#subtle fluff

But tonight, as he adjusted the roulette brooch on his collar, you walked past him, leaned in, and murmured, “Looking sharp tonight, darling.”

He froze. For precisely 0.5 seconds—a brief hitch in his well-oiled persona. His fingers paused mid-adjustment, and the ever-present grin twitched, faltered… then curved into something slower. Something far more dangerous.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking to yours like dice clattering on velvet. “Did my ears deceive me, or have you just raised the stakes?”

You arched a brow, amused. “I figured it was time to gamble a little.”

His smile widened, but you saw it then—the faint crack in his composure. The way his hand ghosted behind his back, fingers twitching in the air like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you closer or push you away. That name—it wasn’t just cute. It was intimate. Dangerous. It threatened the mask he so carefully wore.

“Careful,” he whispered, stepping closer until your breath caught. “Use that word again, and I might start to think you mean it.”

You smiled back, just as daring. “Maybe I do.”

And just like that, for once, you’d left him unsure who was winning.

“Sunday, we need to address the guest list again. The ceremony’s balance will collapse if—”

“—We include the North Sector delegates, yes,” he interrupted gently, hands folded, gaze serene. “I am already aware.”

You sighed, scribbling notes. Same old Sunday—graceful, poised, untouchable.

“Fine, love, but if this flops, I’m blaming you.”

Silence.

You didn’t catch it at first. His reaction was… almost imperceptible. The pen stilled between his gloved fingers. His eyes flicked toward you with the smallest shift of light. There was no smile, no obvious response, but something behind his gaze unraveled—like a ripple across still water.

“…‘Love’?” he repeated quietly, voice low, measured.

You looked up, unsure if you should laugh it off. “It just slipped.”

“I see.”

He returned to his work, posture perfect—but you noticed he hadn’t written a word since. His mind was elsewhere. The halo above his head shimmered subtly, like it pulsed in time with his heart.

It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something deeper. As if the word had struck a chord he’d long buried—something warm, painful, human.

“…You shouldn’t use a word like that lightly,” he finally said, glancing at you again.

“And if I didn’t?”

His lips parted, then closed. No answer. But his gloved hand slowly reached over and rested on yours, just for a moment. A silent concession. A rare flicker of vulnerability.

You'd breached something sacred—and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull away or fall in.

You found him alone after the skirmish, sitting on the edge of a ruined stone altar, cape torn, armor dusted with ash. The blood wasn’t his, but it stained his hands all the same.

“Mydei,” you called softly, approaching him through the rubble.

He didn’t look up. “I told you to stay with the others.”

“I don’t take orders well.”

A pause. Then a sigh—more relief than exasperation. His eyes finally met yours, heavy with exhaustion and something else: grief he didn’t voice, names he couldn’t forget.

You reached out, thumb brushing a line of red from his jaw. “You’re safe… Beloved.”

He blinked.

“Say that again.”

You tilted your head. “Beloved?”

He stood, slowly, towering, not in a threatening way—but like the weight of that word shifted the battlefield under your feet. He stepped closer until you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze.

“No one’s called me that since…” His voice cracked, just slightly. “Since before the sea swallowed me whole.”

You swallowed. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” he said, reaching out with a hand trembling with restraint. “No, don’t stop.”

In a world where titles were earned through blood and legacy, beloved was the one name he’d longed for but never dared to claim.

You gave it freely—and that was the one war he didn’t know how to fight.

Dan Heng stood silently in the Archives, eyes scanning over glowing data logs. You approached, hands behind your back, watching the way the soft blue light played across his features.

“Dan Heng,” you said as usual. He hummed softly, acknowledging you without turning.

You reached his side, pretending to study the data, but your focus was on the curve of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“I brought you some tea. Thought you could use a break, darling.”

The word slipped out, soft and syrupy.

Dan Heng froze.

His grip on the datapad faltered. He didn’t look at you immediately, but his ears turned a vivid shade of pink.

“…What did you call me?” he asked, tone low, almost cautious.

You played innocent. “Hmm? Oh, nothing, Dan Heng.”

He finally turned, eyes narrowed, a faint flush still lingering on his cheeks. “You did. Say it again.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Darling?”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath, trying to maintain composure. He failed spectacularly. The calm, cool Dan Heng couldn’t meet your eyes for a solid thirty seconds.

But when he finally did, he stepped closer.

“…If you’re going to say things like that,” he murmured, voice softer now, “Don’t be surprised when I stop pretending I’m unaffected.”

You and Caelus had been walking side by side after a mission, stars glittering above. You laughed about something he’d said, casually bumping your shoulder against his.

“You always do this, Caelus,” you said, teasing. “Charging in like you’ve got plot armor or something.”

“I mean, I might,” he joked. “Main character energy and all.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure thing, love.”

The moment the word left your lips, silence fell.

Caelus tripped over his own foot.

He caught himself quickly, turning to you with wide eyes. “Wait. Did you just call me—?”

“I did,” you confirmed with a sly grin. “Something wrong with that, love?”

His expression shifted, uncertain whether to be flustered or flattered. He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks blooming with color.

“I… No. I mean, it’s not wrong. Just. Unexpected.”

You nudged him again. “You’re cute when you’re trying not to smile.”

“I’m not trying not to smile,” he said quickly, then failed to hide the shy grin tugging at his lips. “Okay, maybe I am. Call me that again.”

The battlefield was quiet now, monsters defeated, the sunset casting golden hues across the ruins. Argenti stood tall, brushing dust from his armor with knightly grace.

You approached, hands behind your back.

“Argenti, you were amazing back there,” you praised, as always.

He nodded humbly. “Merely fulfilling my duty to Beauty and righteousness.”

You smiled. “Of course, beloved.”

Argenti blinked.

The word echoed.

He turned to you slowly, as if unsure he’d heard correctly. “Beloved…?”

You tilted your head, eyes innocent. “Yes?”

He pressed a hand to his chest, lips parting slightly in astonishment. “You honor me with such a name… Are you certain… I am worthy of it?”

“You’ve always been worthy,” you said softly.

He took your hand, kneeling with a reverent grace, eyes shining. “Then allow me to dedicate not only my blade but my heart to you. For Beauty may guide me, but you, my beloved, inspire me.”

You laughed, a little flustered yourself now.

Leave it to Argenti to turn one pet name into a poetic vow.

No one expected Inarizaki to lose, so unfortunately the band was not able to have enough buses, forcing some people to ride with the team. You were one of the ten volunteers they needed, you figured a change of pace would be nice as the band buses are always loud- and it would be nice to sleep on the way back. You have a small bag filled with some snacks for the road and some electronics to keep you busy, plus a neck pillow and blanket as you are hoping to get some z’s. The team's bus is nicer mostly because this is their trip and the school wants to pull out all the stops for them. There was no rush, people were taking their time leaving as no one really wanted to. Eventually, everyone meandered over once the doors were opened you took one of the seats by the window, that way you can lean on it to sleep. You lean back in your seat a bit shutting your eyes in frustration and just trying to collect your thoughts. That is when you felt your weight shift a little, someone sat beside you, opening one eye you see Rintaro, he was one of the middle blockers on the team and he looked surprisingly unbothered- though you knew he was because who wouldn’t be. If you didn’t know anything that transpired you would have assumed he was alright. Not really wanting to talk you put your earbuds in, listening to lowfie in a hope to drown out the noise and calm you to sleep. Though it just makes you want to stretch as you always listen to lowfie when you do so. It is less than fantastic because now you are hyper-aware of how uncomfortable you are. Letting out a loud sigh you take out your earbuds and open your eyes gazing out the window. In the reflection, you can see the player sitting beside you doing the same thing. “Do you want the window seat?” you ask, trying to accommodate him, as that is a value that has been instilled in you since you can remember. He mumbles something about saying it's okay before pulling out his phone and he goes back to ignoring you. That is until you take out your blanket as the air conditioning is starting to become too much. He was shameless; he too part of your blanket, part of you was a little upset at the lack of personal space but you got over it.

As the air conditioning continues to get colder and colder you cannot help but get closer and closer to each other. However, Rin doesn’t move away instead he seems to mirror your own actions.

All was well, that was until you felt the roughness of a shoe rub your leg, you thought it was an accident, that was until it happened again. You are not one to back down, you start kicking at him, all of this is happening below the blanket the only give away that anything is happening is an uncharacteristic smirk that is draped over Suna’s face. After a while the game of footies came to a stop as you begin to drift off, your head hits something relatively soft and before you know it the world goes black as you are taken away to sleep.

The sound of giggling stirs you awake, you open your eyes briefly but shut them again, not used to the light. You nuzzle your head into the warmth that you were resting on before your conscious mind takes over, what is warm. You jolted backwards and you then realized you were laying on Rintaro’s shoulder.

“I'm sorry, Rintaro,” you say, mortified by your previous situation. You look past him to find the source of the giggling which is coming from Miya Osamu, “Why are you so formal?” the boy asks teasingly at you. His tone gets under your skin, you're not sure if it was him or if it was your embarrassment but you quickly quip back, “Maybe it is because this is the first time we’ve ever spoken and most of that time I was asleep for most of that time, Sumu” you mock. This earns a laugh from his twin from across the aisle. “Besides I don’t even think he knows my name”.

You had left your satchel on the bench nearest the archery stands — uncharacteristic of you, since you guarded your belongings as tightly as you guarded your plans. Mydei didn’t notice it until the torchlight caught the glint of a golden clasp, and his hand, without conscious thought, reached for it.

The clasp came free with a quiet snap. Inside: notes, sketches, little scraps of parchment in your handwriting. At first, he assumed it was strategy work — you’d often kept tallies of weather patterns, patrol routes, and logistical quirks of the city’s defenses.

But this wasn’t that.

He saw the page header first: “My Love — Notes to Remember”.

Mydei stilled. His eyes scanned the script, his warrior’s composure hiding the sudden shift in his chest.

Prefers pomegranate juice with goat’s milk and cheese — smile always a little less guarded when drinking it.

Anniversary of the Siege — avoid bringing up loss unless he mentions it first.

Hair braids: prefers left side to hang free, right side pulled tighter.

Armor maintenance: uses brass oil blend, not standard iron oil — says it ‘smells like home’.

The pages went on — not tactical intelligence, but him. The subtle, unspoken details most would overlook.

And then, between careful sketches of his gauntlets and the crimson markings on his arms, a folded parchment:

A plan for the upcoming Chrysos Heirs feast. You’d listed every step, from securing rare Kremnoan spiced bread to arranging an evening where the two of you might “watch the city lights from the west wall, uninterrupted.”

For a man who had walked away from thrones, from banners, from the weight of a crown — for someone who lived ready to die before dawn — this felt heavier than any prophecy.

The name Mydei never appeared. Only My Love. Over and over.

He closed the notebook slowly, his hands steady even as something in him wavered. Mydei was not prone to indulgence in dreams — they were luxuries that could fracture resolve. But this? This was not a dream. This was proof that someone had seen him, truly seen him, without the armor of titles or the shadow of legend.

When you returned, breathless from fetching your quiver from the armory, his gaze met yours — piercing, assessing, yet softened in ways you couldn’t place.

“You keep… detailed records,” he said, holding the satchel out to you.

Your heart stuttered when you realized what he’d seen. “I—It’s not—”

“Don’t,” he interrupted gently, voice low but firm. “Do not apologize.”

You searched his face for mockery or judgment, but found neither. Only a warrior who had spent lifetimes at the edge of death, now holding something infinitely more fragile than his own life.

“My love,” he said, tasting the words as though they were foreign yet familiar. “A dangerous thing to call someone like me.”

Your reply caught in your throat, but he shook his head — not to silence you, but to give himself a moment.

“If the tide takes me tomorrow,” he said finally, “I will go knowing that someone thought of me as more than the Last Prince. That is… worth more than you know.”

And though he handed back the satchel, you could feel the weight of the promise in his gaze — a silent vow that he would meet that planned evening on the wall, even if the world was ending.

It was late in Okhema’s chambers (inside the bathhouse), the warm scent of oil lamps mixing with parchment and dust. You’d left your satchel under the reading table, promising to return after fetching tea for the two of you.

Phainon stayed, leafing through old campaign maps. But when his boot nudged the satchel, the soft clink of trinkets inside drew his curiosity.

He hesitated — a man of respect, not prone to prying — but a folded notebook had slid halfway out, and the words on the cover caught his eye.

For My Love.

He almost smiled, assuming it was some poetic title for a story you were drafting. But when he flipped it open, it wasn’t fiction.

Blue flowers over white — noticed you always linger near them.

Prefers tea over wine — unless it’s feast day, then both.

Hums softly when fixing weapons; pitch sharpens when focused.

Date: early winter or summer? — birthday? Needs confirmation before asking directly.

The list went on — tiny observations of him, all written in a tone of quiet affection.

Then came the sketches: his coat, the embroidery on his sleeve, even the sun-emblazoned armguard he wore. And in the margins, notes about commissioning a gift: “Custom-engraved scabbard — to carry light into battle.”

Phainon’s heart ached in a way it hadn’t in years. It was the kind of ache that came not from loss, but from recognition. To see himself reflected here — not the Vanguard, not the Deliverer, but simply Khaslana or Phainon as you saw him — made him feel almost weightless.

He turned the page and saw plans for the upcoming festival: arranging a moment to guide him to the river’s edge at sunset, to present the gift. “If I can make him smile without hiding anything… worth all the trouble.”

When you returned, balancing two steaming mugs, he had already closed the book, placing it atop the satchel.

“You’ve been… busy,” he said with that half-smile of his, equal parts teasing and sincere.

Your eyes darted to the notebook, panic rising. “That’s not— I mean, it’s—”

“Thoughtful,” he finished for you. “And more than I deserve.”

“You deserve—” you began, but he raised a hand, not to stop you, but to steady himself.

“I’ve been called a hero in so many tongues,” he said softly, “but this… this is the first time I’ve been called ‘my love’ without expectation, without prophecy attached.”

The way he said it made your chest tighten — not in embarrassment, but in understanding.

“I hope,” he continued, voice warm, “you still plan to give me this gift. I’d like to be surprised.”

And then, as he took one of the mugs, he added, “Though, for the record, you already have.”

You’d left your bag unattended for all of five minutes while fetching replacement ink from the market stall. It was your mistake — Wanderer didn’t do unattended things.

He sat cross-legged by the window when he noticed it, the corner of a small, worn notebook peeking out. Normally, he’d scoff and leave it — but boredom and suspicion were a dangerous mix.

The first page stopped him.

For My Love.

His brow furrowed. It was absurdly sentimental — the sort of thing he’d mock without hesitation. And yet…

Flipping through, his sharp eyes caught the lists:

Prefers dango to most sweets, but will pretend otherwise if someone notices.

Gets restless if not given something to do with his hands.

Pauses mid-sentence when remembering something — usually unpleasant.

He skimmed further, irritation creeping in — not at the accuracy, but at the audacity of writing him down like some specimen.

Then, in the middle, a plan. For him.

A detailed outline of finding a rare violet paper parasol, supposedly matching the shade of a flower he’d once lingered near in silence. Arrangements for giving it to him without anyone else seeing.

No name for him in the notebook. Only My Love.

His lips pressed into a thin line. Sentimentality, yes — but also… care. Too much care.

When you returned, he was still holding it, gaze unreadable.

“You really think you can just… write me down like this?” he asked, tone deceptively casual.

Your stomach dropped. “You read it?”

“Obviously.” He flipped it closed and held it up. “What is this? Some kind of… emotional ledger?”

“It’s just—” you started, but he cut in.

“You call me ‘my love’ in here.”

Silence.

He leaned back, watching you squirm. “Bold. Stupid. But bold.”

You braced for ridicule, but instead, he set the notebook beside him and rested his chin on his hand. “You really went to this much trouble? For me?”

“…Yes,” you admitted quietly.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at his lips. “Hmph. Guess I’ll allow it. For now.”

Then, softer — so soft you almost missed it — he added, “Don’t mess up your little plan. I want to see if it’s as good as you think it’ll be.”

And just like that, he stood, tucking the notebook back into your bag. No thanks, no grand confession — just the faintest trace of color on his cheeks as he stepped past you.

“Fascinating,” came Herta’s voice from behind you, calm but laced with amusement.

You didn’t turn. “I assume you mean the project, not the person.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The project’s boring,” she said, pacing closer. The soft click of her boots echoed faintly. “I’m talking about that contraption on your back. The way it reacts to your motor control, the precision… It’s elegant. Too elegant for a casual tinker.”

The corners of your mouth tugged upward. “Coming from you, that’s either high praise or mild mockery.”

“Both.”

When you faced her, her eyes gleamed, reflecting the subtle light of your mechanical rig — four steel limbs folded neatly behind you like wings. You had designed them to respond to your nervous system, mimicking reflex, thought, and instinct. To her, they were a marvel. To you, they were extensions of your self.

Herta tilted her head, arms crossed. “I can see why you move so effortlessly. You’ve turned redundancy into grace. Four extra limbs and yet… you make it look natural. I’d probably just make a mess.”

“You could simulate it,” you suggested. “Feed it into your virtual model.”

“I could,” she said, “but I prefer the real thing. I prefer you.”

You blinked.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she continued, tone flat. “I meant I prefer to observe you. You’re more interesting in motion than data form. The way your nervous system adapts — you don’t think about the extra limbs anymore, do you?”

“No,” you admitted. “It’s like breathing. They respond before I consciously command them.”

“That,” Herta said, stepping closer, “is the kind of advancement that borders on artistry.”

Her hand lifted slightly, stopping short of your shoulder. “Do they feel pain?”

You extended one of the arms, the polished metal glinting as it hovered before her. “Not in the way you do. But they respond to damage. I’d say it’s… empathetic pain.”

“Hmm.” She circled the rig, inspecting its base — the junction where it met your spine. “You built this yourself?”

“With a little help.”

“Of course you did,” she muttered, half-proud, half-irritated. “Always the innovators outside my lab who surprise me.”

When you looked back, she was watching you — expression unreadable, curiosity and admiration dancing in her eyes. “You know,” she said, “I used to think my puppets were the pinnacle of remote cognition. But you—”

Her lips curved. “You’ve made the machine part of you.”

“You sound impressed.”

“I am.” She turned away, hiding the faintest smirk. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

As she left, one of your arms quietly waved behind her. Without looking back, Herta called over her shoulder,

“Don’t wave that thing at me. You’ll make me want to dissect you.”

And yet, in her voice, there was something softer — something dangerously close to admiration.

Ruan Mei’s lab was a study in organized chaos — crystalline samples, culture chambers, and faint, symphonic hums. You had been helping her catalog bio-data, using your mechanical limbs to handle multiple tasks at once.

“Left,” she murmured absently, pointing with her brush.

One arm reached for the left-side samples, another logged the data. You didn’t need to look; instinct took care of everything.

She paused mid-writing. “You do that so easily.”

“Habit,” you said, adjusting another vial. “After enough repetition, it’s like—”

“—your own hands,” she finished, eyes glinting with quiet wonder.

She approached, gaze following the gentle mechanical rhythm. “Each limb follows neural impulses, yes? So they move with emotional stimuli too. How fascinating.”

You smiled faintly. “You’re analyzing me again.”

“Can you blame me?” she said softly, the brush stilling in her fingers. “You’ve blurred the line between evolution and invention. It’s beautiful.”

Her words weren’t flattery — they were reverence, quiet and analytical. The kind that made your chest tighten.

She stepped around you, every movement deliberate. “Do you ever forget which are yours?”

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “When I’m in motion, they all feel… mine.”

“That’s how nature evolves,” she said, almost wistful. “Through seamless adaptation.”

One of your mechanical arms extended a towel toward her as she adjusted a lens, and she accepted it without breaking stride — as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“See?” you said. “Even you’re adapting.”

That earned a rare smile. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply appreciate efficiency.”

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the faint hum of the lab. Then she asked, “Do you ever think of them as companions?”

You looked over your shoulder. “Companions?”

“Your limbs,” she clarified. “They seem almost alive. The way they respond to your tone, your intent. It’s like they’re attuned to your spirit.”

You hesitated. “I never thought of them like that.”

“I have,” she said.

When you met her gaze, it was soft — contemplative, almost tender. “You’ve created something wonderful, you know. A synthesis of life and machine that even Aeons would envy.”

You chuckled. “That sounds like high praise from member #81 of Genius Society.”

“It’s simply the truth,” she replied, returning to her desk. “And truth, like beauty, doesn’t require exaggeration.”

You could tell she meant more than she said — her tone, gentle but precise, carried warmth she rarely revealed. As you continued working beside her, your arms moving in practiced harmony, she glanced up one last time.

“Would you… ever allow me to study the neural patterns?”

“Only if you promise not to dismantle me.”

Ruan Mei laughed quietly — a soft, musical sound. “I wouldn’t dare. I’d rather learn the rhythm of how you move.”

And in that sterile, brilliant space, her words lingered longer than the hum of the machines.

“You’ve got multiple doctorates’ worth of precision in those things,” Ratio remarked dryly as one of your mechanical arms placed a teacup neatly beside him.

You smirked. “Only four, actually.”

He adjusted his glasses — purely decorative, you were convinced. “I was talking about the arms. But yes, modesty suits you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it confuse you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m simply fascinated. You wield technology as if it were instinct. You embody the philosophy of the Intelligentsia Guild: function refined into art.”

“Coming from the man who literally wears wisdom as an aesthetic,” you quipped, nodding toward the owl emblems on his attire.

Ratio smirked. “Touché.”

You turned back to your notes, four arms working seamlessly — one writing, one tapping data, one mixing compounds, one pouring tea.

He watched, eyes sharp behind lazy amusement. “Do you ever rest?”

“Do you?” you countered.

“Touché again.”

He sipped his tea, gaze unwavering. “I can’t decide what’s more impressive — your engineering, or your ability to act as though it’s ordinary.”

“I built them to be ordinary. The whole point was integration.”

“Ah,” he mused, “but you’ve done what philosophers and engineers have argued about for centuries — created unity between will and mechanism. The Guild would canonize you.”

“Is that your way of saying you approve?”

He chuckled softly. “Approval implies superiority. I recognize kinship.”

That earned your attention. Ratio wasn’t one to claim connection lightly.

“You see,” he continued, “you’ve eliminated inefficiency — the human flaw I find both tragic and fascinating. Yet you haven’t sacrificed personality for precision. That’s… rare.”

His tone softened. “The way your limbs react to mood — that subtle tremor when you’re deep in thought, the stillness when you’re focused — it’s like reading a second language written on your body.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks. “You’ve been observing that closely?”

He smiled — just barely. “Observation is the duty of the rational mind. And perhaps…” His gaze flicked toward one of the arms, hovering near his cup. “…the privilege of admiration.”

You let one mechanical limb lightly nudge his teacup away before he could take another sip. “Flattery, Dr. Ratio? You must be malfunctioning.”

“Hardly,” he replied smoothly, standing. “Just… recalibrating my logic.”

And with that, he left you in the quiet hum of your machinery — though the faintest trace of amusement lingered in the air like a whisper of static.

You didn’t hear Anaxa enter — only the brush of his coat and the metallic clink as he leaned against the table.

“So it’s true,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’ve grafted four steel arms to your spine. Tell me, does it hurt to carry so much ambition?”

You turned, one mechanical limb folding around your side protectively. “Not ambition. Necessity.”

He smiled, faint and knowing. “Spoken like someone who’s been burned by limitation.”

Your four limbs continued working — tightening bolts, sorting shards, jotting notes — even as your eyes stayed on him. “You talk like you understand.”

“I do,” he said. “I’ve carried more ghosts than you have limbs.”

The weight in his voice silenced you for a heartbeat.

Then, unexpectedly, he stepped closer. “But look at you. You’ve turned burden into beauty.” His gaze lingered on the junction where the rig met your back — not with clinical curiosity, but reverence. “A symphony of sinew and steel.”

“Most people stare,” you said quietly. “You… listen.”

“Because I hear what others don’t.” His eye glimmered faintly beneath the fall of his hair. “Every movement sings of defiance. You move like someone who refused to stop reaching.”

The mechanical arms stilled. “You make it sound poetic.”

“Everything is poetry,” he said, stepping closer still, “when it’s born from pain.”

One of your arms rose unconsciously, brushing a strand of his hair aside. He didn’t flinch. “You’ve made yourself a god of efficiency,” he whispered, “but still human enough to tremble.”

“I don’t tremble.”

“You do,” he said softly. “Right now.”

You realized he was right — your fingertips, or perhaps the mechanical claws, had the faintest quiver.

Anaxa smiled, equal parts pride and sorrow. “Good. Keep trembling. It means you haven’t lost yourself to the machine.”

His words sank deep, the kind that stayed even after silence returned.

“Tell me,” he said finally, eye glinting like the last light of dusk, “when you move all those hands at once, does it feel like freedom?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “It feels like I finally have enough hands to hold what I want.”

“And yet,” he murmured, brushing a hand against one metallic limb, “you’ll learn that even with six hands, you can’t hold everything.”

You met his gaze. “And you?”

He smiled faintly. “I let everything burn, so I wouldn’t have to.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood in that soft hum — human and machine, genius and heretic — each recognizing the other’s defiance reflected in steel and sorrow.

"You know what this means, don’t you?" His voice was smooth, edged with a dangerous amusement as he leaned back in his throne-like chair.

You swallowed, fingers curling around the stems. "I do."

The air grew taut, silence stretching between you like the space between stars. Noah tilted his head, assessing you, his sharp-toothed grin widening.

"Hope? Romance?" He let the words roll off his tongue, testing them like a fine wine. "I wonder… do you understand the weight of offering these to someone like me?"

You met his gaze, refusing to shrink beneath it. "I wouldn’t have given them to you if I didn’t."

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of something raw, dangerous, but undeniably intrigued. Slowly, he reached forward, plucking a single Sylleblossom from the bouquet. His fingers brushed yours, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down your spine.

He twirled the flower between his fingers, watching the petals sway. "Taking the next step in our relationship, are we?"

Your heartbeat quickened. "If you'll let me."

Noah chuckled darkly, standing fluidly, his sheer presence suffocating and intoxicating all at once. He tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Then be prepared," he whispered, lips ghosting against your skin. "Because devotion to a God of Justice… is absolute."

The floating Sylleblossom petals shimmered under the Astral Express’s gentle glow, their meaning woven into the quiet tension between you and Sunday. He stood by the observation window, bathed in celestial light, his hair shifting as he turned to face you.

"You brought me flowers," he murmured, eyes tracing the bouquet in your hands. His voice carried its usual softness, but there was something deeper—something hesitant.

You nodded, stepping closer. "Do you know what they mean?"

Sunday's fingers brushed against a petal, his wings behind his ears fluttering slightly. "Hope. Romance." His tone was unreadable, yet his gaze lingered on you with an intensity you weren’t used to.

For a moment, you thought he might reject them. Sunday had always been distant, lost in his philosophy, reluctant to tether himself to emotions he believed transient.

But then—his hand covered yours.

"You surprise me," he admitted, almost to himself. "Offering something so… zealous to someone who has doubted love itself."

You swallowed, watching his expression shift—wistful, almost yearning. "Maybe… you need someone to remind you that love isn’t just a dream."

A soft chuckle escaped him, tinged with disbelief. "And you think you can be that person?"

You hesitated, then smiled. "If you'll let me."

Sunday closed his eyes briefly, exhaling as if releasing a weight he’d carried for too long. When he opened them again, something softer had replaced the guarded melancholy. He accepted the flowers fully, fingers lingering over the petals before carefully tucking one behind your ear.

"Then let us see where this dream takes us," he whispered.

"Ah, what’s this? A gift?" Aventurine’s smirk was effortless, but his eyes flickered with something more as he plucked the bouquet from your hands.

You crossed your arms, feigning nonchalance. "It’s not just any flower. Sylleblossoms symbolize—"

"Hope and romance," he finished smoothly, twirling one between his fingers. "Taking the next step in our relationship, are we? Bold of you."

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you kept your voice steady. "I figured you'd appreciate a gamble."

Aventurine laughed—a genuine, rich sound. "You know me well, sweetheart." He leaned in, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "But tell me, are you ready for the stakes?"

You met his gaze, unwavering. "Are you?"

For the first time, Aventurine faltered. It was slight—barely noticeable—but you caught it. The charming, ever-confident gambler was used to controlling the odds, but this? This was a risk even he couldn’t fully calculate.

Then, with an unreadable smile, he tucked a Sylleblossom into the folds of your attire. "Guess we’ll find out," he murmured, his fingers grazing your collarbone before pulling away.

His grin returned, playful yet tinged with something deeper. "Just don’t be surprised if I make the game more interesting."