#misty.fics

"Dan Heng," you murmured, your voice soft as you nestled closer. His long, slender tail flicked instinctively, brushing against your legs in an attempt to create space, but you were quick to catch it.

You didn’t say a word. Instead, you snuggled against him more insistently, curling up in the crook of his arm and letting your hands gently grasp his tail, fingertips tracing the smooth, cool surface of his scales. His tail gave a slight twitch as you nuzzled against him, the warmth of your body seeping through his clothes.

He sighed, not in annoyance, but in resignation. “You know, I’m not sure it’s particularly...appropriate to be this close to me in the middle of work.” His tone remained calm, though there was a faint lilt that betrayed his reluctance.

But you weren’t hearing any of it. You had already tucked yourself against his side, your face buried against his chest. His tail twitched again as you began lightly stroking the scaled surface, the repetitive motion strangely soothing.

“You’ve been so distant tonight,” you murmured, your voice muffled. “I missed you.”

The words, laced with affection and an underlying vulnerability, tugged at something deep within him. He could feel his posture soften, the composed expression he so often carried slipping just a little. He wasn’t sure why, but your clinginess made him feel needed.

“I’m right here,” he said quietly, the edge in his voice fading into something softer.

You smiled, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along his tail. "I know. But I just want to be closer."

His breath hitched ever so slightly when you tugged on his tail, not harshly, but in a teasing, affectionate way. His tail responded to the gentle pressure, curling around your hand instinctively as if it, too, had decided to indulge you.

"I didn’t know you were so fond of my tail," he murmured, caught somewhere between amusement and embarrassment. His eyes flickered to the side, avoiding yours for a moment to hide the subtle blush painting his cheeks.

You only giggled softly, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It's beautiful," you said simply, your thumb brushing over a scale's faint luminescence. "And it’s just another part of you that I want to hold onto."

Dan Heng stilled under your touch. There was a faint, almost imperceptible sigh that left him, and for a moment, he let himself relax into you. He always had a soft spot for you, even if it was buried beneath his usual reserve. Your clinginess had a way of breaking down the walls he’d carefully built, leaving him exposed in the best possible way.

“Just don’t expect me to always be so... accommodating,” he muttered, though there was no real heat behind the words. Instead, he placed his hand gently on your head, fingers threading through your hair, a quiet acknowledgment of how much he truly appreciated your presence.

“I won’t,” you promised, smiling softly up at him. “But you know I’m going to keep cuddling with you.”

He didn't reply, only resting his forehead gently against yours. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he placed a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead before pulling away just slightly.

Morning light filtered through the Express windows, painting the room gold. You were still draped across his lap, your head tucked beneath his chin, arms looped around him.

“You’re not going to meditate, are you?” you asked, voice muffled against his chest.

“I was," he replied.

“You can meditate while cuddling me," you said brightly.

“That’s not how that works.”

“Have you tried?”

He exhaled through his nose, a faint chuckle escaping before he could stop it. In truth, he had tried. Multiple times. And the worst part? He could still enter a meditative state like this, with you pressed against him, hands resting lightly on his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. It was harder to focus, yes, but somehow... he finds your warmth so endearing.

So he doesn’t argue. His tail slid gently around your thigh, holding you close without a word.

You smiled against his chest, eyes fluttering shut in silent victory.

Dan Heng sat at his desk, posture settled, his face illuminated by the glow of his console screen. A spread of data logs and handwritten notes lay neatly arranged beside him. His hair looked faintly tousled, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times, but his expression remained unreadable as his pen scratched neatly across the page.

“It’s late,” he said simply, without looking up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You lingered near the threshold, sheepish. “Something like that. I thought I’d… see what you were up to.”

His pen stilled. He turned slightly, gaze steady on you. “I lose track of time here,” he admitted. “The Archives tend to do that.”

There was a pause. Most people would’ve taken that as dismissal—polite, efficient, but distant. Instead, you stepped closer, curiosity outweighing hesitation.

“So… what do you even do in here all night?” you asked lightly, peering at the screens.

For a moment, he was quiet—measured, as though deciding whether to answer. Then, he gestured toward the empty chair beside him. “Come here. I’ll show you.”

Your pulse skipped. You crossed the room and sat beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his.

He angled the console toward you, fingers moving deftly across its interface. “I keep the Data Bank updated—mission intel, navigation routes, anything the Express needs to stay on course. If it isn’t logged properly, it becomes harder to find what we need.”

You watched the screen as lines of text and maps flickered past, his voice steady and even. Every so often, he’d glance at you to make sure you were following, his words unconsciously slowing.

“What about this one?” you asked, pointing to a glowing line of script on the screen.

He leaned in slightly to see, his shoulder brushing yours. “That’s a navigational log. It’s encrypted, but…” His fingers moved swiftly over the console, and the text unfurled into translated data. “…there. This route used to be traveled centuries ago.”

You smiled. “You make it sound so easy.”

He huffed a quiet breath—almost a laugh. “I’ve spent a lot of time with this system. It’s second nature.” Then, after a pause: “Most people don’t ask about it.”

“Maybe most people don’t want to bother you,” you murmured, the words half shy, half testing.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at you, his expression unreadable but intent. “You don’t.”

The words settled between you like a quiet weight. You looked away first, warmth creeping up your neck.

Dan Heng's voice carried on, low and even, as he spoke beside you. You tried to follow, really you did—something about navigation routes and archived reports—but it was getting harder to focus.

It wasn’t that you weren’t interested—it was that his voice was too soothing, each syllable threaded with quiet patience that made your eyelids heavy…

At some point, without realizing, your head dipped slightly, the dim glow of the monitors lulling you. Dan Heng noticed before you did; his hands stilled on the console.

“...You’re tired,” he murmured.

You made a faint noise of protest, trying to sit up straighter, but he shook his head gently. “It’s fine. You can rest.”

Your eyelids felt heavier than you wanted to admit, and eventually, you leaned sideways—just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm again, warm and solid.

He didn’t move away. Instead, after a moment’s hesitation, he shifted minutely closer, steadying you without a word.

By the time sleep finally won, you didn’t hear him murmur it—soft, almost lost in the quiet:

“See you tomorrow.”

You woke to the dimmed glow of the monitors and the constant hum of the Express. It took you a moment to register where you were: head resting lightly against Dan Heng’s shoulder, a thin quilt draped over you.

You sat up quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” he said evenly, though his gaze softened when it met yours. “You should get some proper rest.”

You blinked at him, still disoriented. “Did you… stay here the whole time?”

In truth, Dan Heng had dozed off too, but woke as soon as you stirred. It had been no more than twenty minutes, but of course, he wasn’t about to admit that.

He hesitated, as if weighing how much to admit. “…Someone needed to make sure you didn’t fall out of the chair.”

You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

He stood, offering his hand without ceremony. “Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

You accepted it, your fingers curling against his gloved palm for a brief, grounding moment before he gently let go.

The Passenger Cabin was hushed, lights dimmed to early-morning settings. As you passed Himeko’s door, it slid open, and she stepped out, cup of coffee in hand.

Her gaze swept over you both—her knowing smile warm but unobtrusive. “Up late?”

Dan Heng inclined his head politely. “Archives work.”

“Of course,” Himeko murmured, amused, taking a slow sip. She didn’t press further, her calm presence slipping past like a gentle breeze.

When you reached your quarters, Dan Heng paused at the door. “Try to sleep.”

You hesitated, fingers lingering on the panel. “…Will you be in the Archives again tonight?”

A faint flicker of something passed through his expression—amusement, maybe, or something gentler. “Most likely.”

You smiled. “Then maybe I’ll see you there.”

His gaze held yours for a moment longer, unreadable but steady. “…Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” you echoed, warmth blooming in your chest.

And as you slipped inside, that warmth stayed with you—the kind that made the stars outside feel just a little closer, like even in the quietest corners of the Express, some gravity kept pulling you back to him.

Read See You Tomorrow Part II here

“Hot chocolate delivery for my favorite person,” he grinned proudly, handing you the cup. “Fair warning though. I added extra marshmallows and the barista looked concerned.”

You snorted. “Good. I'd be concerned if you didn't add extra.”

Phainon laughed, eyes warming as he watched you take the cup.

“Yeah, I figured,” he said, brushing his knuckles gently against your arm.

He looked way too pleased with himself for getting it right.

The streets outside the café had fallen quiet by the time you both stepped outside. Most of the city had already gone home to sleep off the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers, leaving behind strings of warm lights that glowed along the sidewalk. The night was cool and smelled faintly of roasted chestnuts from a vendor who had already packed up his cart. A few stray leaves skittered across the pavement, turning lazily in the breeze.

A chilly wind suddenly swept past, and you shivered despite the cup in your hands.

Phainon instantly noticed.

Without hesitation, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over your shoulders. It fit you loosely, enveloping you like you’d been swallowed in a blanket of him. When you looked up, he was smiling in that gentle way that made his eyes soften at the edges.

“Phainon, you’ll freeze.”

“It’s okay,” he said with a soft grin. “I'm practically immune to the cold.”

“That’s absolutely not true.”

He smiled, tucking the coat around your shoulders more snugly. “Then I’ll just stand closer,” he said simply. And he did, sliding an arm around your waist, drawing you closer with an easy, familiar touch.

Your breath fogged in the air. His didn’t, because apparently he was radiating enough heat to warm the block.

“You always do this,” you murmured, pulling his coat tighter around you.

“Do what?”

“Take care of me without even thinking about it.”

His eyes softened in that way they only ever did when he was looking at you. “I like making sure you’re warm.”

“You do a lot more than that.”

He blinked. “I do?”

You nodded, heart swelling. “I’m thankful for you. For… everything you do. You make my life better in ways I do not think you even realize. You show up. You listen. You make me laugh when I want to disappear into my bed for three days. I am thankful for all of it. I’m thankful you’re mine.”

For a second, his smile faltered, replaced by something fragile and stunned.

As if he was used to being relied on, not cherished.

As if your gratitude meant more to him than he could say.

Then he leaned in, forehead brushing yours, voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t know what it does to me when you say things like that.”

You opened your mouth to reply—but his lips were already on yours.

The kiss was warm despite the cold, careful at first, then deeper when you reached up and tangled your fingers in his messy white hair. He let out a soft, breathy laugh against your mouth, the kind he only made when he was truly, deeply happy.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours again.

“I’m thankful for you too,” he murmured. “More than I know how to explain.”

You smiled. “Try anyway.”

He cupped your cheek with a gloved hand, thumb brushing your skin. “You make the world… brighter. I think about you all the time. I want to be better because of you. I want to come home to you every day."

Your heart melted. Completely.

He took your hand in his, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Come on,” he said, voice light again, soft but glowing. “Let’s go home. You can keep my coat. If I get cold, I will just hold onto you.”

“You always hold onto me,” you teased.

He smiled boyishly. “I love the person I am holding onto.”

So you walked through the lantern-lit street, wrapped in his coat and held in his arm, feeling warm.

Warm despite the cold, yet thankful for each other.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, back to the bookshelf near his bedroll. The spines behind you were mismatched and faded, some titles illegible, others nearly worn away. You didn’t dare pull out anything without asking, partly because they looked fragile, partly because you knew he’d notice.

Across from you, Dan Heng sat on the edge of his bedroll, a book balanced in one hand. The shimmer beneath him caught your eye again — that strange, water-like ripple under the floor. It moved even when nothing else did, reflecting the faint light overhead. Sometimes you watched it long enough that you almost felt it swaying under you, and you wondered if he noticed.

He wasn’t looking at you. Of course he wasn’t. His gaze was fixed on the page, head tilted just slightly, hair falling into his eyes. Every so often, he’d turn a page with that same controlled precision he did everything with.

You had come here under the excuse of “helping organize” — a mission you abandoned somewhere between the second and third hour. There were neat stacks of books around you, but you weren’t reading any of them. You were just here.

“Is it comfortable there?” His voice broke through the steady hum.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“Leaning on the shelf like that.” He didn’t glance up, but you caught the faint curve of his mouth — not quite a smile. “You’ve been sitting there for a while.”

You shifted, suddenly hyperaware of the ache in your legs. “…I’m fine.”

His page turned again. “You could sit here,” he said after a beat, nodding to the space beside him.

You told yourself it was no big deal — that you were imagining the way your pulse jumped as you crawled over to sit next to him. The floor was firm beneath the thin bedding, but the fabric shifted faintly under your weight, just enough to remind you how close you’d come. The air here smelled faintly of tea and old paper, and closer now, something warmer — him.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of him reading and the faint rustle of the quilt when you moved. He didn’t fidget or glance at the clock like most people do when they shared silence. He simply existed, steady and unhurried, and somehow that made you want to stay even longer.

Your eyes wandered to the open page in his hand. The handwriting there was dense, cramped, and nearly illegible. “Can you even read that?” you murmured.

“Eventually,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching. “It’s easier if you’re patient.”

“I’m not that patient.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You nudged his arm — light, but enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushed against your skin. When he didn’t move away, something inside you steadied.

Somewhere around what felt like the third hour, you realized how common this had become — these hours spent in the Archives, saying little, doing even less. You probably spent more time here than in your own room.

The thought slipped out before you could stop it. “…I think I’m here more than my quarters.”

Dan Heng glanced at you now, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing something. “Why is that?”

You blinked at him. “I… just like it here.” The words felt too loud, though they were barely above a whisper. “With you.”

You immediately looked away, heat creeping up your neck. It was the kind of sentence you wished you could snatch back the moment it was out.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he turned another page, the quiet stretching so long you thought maybe you’d imagined the whole thing. Your stomach knotted — you told yourself it was fine, that he’d ignore it and you’d pretend you never said anything—

“…That makes two of us.”

The words were quiet. Not hesitant — simply… certain. He didn’t look up from his book, but there was a softness in his tone that hadn’t been there before.

You froze, the sentence hanging between you like the faint shimmer under the bedroll. Then, slowly, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

When you glanced at him again, he was still reading, but there was the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

You didn’t speak after that. You didn’t need to. The room hummed with the same quiet as before, only now it felt different — warmer, steadier.

The silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable. In fact, it was exactly the kind of quiet you both needed; something to hold onto when words felt too much and yet too little all at once.

Your head began to droop, heavy with fatigue. Your breath slowed and became uneven, your body craving sleep but reluctant to let go of this moment.

You shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing against his as you adjusted.

His dark eyes flickered toward you, catching the movement. “Cold?”

“You’re warm,” you murmured instead, voice thick with the weight of approaching sleep.

A soft hum was his only reply, gaze returning to the page.

“Mm,” he said quietly.

You fought the pull of exhaustion, blinking against the haze. Your head tipped, almost falling against his shoulder—almost—but you caught yourself at the last second.

A quiet sigh escaped you, part frustration, part relief. Your eyes slipped shut for just a moment, drifting somewhere between dream and waking. And then — almost without warning — words spilled from your lips…

“Dan Heng…” you breathed out, voice barely more than a whisper.

He turned fully this time, his expression unreadable but his eyes softening, just a fraction. “Yes?”

“I like you.”

Silence.

Your head lolled back, breathing steady.

The words hung there, fragile yet electrifying. Sleep had claimed you before you could hear his answer — if there even was one.

Dan Heng blinked. Twice.

He stared for a long moment, the world around him pausing — the hum of the Express, the blinking cursor on his console, even your steady breathing seemed to fade away.

Inside him, a thousand thoughts collided beneath the surface of his calm exterior.

Did they just say what I think they said? Was that real? They just said ‘I like you.’ In their sleep.

The words echoed inside his mind like a bell tolling across a quiet harbor.

He exhaled slowly, his usual composure just barely holding.

After a pause, he reached out a hand and rested it lightly on your shoulder. You shifted in response, this time leaning into his touch without waking.

Dan Heng’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Just the barest hint of something tender.

Minutes slipped by as you slept peacefully beside him, until the first pale light of the next shift crept through the tinted glass.

He didn’t move as he watched you — memorizing every detail of your face, the way your lashes rested, the slight rise and fall of your chest.

A stray lock of hair fell across your forehead. Without thinking, he brushed it gently aside. His fingertips lingered, light as a whisper.

You woke with a start hours later, cheek pressed to cloth that wasn’t your pillow. Blinking blearily, you realized your head still rested against his shoulder. Heat rushed instantly to your face.

“Sorry,” you croaked, pushing yourself upright. “I didn’t mean—”

Dan Heng set his book aside, voice even. “It’s fine.”

But when his hand brushed yours briefly, steadying you as you shifted, your breath caught. He withdrew just as quickly, as if the gesture had never happened.

You gathered yourself, mumbling thanks before slipping away. He simply nodded, eyes following you until you were gone.

The kitchen car was quiet when you wandered in, hair still tousled from sleep. On the counter, a cup of your favorite morning drink waited, still steaming as if he had only just left it. 

You glanced around, but there was no sign of him.

When you found March and Sunday chatting in the lounge, you asked, “Hey, do you know where Dan Heng went?”

March perked up first, swinging her legs where she sat. “Said he was going out for air.”

You blinked. “...There’s no air out there.”

She only giggled, clearly amused by your confusion.

Sunday, who had been listening quietly, gave you a gentler smile. “I think he just needed space. You’ll find him when he’s ready.”

You nodded, not realizing that Dan Heng was already tucked away in another quiet corner of the Express, seated cross-legged, eyes closed in meditation — not because he needed calm, but because he was trying to decide whether he was allowed to bring it up.

It wasn’t until that afternoon, as you passed through the narrow hall toward the passenger rooms, that he walked by.

“You talk in your sleep,” he said, tone unreadable.

You froze mid-step.

He kept walking. Then, without looking back, added quietly, “…It was nice to hear.”

Your breath caught.

He stopped, finally glancing over his shoulder. “I like you too. But I wanted to wait until you were awake.”

The hum of the Express filled the silence that followed, but the air between you felt different now — charged with something new, something certain.

And you knew you’d find yourself here again — in the kind of quiet that wasn’t silence at all.

✧ You often joke she’s like your shadow. You’ll never truly know how many threats she’s intercepted or how many events she has quietly shifted behind the scenes just to keep you safe.

✧ At first, you thought you were just lucky—that it was coincidence, the way things always worked out around you. But Evernight doesn’t rely on chance. Not when it concerns you.

✧ She knows the difference between herself and March 7th. March’s touch is warm and gentle. Evernight’s is cool, almost chilling...yet somehow just as comforting.

✧ You are something precious to her. One wrong glance in your direction, and the air seems to grow colder under her gaze.

✧ Protective to the extreme. If you so much as trip, she is already there to catch you, sometimes mildly scolding you for being reckless.

✧ Sometimes she simply watches how others speak to you, her eyes narrowing in subtle warning. It is often enough to warn them not to overstep.

✧ If someone flirts with you or gets too close, she doesn't make a scene. She only steps beside you and draws you subtly closer.

✧ When you accidentally bump into her, she reacts faster than you’ve ever seen. Hands on your shoulders, eyes searching for injury as she mutters, “Don’t scare me like that again.”

✧ Outside the Express, her hand finds your wrist, guiding you gently behind her. In her mind, your safety should be a given.

✧ She never speaks of it, but the thought of losing you unsettles her more than anything. Some nights, she simply stays beside you in silence, making sure you’re still here.

✧ Everything she does is deliberate: your collar adjusted just so, a ribbon left on your desk, her silhouette appearing at your side without a sound or explanation.

✧ When you run your fingers through her hair, she raises a brow as though unimpressed. And yet, she leans in just slightly closer, allowing the touch.

✧ If you fall asleep on her shoulder, she adjusts you carefully, draping a blanket over you, and continues as though nothing has changed, her cool fingertips brushing your temple to keep your dreams undisturbed.

✧ And if someone ever asks why you trust her, despite the coldness in her red eyes, your answer is simple: because she has never once let go of your hand when it mattered.