are definitely not disappointed right now too.

Swallowing hard, your eyes drift to his face. “Do you need a replacement button?”

A crease forms between his brows. “No.”

Well.

“O-kay,” that stumps you, “What about it then?” you shoot him a puzzled look, folding your arms tightly across your chest.

That makes him pause. “I wanted to check if you wanted it.”

“…your button?”

“Yes, that’s why I came over here.”

He must be kidding. The two of you are standing in the homeroom lab, there’s a surplus of small white buttons, you’d rather pick from there than have him ruin a perfectly good shirt.

“Uh no thanks,” you scratch at the back of your neck, extremely confused. “I have a lot more buttons in the drawer, there’s no need to take one off your back.”

Once you said that and saw the expression on his face, you knew immediately that it was the wrong choice—even if it wasn’t a test question. Alhaitham does not pout, but that’s something he would say. If you were asked, the way his lips twitch downward slightly is pouting.

“I understand,” he says shortly and starts to turn back and reach for the door. You cannot hide your bewildered expression, pinching your brows in confusion.

“Wait—hold it right there,” you call, stepping a step or two following him. You, not wanting your conversation to end on such an unusually awkward note. “What’s up with you?”

“It’s nothing,” he says and you practically hear the sulky edge to his voice—something you swore he left back in middle school—still, he turns back to face you. “If you don’t want it, I won’t give it to you.”

Sighing, you step even closer to close some of the distance, holding your palm out impatiently to him. “Come over here, grumpy. I’ll take the button.”

He eases up slightly. “Don’t force yourself.”

Why you ought to wring this man by the neck. You place your free hand to rest on your waist. “You’re not forcing me, now hand it over.”

Alhaitham stands his ground, but eventually cracks, offering a compromise. “...I’ll leave it on the table.”

“Okay,” your eyes flutter shut in exhaustion and slight irritation—confusion more than anything. “See you, Haitham.”

He bids you goodbye, calling your name softly.

You hear the door slide open, then shut.

When you open your eyes, a singular translucent white button sits on your working table—along with a box of fine confectioners chocolate.

What a loser, you think. Though your smile betrays that thought.

You skip back to your work and suddenly, you aren’t so exhausted anymore.

“S–sorry! These are for you!”

A breathy utterance, the girl speaking is shy and completely red in the face, while holding out the pink paper bag like an offering to some higher being—and maybe to her, he is.

You swear you can almost hear the cheesy background music that television shows play with these types of scenes, you lean in as much as your desk will let you and strain to hear his response. Gripping the wood of your desk tight. Some of your other classmates are tuning in too, drama hungry vultures they are, you can feel the buzzing energy of anticipation waiting for his answer.

Without missing a beat, he offers her a shallow nod of his head.

“Thanks.”

…and another one bites the dust.

Slumping back in your chair, you gaze at a disheartening confession scene from your seat across the room, picking idly at your sandwich’s crust, sighing to yourself and for the poor girl that has been plainly rejected by Alhaitham.

The whole class either lets out sounds of disappointment—they only wish that once Alhaitham is off market, they’d have their chance, though you doubt it—or loud sighs of relief—aka, those who, too, wish to make themselves known to him. They all don’t register much to you though. All you can see is her crushed expression.

He isn’t even looking at her for goodness sake. Poor girl.

Valentine’s day is not only a day of cheesy confessions and plush teddy bears and chocolate (though you especially enjoy those), for those lonely souls without a valentine it is the perfect day for witnessing the drama unfold. It’s like watching a telenovela in real time.

Alhaitham is that telenovela’s perfect lead.

He’s breathtakingly handsome even as he delivers the driest response to whatever-her-name’s confession. His gray-silver hair tumbles artfully on his head and glints as the afternoon sun outside hits just right. The aquamarine of his eyes are enrapturing and absolutely intense as he stares down his new goodie bag.

It’s a little silly to see such a stoic man gripping heartsy pink gift bags that are filled with the high quality chocolate you can only dream of. His marble-carved physique and top tier face makes up for it though, it makes it all the more endearing to you. You understand wholeheartedly why he’s such a magnet for so much romantic attention. Not that you’d fall victim to it yourself.

You find yourself unable to conceal the way your lips turn upwards in amusement, a little cruel knowing the situation. Taking a generous bite of your sandwich, you laugh to yourself quietly (honestly, you’re making it seem like you’re not all there).

“What’s so funny?”

Summoned by your laugh—or the thought that you are laughing at him, for some not-so-crazy reason—he stands tall in front of your desk.

You’ve known him since your bratty elementary school phases, you’ve fought, pulled at each other’s hair but you consider Alhaitham to be your closest and oldest friend. Before he was a stunning romantic magnet, he was an insufferable book worm in junior high.

When you started exploring your interest in sewing and fashion design, he was by your bed and bluntly critiquing any piece you’d show him. You have come a long way since then, having become an integral member of the fashion design club.

You crane your neck to look at him, giving him a lazy grin, you kick blindly at his shins from underneath the table in an attempt to draw some form of reaction (though he doesn’t even bat an eye).

“Nothing, nothing,” you wave him off, speaking through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “As long as you’re on the market, there won’t be enough for the rest of us.”

He gives you a look, though you can’t take it as seriously, he’s still holding all those valentines. “Irrelevant. Your sense of humor needs fixing, not even Cyno would find you entertaining.”

“First off, I do not appreciate all this sass.”

His lips twitch. “I had quite the persistent teacher.”

This time, you flat out laugh at him. “Whatever,” you snort. “Anyway, you should consider taking up acting. Pretty boys like you will have people salivating like starving wolves.”

He pauses and just stares at you, it’s a little peculiar and totally out of character for him, you tilt your head in confusion.

“Pretty boy?”

You almost choke on your sandwich, bringing a fist to your mouth through coughs. Out of everything you said, that’s what he chooses to focus on?

“Uhm, yeah,” you mutter, laughing sheepishly, and suddenly feeling out of place. Internally, you cringe at yourself. “Have you ever looked in a mirror or something?”

Once the words tumble out of your mouth, you feel the heat of mortification crawling up on the expanse of your skin. Oh my god, do you ever stop talking?

Alhaitham says nothing, he stares you down with the intensity increased by tenfold. If anything, the expression on his flawless face looks displeased.

“I meant platonically, of course,” you blather on, pointedly avoiding eye contact. The table looks especially interesting as of the moment. “I mean—I would never—”

He puts his free hand up, sharply stopping you from going further on your flustered tangent. Something you are all too well acquainted with, Alhaitham does not have much patience for dalliances. Immediately, your jaw locks shut—you’d rather not start a fight with him if you wanted to mooch off all the valentines chocolate he received.

You take another big bite of your sandwich.

You roll your eyes, mumbling. “Okay, whatever. Don’t be a pretty boy, then. As long as I get a share of your chocolate, it’s whatever you want.”

“I didn’t say anything about that,” he deadpans. In his arms, the goodie bags shift as he moves closer.

A small plastic-wrapped chocolate box is dropped inelegantly on your table, resounding with a heavy thump. It’s pink and smells heavily of chocolate and cinnamon. Your eyes widen at the pleasant surprise—but more importantly, the price. A crazed smile curls from your lips, and you clutch the chocolates to your chest.

You gasp. “Oh my—fuck! Haitham, these are like a thousand mora a box!”

Alhaitham raises a perfectly arched brow. “Is that so? I should get it back then.”

Even if you’re pretty sure he’s only messing with you, your hold around the chocolates tightens into a death grip. You turn your chest away from him, shielding the box away from his view.

“That’s too bad,” you sing-song. “No take backs.”

A smug smile tugs at his lips before it completely melts away—the thing that growing up with a boy so ungenerous with his expressions makes these small moments all the more special.

“Then I’ll just have to keep the rest of these for myself.”

“Haitham, no! You promised to share—”

07/20 Lady Furina,

As per your request, I have provided you residence outside the Palais Mermonia. Take as much time as you need in moving in, I shall send Sedene to check on you every few days. I would have done it myself had it been that she was so insistent on it. Do not fret about repayment, this is the least I could do for you. It is hardly a dent in my coffers.

Another thing; the melusines seem especially eager to share correspondence with you. They asked me personally for the mailing address of your new residence and I could not refute them. They seem to be abusing the soft spot I have for them, do forgive me.

Rest well, if there is anything else, do not hesitate to send me a reply.

Your dear Iudex, Neuvillette

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07/28 Dearest Lady Furina,

Is your new house comfortable? When I visited you last time, it was cramped. And it was dusty and it smelled kinda bad… If you want, I can help you dust it the next time I visit. Even if I don’t understand why you’d choose to live there, if it makes you happy, then I guess I can be happy also.

The food that you made for us last time tasted funny, my lady, I think you don’t have much talent in cooking. When I told Monsieur Neuvillette, he wrinkled his brow. He does that a lot lately, and sighs a lot more too. He’s busy all the time now, especially with all that paperwork you left behind! He always asks me about my visits to you after, I think he’s worried about something. Anyway, I’ll bring that cake you like next time! I’ll just have to ask Monsieur Neuvillette what it was again…

I will stop my letter here now though, my hand is starting to ache.

All love, Sedene (P.S. I miss seeing you everyday, Lady Furina)

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08/10 Hello Lady Furina!

Work at Meropide Fortress has been hectic lately, but I finally found time to send you a letter. Now that you’re human, you have to take much more caution with your health, but if you ever come down with a case of the sniffles, I’ll come to you right away! I’ve also collected some cosmetics that you will absolutely love, I can even tell you about their properties and benefits, if you want to of course.

I’ve been wanting to visit you and Monsieur Neuvillette a lot, I have a lot of stories to share. Like when one of the prisoners at the fortress taught me how to braid hair, I tried it on Mister Wriothesley but his hair isn’t long enough. I told him he should grow it out, you agree right? I’ll try braiding yours once I find the time to visit, I’ll even ask Monsieur Neuvillette to tag along.

Anyway, I hope you don’t feel too lonely anymore. You can chat with me anytime you want, my lady, I always want to hear from you! And before I forget, I put a sheet of stickers in the envelope with this letter. It’s melusine themed! And they are scratch and sniff stickers. I’ve been saving it but I want to give it to you. Cute, right?

Kisses and well wishes, Sigewinne

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09/23 My Lady,

I have written and rewritten this letter countless times, I hope you don’t blame my poor writing skills. Some of the melusines I’ve spoken to say that they see you around the court more often than before. But I haven’t had the chance to see you again. If ever you make your way to Marcotte Station, I hope I could greet you then.

Monsieur Neuvillette has been taking the private aquabus ride to Opera Epiclese alone now, and the rides to and back are silent. He sometimes chats with me, but I’m not too fond of talking. I guess all the chatter you two had came from you.

From, Elphane

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09/30 To Miss Furina,

Congratulations on your stunning theater performance, Miss Furina. It was truly a sight to behold, you are a natural in the limelight. I hope to be able to attend more of your future performances. I can clearly see you flourishing brightly now. And truly, I am happy for you, Furina.

It is also nearing your birthday. Your first as a human, I have to say it is quite bittersweet for me. But if you’ll have me, I’d want to visit and celebrate that day with you. Like we always had done before. I will not come alone of course, the melusine children are practically buzzing with excitement.

Please do not think of me a stranger, Furina, you are the closest person to me. You are always in my thoughts and I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours, Neuvillette

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10/20 Dearest Lady Furina,

I’m sorry, my letter is probably the latest out of all my sisters! I’ve been quite busy with my aquabus shift much more now than before! I think it has something to do with the performances you do for the theater troupe now. All that heavy rain stopping is surely a plus, too. before I overheard a passenger saying that she desperately wanted to watch one of your shows, but the tickets were all sold out! It was a shame, she looked like she came all the way from Mondstat too, don’t worry I made sure to cheer her up with my tour guide skills.

If you don’t mind me saying, my lady, your face seems so much brighter! Like the glow of Lumitoiles. Even Monsieur Neuvillette has been much more perky lately, most don’t notice it but I do. Maybe because you’re spending time together again, I’ve seen a lot of articles on the two of you in the Steambird. The two of you must be super close again if you’re holding hands and sharing desserts. Your good mood is surely infectious! I’m grinning so hard, my cheeks hurt. It’s amazing!

Anyway, if you see me around, please say hi! I can be quite ignorant of my surroundings at times…

Ambrose thrives in the valley.

Milene knows because she watches, always watches him. She knows that he hums to the beat of cheesy love songs while watering parsnip seedlings. That he likes to lie in the chicken coop and cuddle the hens in his arms when he thinks she isn’t looking. The townspeople that laugh brightly when talking to him—they like him, it’s obvious by the way his arms are never empty from a trip to the town, there’s always another pot of soup or a jar of pasta sauce.

Most of all, though he can’t recognize it himself, Milene sees the bright spark in his eyes.

She remembers what they looked like before they moved to the valley, dull and unfocused and so far away. His office job in Joja made him slowly waste away. Now, the green in his eyes shine whenever he wrangles a particularly fussy fish, or when the two of them stand side by side in the kitchen, following televised recipes that leave the house smelling deliciously of caramelized onion and garlic.

Even now, when they sit under a thick branched tree away from the hot midday sun, Ambrose keeps the twinkle in his gaze. Sticking side by side, they share a handful of spring salmonberries—handpicked by Ambrose himself. The berry is sweet and tart, sticky and viscous all over her fingers and lips. She wipes the red stained juice smeared on her fingertips off on the hem of her shorts.

Absentmindedly, Milene reaches to pluck another pea-sized berry from him, but he twists his body away, hiding the salmonberries with a faux frown. She stretches her arm farther, reaching for the berries, resting her other palm on the grassy bed below. She shoots him a puzzled look.

“You had your share,” he says. Milene raises a brow. “The rest are mine.”

Huffing, Milene reaches again, her arm bumping his shoulder. Ambrose, this time, fully turns his back to her and protectively cradling berries to his chest, making the reach unsuccessful. She scoffs at his childishness and pokes him in the side.

“Selfish.”

Ambrose wiggles his eyebrows, aiming a smug smirk at her. “And you’re a leech,” he replies just as fast. “If you joined me in picking berries we’d have more, but you didn’t. You get what you get.”

“Excuse me,” she forcibly rests her weight against his back. Ambrose breathes on a wheeze as she leans over him. “I’d assume you’d be able to do something as simple as that on your own.”

Milene can hear the smile in his voice. “Picking berries is not simple.”

“Putting up with a brat like you isn’t simple either,” she replies dryly, pinching at his ear. “What did I do to deserve this? You’re breaking my heart here, I’ll have to go back to my dingy apartment in Zuzu city to save some face.”

Ambrose stiffens, his back ram-rod straight, his lips pressed into a line when he looks back at her. Milene sits back, the sudden change in atmosphere making her heart rate spike—did she say something wrong?

Milene rests a steadying hand on her chest. Damn this man for making her emotions run all over the place.

His hand flexes and rubs absentmindedly at the denim of his overalls. A nervous tell of his, for what reason he is buzzing with nerves she can’t tell.

“—Ambrose,” she can hear the high pitchy quality in her voice, she cringes inwardly. “You eat a rotten berry or something? What’s up?”

Small steady streams of light filtered through the branches shine on them, Ambrose turns his head back and looks her directly in the eyes.

“Don’t say that,” he says under his breath, Ambrose speaks it like a secret along with a long suffering sigh. Like he’s been hiding the sentiment for a while. “Don’t say that you’ll leave.”

Oh.

Immediately, Milene feels the giddy swing of her stomach, the knotting and unknotting of her gut as giggles slip past her berry-stained lips. Ambrose fixes her with a weak glare, more of a pout if anything.

His posture is significantly more relaxed when he goes to chastise her. “Dude, not funny—”

Milene takes the opportunity to pluck a salmonberry from his hand while his attention is taken away. “Very funny. Hilarious even.”

His frown deepens as she pops the berry in her mouth, but she knows better. The twinkle in his eyes are bright, overwhelmingly so. The sight makes her heart swell and threaten to burst out of her chest. It’s honestly kinda terrifying.

“There’s nothing for me in the city,” she murmurs, pressing her thumb and pointer together, they stick together with berry juice. “I won’t leave, ever.”

Ambrose snorts, bringing two berries into his mouth, his lips stained red along with it. “What if there’s a drought and we lose all our money?”

“Hell no,” Milene entertains his inane imagination. “You wouldn’t survive without me. You’d die of loneliness, or starvation.”

“Gee Milene, you really know how to cheer a guy up.” he deadpans.

“Not trying to cheer you up,” she smirks. “It’s just the plain simple truth.”

He narrows his eyes. “Okay, but what if—”

“No,” she interrupts, waving her hand. Milene tucks her feet closer underneath her, staving off the brunt of the summer heat.

She rests her hand by his side, studying his face intently. The curve of his nose, the slope of his cheeks and the cut of his cheekbones, his eyes—his eyes that glitter and shine like emeralds.

Milene thinks that she can stare into them forever.

“Besides,” she shrugs, “I like to watch you. You’re happy, I’m happy too.”