#moral grayness

His teasing is relentless—but only you ever get to see the guilt behind his jokes. When you're hurt or sad, he falters, his mask slipping just enough to reveal genuine concern… before backpedaling into “Well, I mean, I can’t have my best customer dying on me, right?”

Sampo is terrified of commitment, but even more terrified of losing the one person who sees him, not the performance.

He won’t say "I love you" outright. He shows it by giving you the real version of a story—the one without embellishment. He trades honesty like it’s a rare currency, and you're the only one rich enough to afford it.

Pillow talk with him is a chaotic blend of gossip, half-truths, and existential vulnerability. One minute he’s recounting a wild escape from the Silvermane Guards, the next he’s softly asking, “Would you still love me if I wasn’t funny?”

He has trouble sleeping, so he lays on your chest and counts your heartbeat like it's the only real thing in his world.

One day, he gifts you a trinket—a cheap thing by anyone else’s standard, but it’s his lucky charm, the one he swore he’d never part with. He plays it off: “Well, I figured it’s safer with you than me.”

You later catch him reaching for it during a dangerous moment, only to stop himself, remembering he gave it to you. His expression falters. “Guess I’m not used to trusting someone else with my luck.”

He’s used to seduction as strategy—smirking over cards, “accidentally” brushing your hand. But when you flirt back, it catches him off-guard. He stumbles, and it’s the most sincere thing you’ve ever seen.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, darling,” he says, voice low. “And you’re winning.”

He shares his real name, Kakavasha, only once. The moment is quiet, devoid of flair. He doesn’t explain why—he just says it and waits. If you say it back, his breath catches.

His left hand always hides behind his back during high-stakes moments. But when he holds your hand—left hand—he never lets go. It’s wordless trust.

He spoils you in calculated ways. Custom clothing, rare wines, antique books—always things that show he’s been watching, listening.

Yet he’s startled by your small gestures: you make him tea after a long day; you adjust his choker when it sits wrong. Those little things undo him far more than any grand gesture.

After a mission that goes sideways, you find him staring at his own reflection, drenched in blood, laughter long gone. When you touch his shoulder, he flinches—then leans in, forehead against yours. “If I lose you,” he whispers, “there’s no game left worth playing.”

Sunday approaches romance like a sacred thing, delicate and painful. He watches you with reverence, often lost in thought mid-conversation as if memorizing every expression.

You’ll catch his wings flutter when you surprise him with kindness. It’s a silent confession: you matter.

His idea of a date is philosophical. You’ll find yourselves walking under starlight discussing the nature of joy and sorrow, your hands brushing, his halo faintly pulsing behind him.

He speaks softly when he’s vulnerable. “Is it selfish,” he asks one night, “to want a future with you in it?”

He has terrible dreams—half-memory, half prophecy. When he wakes, shaking, he clutches your pillow, grounding himself.

One night, you find him in the observatory, wings drooping, eyes dim. “You remind me that I’m still alive,” he says. “That I’m not just... what the Order made me.”

Sunday struggles to believe he deserves love. But he lets you trace the symbols on his halo, kiss the feathers behind his ear, and hold him during those hollow moments.

He cries, silently, the first time you tell him you love him. And then, with a trembling voice: “I think I’ve been dreaming of you since before I even knew what hope felt like.”