thanks to you, my muse

Bright, too bright; like molten rubies reflecting firelight.

“You’re late,” you said, trying not to sound relieved.

Kalim grinned immediately. “I wanted to see if you’d leave.”

“And if I had?”

His smile tilted into something curious. “Who knows? You never do.”

The first time you’d met him, you thought he was some wandering spirit. Nobody could move the way he did — silent one moment, suddenly inches away the next. One blink and he would be standing several feet away beneath the trees; the next, his voice would drift right beside your ear, warm and amused enough to send a shiver down your spine.

It wasn’t only that he was quiet — it was wrong somehow, unnaturally graceful in the way predators moved before striking. Branches never snagged his clothes. Mud never stained his boots. Thorned vines shifted away from his hands like they feared touching him.

The wind stirred his hair as he took a step closer, gaze fixed entirely on you.

“You smell like rain,” he said absentmindedly.

You blinked. “That’s a weird thing to say to someone.”

“It’s true.” He leaned closer, inhaling lightly like he couldn’t help himself. “And cloves… and the flowers growing near the eastern hills.”

“You can tell all that just from smell?”

Kalim paused, like he’d almost forgotten normal people couldn’t.

A soft laugh escaped him. “Right. Humans can’t.”

His word should’ve unsettled you more than it did.

Instead, curiosity curled tighter in your chest each night you met him here. Because Kalim spoke about the world like he existed slightly outside it — as though he belonged to older things. Wilder things.

You crossed your arms. “You still haven’t answered my question from last night.”

Kalim’s grin flashed in the dark, quick and crooked. “The funny one?”

“The important one.”

You stepped closer. Close enough that the moonlight couldn’t fit between you anymore. “What are you?”

For once, he didn’t answer right away.

The river rushed beneath the old stone bridge below you, loud in the sudden silence. Somewhere deeper in the trees, an owl let out a low call and went quiet, as if it was waiting.

Kalim’s easy expression faltered. He looked at you — really looked — like he was weighing something heavy. His silver hair caught the moonlight, and for a second you saw something else in him so clearly it made your pulse jump.

“You actually want to know?” he asked, voice lower.

“Yes.”

“You might run.”

“I haven’t yet.”

That seemed to affect him more than expected; so much so that you could see his throat working as he swallowed.

His gaze lingered on your face with open fascination, like he was trying to solve something impossible. Humans feared the unnatural — everyone knew that. Yet every night, you still returned to the forest to meet someone with glowing eyes and secrets in his smile.

“You’re strange,” he murmured.

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Kalim laughed quietly, though it sounded softer now.

His grin returned at that, small and fleeting, but it disappeared just as quickly when you reached for his wrist. The moment your fingers brushed his skin, he went still. The kind of stillness that came right before something wild decided whether to bare its teeth or not.

Your breath caught as both sets of eyes looked down to where you touched him.

Up close, you could see it so clearly now: faint silver lines glowing under his skin, tracing along his veins like liquid moonlight. They pulsed once beneath your fingertips, dim and beautiful and deeply unnatural.

Kalim’s breathing changed, like he’d forgotten how to do it properly for a second. Then, he let out a slow exhale through his nose, almost like he was forcing himself back into control.

“You’re going to make this harder,” he said quietly.

“Make what harder?”

His jaw tightened slightly. For the first time, the easy charm he always wore wasn’t quite there to soften the edges of him. “Leaving you alone after this.”

That made the air shift.

You went still. “After what?”

Kalim finally looked up at you fully. The moonlight caught his eyes head-on and made them look almost wrong — too reflective, too aware, like something watching from behind a human face rather than through it.

Before you could react, his hand snapped up and caught your wrist. You had been holding his other arm, trying to keep some control of the distance, but he overpowered your grip with almost no effort. Warm fingers closed around your wrist like iron wrapped in velvet, and he spun you.

Your back hit the rough bark of the ancient oak behind you with a soft thud. Kalim pressed in immediately, caging you against the tree with his body. One hand pinned your wrist above your head, the other planted beside your shoulder. He wasn’t hurting you, but there was no give in his hold.

You could feel the tension running through him like a live wire, every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands as though he was restraining something much larger than himself. His breathing had gone uneven, sharper through his nose, and the silver lines under his skin spread farther up his throat now, glowing against the darkness.

“Kalim—”

“Don’t move,” he said hoarsely.

His head dipped suddenly toward your neck, stopping just short of touching you. You felt the warm rush of his breath against your skin as he inhaled once, deep enough to make his fingers flex around your wrist.

A low, rumbling sound rolled out of his chest — not quite a growl, not quite a whine. Something in between.

“Geez… you smell even stronger this close,” he whispered against your throat. His voice had changed, rougher, like gravel under moonlight. “It’s driving me crazy. I keep trying to ignore it during the day, but here…”

He pulled back just enough for you to see his face. His eyes were brighter now, almost luminous, with his pupils narrowed into sharp vertical slits. The silver markings pulsed hotter, racing down his arms. Then, his ears began to shift — lengthening, sharpening, tufts of silver fur appearing as they rose into clear, wolfish ears that flicked toward every small sound you made.

A werewolf. That’s what he was. The realization hit all at once as you stared up at him beneath the moonlight. The sharp ears flicking toward every tiny sound, the glow beneath his skin, the low rumble still vibrating in his chest like he couldn’t fully hold it back anymore.

The words died down from your throat, but the pounding of your heart distracted you enough from your hand involuntarily reaching out to touch the tufts of silver fur on his ears.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t, not really — not with your heart hammering so loudly it felt like it should’ve given you away. But your hand lifted anyway, almost instinctively, as if something in you had decided fear wasn’t the only thing allowed to exist here.

Your fingertips brushed the soft tufts of silver fur at his ear. Warm. Far softer than anything about him should’ve been. Kalim’s breath hitched so sharply it sounded like it broke.

“What are you—”

“Are you going to hurt me?”

The question cut through whatever he was about to say.

For a second, the forest felt too loud again — the river rushing beneath the bridge, leaves shifting, the distant call of something alive and unaware of what was happening here. His ears twitched under your fingers, but this time he didn’t lean into it. He forced himself still, like movement itself might be dangerous.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter and honest in a way that made it worse.

“…Yes,” he admitted, dropping his head against your shoulder once again.

Kalim’s jaw tightened immediately, like he regretted the word the moment it left him, but he didn’t take it back. Instead, his head pulled back but his gaze strayed away from yours, as if looking at you directly was making it harder to speak.

“Not like that!” he added quickly, panicking, though it didn’t fully fix anything. “Not the way you think!”

Kalim exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was trying to force the words into something coherent before they turned into something worse. His grip on the tree behind you tightened again, splintering it slightly under his fingers, then loosening like he caught himself.

“I don’t want to,” he said, voice lower now, strained in a way that made it sound like it cost him something to admit. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Then, quieter — honest in a way that stripped him bare:

“But my head is full of you.”

His eyes flicked up to yours for a second before dropping again, like he couldn’t handle the contact for long.

“I can’t think properly when you’re here. I can’t—” His breath caught, and you felt it in the way his body tensed, like something inside him was pressing harder against the edges of control. “Everything in me is loud. Too loud.”

“And when you’re this close…” he continued, voice roughening, slipping further from calm, “all my instincts do is scream at me to keep you here.”

His jaw tightened, fangs just barely visible when he spoke again.

“To not let you leave.”

A pause stretched between you, thick enough to feel physical.

Kalim finally looked at you again, and this time there was no attempt to soften it—no grin, no charm, just something raw and conflicted sitting behind wolf-bright eyes.

“I’m fighting it every second,” he admitted. “And with you touching me like that…” His ears twitched under your hand again despite himself, betraying him. “…it makes it difficult.”

“…So what,” you said quietly, voice steadier than you felt, “you’re just supposed to stay away from me forever?”

For a second, something almost pained flickered across his face.

“I should,” he said immediately.

But I don’t want to.

The words echoed in your head as if on cue. His hand, once braced against the tree beside your head, slowly dropped and then came up to cup your face.

Up close, you could feel everything about him at once: the heat in his palm that didn’t match the cold night air, the faint tremor running through his fingers like he was holding himself together by force alone, and the sharper edge beneath it all that reminded you he wasn’t ordinary. His claws brushed your skin as he settled his hand against you, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath catch anyway.

Kalim sucked in a sharp breath at the contact like even that small movement was something he had to endure. “…Sorry,”

“Do you want to?” Your voice cut through the thick tension. “To stay away forever, I mean.”

“O-Of course no—”

“Because I do not mistake you for death.” You stepped closer toward him, your hand wrapping around the one cupping your cheek. “Not even for an instant.”

Kalim’s breath caught so abruptly it almost sounded painful. His eyes widened slightly, the silver glow beneath his skin glimmering from the moonlight. For once, he looked completely unguarded; like nobody had ever said something like that to him before.

Your fingers tightened gently around his hand, grounding him there against the tree and moonlight and the wild thing trembling just beneath his skin.

“Well then,” he said at last.

A pause.

His smile came after it — different now. Less easy, less boyish. Sharper at the edges, but not unkind. Something that belonged more to the forest than the village lights far beyond it.

His fangs caught the moonlight as he exhaled a quiet laugh, eyes never leaving yours.

Vil did not drink from you out of desperation; Desperation was ugly. Reckless. It hollowed people out until all that remained was instinct and ruin, and Vil refused to let something as crude as hunger define him.

He believed beauty was something cultivated with discipline, and immortality meant nothing if one allowed themselves to decay into something inelegant. While other vampires surrendered to frenzy and excess, Vil treated his condition with the same ruthless precision he applied to every aspect of his appearance.

You simply happened to be part of that routine.

Not in a cruel way — never that. Vil despised carelessness. He was particular about you. Excessively so.

Your meals were monitored with an attention bordering on absurdity. Iron-rich foods. Proper hydration. Enough rest. He insisted stress affected “quality,” though he said it with the same airy tone one might use discussing skincare ingredients.

Which was why, by the time night fell, everything was already exactly as he preferred it.

You were already waiting exactly where he liked you — perched gracefully on the edge of his canopy bed, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight to shut out the rest of the world. The room was bathed in the warm glow of enchanted candles, their light dancing across silk sheets and polished marble floors.

Vil stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the space. His golden hair shimmered under the candlelight, and his amethyst eyes locked onto you with that familiar mix of hunger and appraisal.

“Perfect timing,” he murmured, his voice smooth but edged with fatigue. He removed his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, never breaking eye contact. “I was starting to get… irritable.”

As he stepped closer, that effortless grace of his stride remained — swift, silent, almost gliding — yet something about him was subtly off. His jaw was tighter than usual. His brows barely, almost imperceptibly, drawn. His hand tugging his collar open.

Vil exhaled through his nose, as if forcing his body to obey him rather than the other way around. “I dislike when it reaches this point,” he admitted quietly, more to himself than to you, voice lower now, less theatrical and more raw at the edges.

His fingers brushed your jaw as he tilted your chin upward with the care of an artist inspecting a masterpiece. His touch was ice cold — that perfect, refined temperature that made your skin prickle with anticipation rather than flinch away.

“You’ve been good for me,” he murmured, voice like velvet dragged over steel. “Look at you… skin flushed just right, pulse steady and strong. Exactly as I asked.”

He leaned in, nose grazing the curve of your neck as he inhaled slowly, savoring. A faint, almost imperceptible shudder ran through his frame — the only crack in his composure. Then his lips pressed against your throat, soft at first, almost reverent. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat hardest, tongue tracing a slow, deliberate line over the vein as if tasting before committing. 

“Relax for me,” he whispered against your skin. “Let me have you properly.”

The bite came without warning, yet not without grace.

His fangs sank in with surgical precision — two sharp points piercing clean and deep. There was a brief flash of pain, bright and fleeting, before it melted into something far more dangerous: a thick, honeyed heat that spread through your veins like liquid starlight. Vil groaned softly, the sound low and indulgent, vibrating against your throat as he drank.

He never rushed. Even now, when hunger clawed at him, his swallows were elegant. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair to hold you steady. The other rested at your waist, thumb stroking slow circles over your ribs as if soothing you through the haze.

Every pull of his mouth sent sparks racing down your spine. The room felt warmer, the candlelight thicker, sweeter. Your fingers instinctively curled into the front of his shirt, gripping the expensive fabric as a quiet sound slipped from your lips — half gasp, half sigh.

Vil drank like he did everything else: with exquisite control and devastating focus. He savored you. The taste of your blood — rich, clean, perfectly balanced from all his meticulous care — drew another quiet, pleased hum from his throat. His body relaxed against yours as the irritation from earlier melted away, replaced by that luminous, almost euphoric calm he only ever found in feeding from you.

When he finally pulled back, Vil’s amethyst eyes darkened with a new kind of hunger as he hovered over you, his body caging yours against the silk sheets. The fresh bite on your neck still throbbed warmly, but his attention had shifted entirely to your lips.

Without a word, he cupped your face with his hand — fingers digging into your cheeks with that signature precision — and leaned down.

His mouth claimed yours in a slow, deep kiss.

The metallic taste of your own blood was immediate, rich and warm, still coating his tongue. He didn’t try to hide it. Instead, he pressed it into the kiss deliberately, letting you taste yourself on him as his tongue slid against yours with languid indulgence. The flavor mingled between you — copper-sweet, intimate, and undeniably intense.

A soft, possessive sound rumbled in his chest as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss further. His lips, still slick with crimson, moved against yours with practiced elegance, savoring every second. He fed you the taste of your own blood like it was fine wine he wanted you to appreciate, slow and deliberate, his tongue stroking yours in a way that made your head spin.

When he finally pulled back just enough to speak, a thin string of blood-tinted saliva connected your lips for a brief, obscene moment before it broke.

“Now you understand what I’m trying to preserve,” he murmured, voice low and velvet-rough, his breath brushing your mouth. “How absolutely intoxicating.”

You sit across from him as you always do — too close, he thinks, though he never asks you to move. The room is quiet save for the faint ticking of a clock and the soft rustle of pages turning. You’re reading, unaware, or perhaps pretending to be. Riddle can’t quite tell anymore.

He knows the time. He always knows the time. And yet, he hasn’t dismissed himself. A mistake. A deliberate one.

His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the armrest of his chair, posture still immaculate, back straight, chin lifted. To anyone else, he is the picture of composure.

But beneath it there’s a pulse. Not his, but yours. The faint rise and fall at your throat, the subtle shift of skin when you swallow, the quiet, steady rhythm beneath it all. It is distracting, inconvenient, unacceptable.

"You're closer than usual," he says, voice even, clipped, though his eyes betray him for the briefest moment as they flick once more to your neck.

You glance up. "Am I?"

You don't move. If anything, your head tilts slightly, baring more of that delicate line without thought — or perhaps not without thought at all. That's worse.

Riddle exhales slowly, "It would be wise to maintain a proper distance."

"And if I don't?"

There’s a pause, a dangerous one, because now he is looking again, properly this time, and the sight is… arresting. The curve where your neck meets your shoulder, unguarded, inviting in a way that feels almost deliberate, as though you’ve unknowingly presented him with a test. His gaze sharpens, but the tension beneath it betrays him.

“You will,” he replies, quieter now, “because I’ve instructed you to.”

But you don’t move, and the clock ticks once, twice, each second stretching thinner than the last.

He stands too quickly, turning away as though distance might restore order, but it only makes him more aware of you — of the warmth at his back, of the subtle shift of fabric as you breathe. It’s infuriating. He adjusts his collar, though it is already perfect.

“You are being careless,” he says, voice lower now. “You shouldn’t remain here at this hour.”

“And you?”

That question lands far too cleanly. Because he should have already left; he should have excused himself fifteen minutes ago, before the hunger sharpened, before the sight of your neck became something he could not ignore, before this quiet room turned into something far more dangerous.

He turns back slowly, telling himself it is to correct you, to reassert control — but when he steps closer, it is not discipline guiding him. It is instinct.

His shadow falls over you, and still, you don’t retreat. If anything, your head tilts again, just slightly, exposing more, as if unaware of the effect.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles at your wrist, the contact light at first, then tightening just enough to ground himself in something tangible. But it only makes it worse. Because now he can feel it — the rhythm beneath your skin — and see it: the subtle pulse at your throat, beckoning, steady, impossible to ignore.

His gaze drops, drawn helplessly to the exposed line of your neck, to the place where your pulse flutters just beneath the surface. He leans in before he can stop himself; slow, deliberate, as if convincing himself this is still control, still choice.

The air shifts between you, tension tightening, his grip on your wrist firm now, anchoring him as everything else threatens to slip.

“Do you understand,” he murmurs, voice lower, thinner, “what you’re asking of me?”

You don’t answer.

And that silence is dangerous, because it lingers; because it invites.

His lips hover just above your skin, close enough that the warmth of you seeps into something colder, something far less restrained. He pauses there, suspended on the edge of something he has spent so long mastering, his breath brushing faintly against your neck, betraying the strain beneath his control.

This is undignified. This is temptation.

His grip tightens, just short of painful — as if forcing himself back into place, as if reminding himself of rules he refuses to break. His eyes close briefly, jaw set, every inch of him rigid with restraint.

And then, abruptly, he pulls back; like a snapped thread.

His hand releases you at once, as though the contact itself is the problem, and he turns away, shoulders squared, posture perfect once more — too still, too rigid, the control too sharp to be effortless.

“Leave,” he says, voice cutting, precise. “Immediately.”

He isn’t moving much now. No restless energy, no bright laughter spilling out of him like usual. Instead, Kalim’s gaze stays fixed on you, intent and unguarded, like he’s seeing you more clearly in the quiet than he ever could in the noise. There’s something restrained in the way he holds himself, like he’s balancing on the edge of saying something important.

“You know,” he says quietly, breaking the silence, “you do this thing.”

The night seems to lean in with his words. The music from inside the palace fades into a distant murmur, leaving only the soft flicker of lantern light and the sound of your own breathing.

You glance at him. “Do what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Kalim studies you instead, head tilted, like he’s seeing something new. When he finally smiles, it’s slower than his usual grin, thoughtful in a way that makes your stomach twist. “You look at me like you’re figuring me out,” he says. His fingers curl against the railing, close enough that his knuckles brush yours. “It makes me wonder what you’re thinking.”

The touch lingers. You feel it even after it stills.

You don’t pull away.

The light catches in his eyes as he shifts closer, lowering his voice just enough that it feels private, intimate; like it was something meant only for you. “You make me curious,” he admits, the words softer now, almost hesitant. His gaze flicks briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “Like… I want to know what you’re going to do next.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than the warm night. You feel his closeness in your chest, the subtle brush of his sleeve against yours. Your fingers twitch against the railing, almost instinctively reaching for something to do.

“I… what do you mean?” you manage, voice a little uneven, betraying how much the nearness of him has your heart racing.

Kalim tilts his head, a slow smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes are serious, studying you like he’s trying to unravel you from the inside out. “I mean,” he says softly, letting each word linger, “I can’t tell if you’re just watching me… or waiting for me to make a move.”

You only blink, unsure how to answer, caught somewhere between wanting to lean in and wanting to step back.

Kalim lets out a low, almost amused hum, leaning a fraction closer, enough that the faint scent of his cologne brushes your senses. “It’s tempting,” he murmurs, his voice soft, a whisper meant to curl around you, “to just see what you’ll do… or if I’ll have to make the first move.”

His fingers drift along the railing, stopping just shy of yours, brushing against your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, though the tension makes it electric. The pause stretches, and in that silence, every small sound: your breath, his chest rising and falling, the distant music from inside — feels magnified.

Kalim’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. There’s a spark there; mischievous, yet tempered by a warmth that makes it impossible to look away. Slowly, he tilts his head, just enough for his forehead to almost brush yours, and his lips part slightly as if he’s testing the space between you.

He lingers there, forehead almost touching yours, the tiniest warmth radiating between you. The space feels impossibly small, yet unbearably wide at the same time, stretched taut by every unspoken word, every shared breath.

Kalim’s eyes flick to your lips again, then back to your eyes, a silent question lingering in the air. He leans in just a fraction more, slow enough that your heartbeat races in sync with the motion, his hand brushing yours, fingers tracing the back of your hand like it’s an invitation.

You can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you, the way your lips part almost instinctively.

His smile softens, teasing retreat giving way to something sharper, hungrier, yet careful. “I think,” he whispers, voice husky, “I’ve been curious about this for far too long.”

His lips meet yours softly at first, almost a question rather than an answer, brushing against yours like he’s testing the waters. Your breath catches, and the world shrinks to the warmth of him, the gentle press of his chest against yours, and the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the night air.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly — slow, deliberate; letting you feel the curve of his lips, the subtle movement of his mouth exploring yours. His hand slides from the railing to the small of your back, holding you close but still careful, as if he could feel every heartbeat echoing through you.

You feel a tremor in your fingers where they brush against his, an almost electric spark running up your arm, and Kalim hums softly against your lips — a low, approving sound that makes the heat in your chest flare even more.

When he finally pulls back just a breath, his forehead comes to rest against yours, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him; the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. His eyes search your face, bright with mischief but softened by something more honest, more vulnerable.

“Curious still?” you murmur, barely audible, words trembling with both challenge and longing.

Kalim’s smile twitches, slow and deliberate, and he leans in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Dangerously.”

Before you can even respond, he tilts his head, and his lips meet yours again — slowly, deliberately, tasting, testing, savoring. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds in kind, hands sliding around your waist, holding you impossibly close.

You cling to him instinctively, lips moving together in a rhythm that grows bolder, more insistent. Kalim hums against your mouth, deep and approving, and you feel a pulse of warmth run through you, electrifying and dizzying. He pulls back slightly, just enough to brush noses against yours, breath mingling, eyes locked in a gaze that holds both teasing and devotion.

The shadows of the moon cast a silver gleam across his sharp features, making his grin seem almost predatory. The tip of his fangs grazes the shell of your ears, and jolts of shock shoot down your spine. You flinch instinctively, your breath catching in your throat.

“Kalim—” Your voice comes out thinner than you expect.

“I know,” he says quietly, immediately softer, as if he heard the fear in your breath before you even named it. He doesn’t let go, but his grip loosens, fingers hovering instead of holding. “Do you trust me?”

Your heart stutters. “I’m trying.”

“I just…” He exhales, slow and controlled, like he’s reining himself in. “You smell like sunlight. It makes it hard to think.”

His hand lifts, hesitates, then tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is fleeting — but it sends a shock through you all the same. He leans in before you can process it, his mouth near your ear, close enough that you feel his breath ghost across your skin.

His thumb brushes over your wrist, a grounding touch despite the cold. You can feel how carefully he’s holding himself back; how every breath is measured, every movement deliberate.

“I’ve gone centuries without this,” he admits quietly, almost chuckling to himself. “Ahaha… and then you show up, all warm and light, and suddenly self-control feels like a cruel joke.”

He shifts, just slightly, and his mouth hovers near your skin again. You tense on instinct, but he pauses the moment he feels it.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”

When you do, his expression has changed. The grin is gone, replaced by something earnest, almost vulnerable. The hunger is still there, flickering behind his eyes — but it’s tempered by restraint.

“I won’t cross a line you don’t let me,” he says. “Not tonight, not ever.”

His breath ghosts over your skin as he leans in again, unhurried this time, as if deliberately giving you the chance to pull away. You don’t. The faint brush of his nose slips through your hair, and his lips hover at your neck; close enough that the chill of his breath seeps into your skin, drawing a helpless shiver from you.

You bite back a sigh and nod, stepping into place again. The mirrors lining the studio reflect the two of you; your tense posture, his composed stillness, arms folding briefly across his chest as his eyes assess the spacing between you.

“You’re anticipating the turn,” he adds, already moving closer. “Wait for my cue.”

“I am waiting,” you reply, a little defensive, even as you adjust your footing like he instructed last time.

Jamil doesn’t argue. He rarely does. Instead, he reaches out, fingers wrapping lightly around your wrist to reposition it, guiding your hand to the correct height. His touch is brief, professional, but firm enough that you don’t pull away.

In fact, you swallow the urge to do something far more reckless; lifting your hand just a little higher, just enough to trace the sharp line of his jaw and see if he would let you.

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

“Like this,” he says, unaware — or perhaps very aware, you could never tell — as he adjusts your posture with precision. “If you hesitate, it shows.”

You nod again, gaze fixed on the floor as if the lines etched into the wood are suddenly fascinating. The truth is, it’s easier than meeting his eyes — easier than dealing with the way he watches so closely, as if nothing you do ever escapes his notice.

The music starts once more.

You move together, steps syncing as the rhythm carries you forward. This time, the transitions are smoother, your turns cleaner. Jamil’s hand settles at your back to guide the next step, steady and unyielding, keeping you on track.

“Better,” he murmurs as you pass each other. “Don’t lose it.”

You falter on the next step, your foot dragging slightly as his hand presses gently against your back to guide you through the turn. It’s such a small thing, so subtle, but somehow it throws your rhythm off entirely.

Your cheeks heat up, and you blink rapidly, desperate to refocus, yet your mind refuses to cooperate. Every detail screams for attention: the warmth of his hand, the faint brush of his fingers against your waist, the confidence in his posture.

Before you can steady yourself, your thoughts scatter entirely, leaving you flustered, fumbling, and racing to remember the next step.

Jamil doesn’t miss a beat. He steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that it feels like it’s meant only for you. “Stop thinking so much,” he says. “You’re overcomplicating it. Dance isn’t about calculating every move — it’s about impulse. Feel it, trust it. Don’t let your mind get in the way.”

You swallow, heart skipping as you try to process his words.

Impulse. Just… feel.

That’s harder than it sounds. Your feet want to obey, but your brain keeps looping through all the possibilities of going wrong.

Jamil tilts his head, as if he can read every thought racing through you. “Here,” he murmurs, his hand giving a firmer, guiding press against your back, “Just let your body do what it already knows. Move with me, not ahead of me. Don’t think. Just feel.”

The music begins again, soft but insistent. You inhale, forcing yourself to relax, letting his hand’s guidance anchor you.

His hand at your back feels less like a correction and more like a tether, connecting your movements to his. Slowly, halting at first, then smoother, you begin to flow with him, letting the rhythm guide you, letting the impulse take over. The steps you rehearsed a hundred times suddenly feel natural, as if your body remembers more than your mind ever could.

“Better,” he says, voice low but approving, “Now you’re letting yourself move instead of controlling it.”

You nod, heart still racing, and try to commit that feeling to memory — this strange, effortless connection that comes only when you stop thinking and just… feel.

You keep moving, step after step, Jamil’s hand firm yet guiding on your back, his other hand occasionally brushing yours as the choreography demands. The distance between you shrinks almost imperceptibly with each turn, each pivot; your bodies aligning with the rhythm until there’s hardly any space left.

Your chest brushes against his when you spin into a close hold, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to the two of you: the music, the polished floor, the heat radiatign from his body.

You inhale sharply when his hand rests a fraction longer at your waist, guiding you into the next move. He leans slightly closer to demonstrate a turn, and your heart betrays you, thumping in your chest.

Something inside you stirs — the reckless, impulsive urge to close the distance, to feel him closer, to let go of the careful restraint you’ve been clinging to resurfaces. And for once, you don’t think.

Impulse. Just feel.

Almost without realizing it, your body leans in, your face drifting closer to his, drawn as if by some invisible thread.

“Knock knock! Is anyone here?!”

The sound is sudden, jarring, slicing through the music and the fragile bubble around the two of you. You snap upright, stepping back as if burned, stumbling over your own feet.

The door bursts open, and Kalim leans in, casual grin plastered across his face, completely oblivious to the intimate tableau he just interrupted. “Oh! It’s just you two, huh?”

Your cheeks flare red instantly, and your heart threatens to leap from your chest as the memory of how close you’d just been with Jamil plays back. “Y-Yeah! I—I really should be going now… it’s getting late,” you stammer, fumbling for your bag and yanking it onto your shoulder in a panicked rush. “I still need to—uh—study, y’know! Impulse, yeah!”

Kalim tilts his head, clearly entertained, a teasing sparkle in his eyes. “Aw, bummer! I was just gonna join you guys…”

You nearly stumble backward again, muttering hurried apologies that come out in a jumble, too flustered to even sound coherent.

Jamil stays rooted where he stands, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes flick between you and Kalim, a controlled storm behind his calm facade. He opens his mouth to protest, but the words die before they leave him. You’re already moving, too fast and flustered for anyone to stop you.

When you finally disappear down the hallway, the studio falls into a heavy silence. Kalim leans casually against the doorframe, brow raised, noticing the seemingly upset Jamil. “What? Did I do something wrong?”

It all happens in a blur. One second, the sky is open and blindingly blue, wind tearing at your sleeves as you cut too close around a floating marker. Your broom dips when you lean into the turn, bristles shuddering beneath your grip. Someone calls your name; maybe Vargas, maybe Grim — but you don’t slow down. You should have.

Then, everything goes wrong.

Your broom slams into something solid.

The impact jolts straight up your arms, knocking the breath from your lungs. The handle jerks sideways, your balance snapping like a pulled thread, and you pitch forward with a startled gasp. There’s no time to correct, no time to think; only the sudden, terrifying closeness of another body hurtling toward you.

Thump.

Foreheads collide hard enough to make your vision spark white.

A sharp click of teeth follows as your mouths crash together, awkward and unplanned, lips bumping with all the grace of two people desperately trying not to fall out of the sky. His breath hits your face, warm and startled, and you register the faint smell of sunlight before the world tilts again.

Your broom bucks violently beneath you.

“Whoa—! Are you okay?!” Kalim gasps, grabbing the tail of your broom without thinking, panic flashing across his face even as he struggles to keep you both upright. The sudden tug sends another jolt through you, close enough that you can feel his grip trembling.

You don’t answer; your heart is hammering so loud it drowns out everything else.

Your face burns hotter than the sun, embarrassment crashing over you harder than the impact. Before you can process anything, and before he can say another word, you jerk your broom free and veer off course, nearly missing the whistle signaling a halt to the exercise.

You don’t look back.

Below, the whistle blows — shrill, furious — Vargas shouting something about control and awareness. Grim’s laughter cuts through it all, cruel and delighted. And somewhere behind you, Kalim hovers in place, stunned, hand still half-extended, staring after you like he’s trying to understand what just happened.

All you know is this: you couldn’t face him properly again. Not after that.

Not tomorrow. Not next week.

You think it’ll pass.

Maybe not ever.

Embarrassment usually does. Given enough time, enough distance, even the worst moments dull at the edges. So you avoid him and tell yourself it’s temporary; just until your face stops heating up at the thought of wind rushing past your ears and Kalim’s startled breath against your mouth.

Except it doesn’t pass.

One week slips into another. Avoidance stops being a reaction and turns into routine. You learn which corridors he favors, which times Scarabia students tend to flood the halls. You arrive early and leave late, lingering just long enough to make sure you won’t cross paths.

It was already difficult, even before all the embarrassment. Kalim Al-Asim has a way of existing loudly. His laughter carries from room to room, his presence always pulls at your attention whether you want it to or not. You’d noticed him long before Flight lessons — noticed the warmth in his smile, the way he talks to people like he genuinely wants to know them. A harmless crush, you’d told yourself. Something small.

Now, it feels more like a bruise you keep pressing on.

You’re careful not to look at him in class. When you do, accidentally, your chest tightens. He still glances around more than he used to, eyes searching in a way that makes guilt curl in your stomach. You look away first, of course. Always.

For a while, it works.

The cafeteria is busier than usual, a hum of conversation and laughter filling the air as sunlight catches the edges of the tables. You’re carrying your tray carefully, scanning for a quiet spot to sit, hoping today would be as peaceful as ever.

Then, your foot snags the chair leg. The tray tilts, contents sliding dangerously, and you stumble backward, flailing for balance; and just when you think things couldn’t have gone worse—

“Oh!”

A sudden stop. A solid presence presses against your back. Your stomach lurches at the familiarity of the voice. You freeze, too embarrassed to move.

Kalim.

He’s standing there, behind you, close enough that you feel his shoulder pressing against yours. The heat rushes to your cheeks instantly. You open your mouth to gasp… but he quickly raises his palm to your lips.

“Shhh,” he says, quiet but firm, his eyes scanning the cafeteria as if someone might be watching. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

Your stomach twists, making you flinch, putting at least any sort of distance between you. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t see you—”

He gives a small, almost teasing smirk, but it’s soft, not mocking. “Relax. I went looking for you anyway.”

You blink at him, unsure how to respond, heat rising in your cheeks.

Kalim tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to make you feel seen. “Have you been avoiding me?” His voice is low, casual, but there’s an edge of curiosity there; like he’s genuinely trying to figure you out.

“I—what? No! Why would I ever—” You stumble over your words, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

He lets out a quiet hum, that signature thoughtful sound he makes when he’s thinking, observing. “Hmm. Because it feels like every time I look around, you’re… not there.” Kalim tilts his head, grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Is it because of what happened in Flight lessons?”

Your stomach drops. “I—I don’t know what you mean!” you blurt, immediately regretting it.

Kalim tilts his head, expression softening, eyes warm and steady. “You don’t?” His voice is quiet, careful, but there’s that familiar lilt in it; soft, teasing, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “And here I was, hoping to talk to you about it…” He pauses, smirk tugging at his lips. “…You kinda owe me one now, you know.”

You blink. “…Excuse me?”

He chuckles, the sound low and easy, not mocking — just full of that endearing confidence he always carries. “That kiss,” he says lightly, eyes twinkling. “Flight lessons… definitely wasn’t the proper way to do it. I think you owe me a proper one. You can’t leave it like that forever, you know!”

Your face burns hotter than ever. “I— Are you serious?!” you squeak, flailing just a little, wishing you could disappear into the floor.

He chuckles again, shaking his head slightly. “Okay, okay, sorry, sorry… let me start over,” he says, voice softer now, more careful. His eyes meet yours, warm and steady, and there’s a quiet intensity behind them that makes your heart skip.

“Can I…?” he hesitates, tilting his head just enough to catch your gaze. “Can I kiss you? Properly this time… like how I’ve always wanted to.”

You gulp, trying to form words, but all that comes out is a shaky, “…I… uh…” Your cheeks burn, and your hands fidget nervously.

Kalim tilts his head again, his grin softening into something warmer, gentler. He leans just slightly closer — not enough to crowd you, just enough that the space between you hums with quiet anticipation.

“I’m not asking for it right now,” he murmurs, voice low and calm, eyes locked on yours. There’s a playful sparkle there, but underneath it, something patient, something steady. “Just… maybe someday. Don’t run from me next time, alright?”

You swallow hard, nodding, words catching in your throat. “…I… I’ll try,” you manage, voice small, almost breathless.

For a moment, he just stands there, eyes warm and steady, letting the words sink in. You can’t help the flutter in your chest, the way your heart seems to stutter in disbelief.

Then, as if remembering something else entirely, his grin brightens; playful, bubbly, and utterly effortless. “Anyway,” he says, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve, “I should probably get going before someone notices me loitering in the cafeteria!”

Your chest tightens at the thought of him leaving, but before he can take a step, he pauses. His ruby eyes flick back to you, and the playful spark returns; just a little softer this time.

“Oh! Right,” he says, almost as if he’s remembering something important. “Scarabia’s having a banquet tonight. You should come!”

You blink, caught off guard. “A banquet?”

He nods, cheerful and casual, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Yeah. Music, food, dancing… the works! I mean, it won’t be the same if I don’t see you there.”

Your stomach does a little flip, and you feel your cheeks heat again. “I— I’ll try to be there!”

Kalim grins, that mix of teasing and warmth that makes your heart feel like it might just jump out of your chest. “Good! I’ll be looking for you. Don’t make me search like I did today, alright?!” he says, winking before turning and weaving through the crowd, leaving you standing there with a racing heart.

He does get frustrated, in quiet, misplaced ways. With nowhere to put the excess of feeling crowding his chest, he lets it spill into harmless things — the heat that won’t let him breathe, the food that tastes slightly off, the smallest inconveniences within arm’s reach. It’s easier to blame the sun, the spices, the room itself than to admit the restlessness has a name, or that it’s tied so closely to you.

Kalim isn’t used to being denied, which only deepens the confusion. Not out of entitlement, but because this is the first thing he’s encountered that can’t be eased with kindness, laughter, or waiting it out. No matter how much warmth he offers, the feeling doesn’t budge — and he can’t understand why wanting you feels so immovable, so painfully stuck.

His frustration slips out in small, unfamiliar ways; laughter that rings a beat too loud, words tumbling out faster than he can pace them. He proposes plans on impulse, half-formed and eager, clinging to the quiet hope that one of them might be enough to make you stay just a little longer.

Even so, you might catch him staring more often than he means to. His attention drifts without warning, pulled toward you before he can rein it back in. He finds himself tracing the curve of your eyes as they soften or sharpen with thought, the fullness of your lips when you’re distracted, the faint wrinkle of your nose when you’re concentrating too hard. By the time he realizes he’s been watching, he’s already memorized the moment; heart stumbling, gaze lingering a second too long; before he hurriedly looks away, pretending he wasn’t just lost in you.

When you’re close but unreachable, restlessness settles into him like an itch beneath the skin. His foot keeps tapping against the floor, uneven and impatient, His fingers tug at his collar again and again as if that might ground him. The smile he wears thins at the edges, trembling under the strain like it’s being held together by effort rather than joy.

When you do touch, he’s careful to pull away too soon. Not for lack of desire, but because there’s far too much of it. Even the briefest brush of hands leaves a ghost behind, a lingering warmth he carries with him long after the contact has ended, replaying it in the quiet spaces of his mind.

Kalim becomes gentle, deliberately attentive; watching for signs of suppression, making sure his son is choosing for himself. He ensures that praise is never earned through obedience alone, but through honesty, effort, and simply being who he is.

He’d proudly brag about his son anyway; boasting about how thoughtful, observant, or dependable he is rather than how loud or cheerful. In truth, Kalim would privately admire his son’s composure and maturity, especially when it steadies and balances his own impulsiveness.

When people ask why his son isn’t anything like him, Kalim only smiles, bright and sincere. “That’s good. He doesn’t have to be! He’s so much better at things I’m not,” he’d say, with unmistakable pride.

Whenever his son starts to get too carried away or wound too tight, Kalim is quick to notice. He’d check in gently, pulling him aside with an easy smile and a softer voice, reminding him that he doesn’t always have to be so serious or careful. Kalim would make it clear that he’s always there; ready to listen, ready to help, ready to step in if things start to feel overwhelming.