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odileeclipse · 2 days ago

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In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 22

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He fell quiet, the world narrowing to the rustle of turning pages and the faint scratch of his notes against parchment. There was something mesmerizing in the way he worked. In how focused he became, how his brow furrowed just slightly when he found a section that demanded more scrutiny, how his fingers moved with delicate precision as he turned each page like it held a fragment of some divine truth.

You watched him, chin propped lightly against your palm, and for once, you didn’t mind the silence. It wasn’t the awkward kind that begged to be filled, but something comfortable, reverent. It felt like being near a storm that chose not to strike. His presence so often composed and untouchable became gentler in this light. Grounded. Endearing.

His hair shifted slightly with every small movement, catching the glow of the enchanted lamp at his desk. Starlight danced along the waves of midnight and moonlight, flowing like ink spilled across constellations.

He didn’t notice the way your gaze lingered, too focused on his task to catch the softness settling behind your eyes. There was nothing grand about this moment. Just parchment and ink and quiet, and the realization that you could spend hours like this watching him, not saying a word, and still feeling like you were part of something meaningful. His quill paused.

His gaze flicked up, meeting yours. “You’re staring.”

Your face warmed instantly. “No, I’m… I was just-” You floundered, words tumbling like pebbles down a slope.

A quiet smirk curved his lips. “Observational curiosity, I presume?”

You huffed, flustered but smiling anyway. “Call it academic admiration.”

“Mm.” He returned to the pages. “Flattering. But I hope the admiration extends to your own work.” Your chest fluttered, light and inexplicably full. You weren’t sure if he meant the portfolio or something else entirely.

Maybe both. You sat back a little, allowing yourself to bask in the quiet of it all, the way time slowed in this room and in the steady orbit you seemed to share around him. Eventually, the soft rustle of paper ceased. Shadow Milk Cookie set down the final page with a quiet deliberateness, fingers lingering on the edge of your portfolio as if giving it a final, silent blessing before speaking. He leaned back slightly in his chair, his expression unreadable but not cold. Never cold.

You sat up straighter, nerves prickling beneath your skin. "Well?" you asked, voice carefully even. "Don’t spare me, okay? Be brutally honest. I can take it."

He folded his hands atop the desk, gaze steady and golden, gleaming faintly like the light of truth itself. “You ask for brutal honesty,” he began, “but I will offer you something more valuable measured honesty.”

You blinked. “That sounds… more terrifying.”

He smiled, just slightly. “Then allow me to terrify you.”

He glanced down once more, fingers brushing lightly over the tabbed sections Chai Latte had helped label. “Your structure is solid. Cohesive. The personal statement could use refinement in tone…there are moments where your humility dilutes the clarity of your accomplishments.”

You opened your mouth, but he raised a hand. “However,” he continued, “the content is sincere. And sincerity, when coupled with evident growth, speaks louder than polished eloquence.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “So… it’s not bad?”

“It is more than not bad,” he said, voice quiet, unwavering. “It is a compelling portrait of a scholar on the cusp of becoming something greater. It is rough around the edges, yes but it breathes. And that, more than anything, is worth reading.”

You let out a slow breath, your shoulders easing without realizing they had tensed. He leaned forward just a little, and his voice softened. “If I were reviewing this without knowing you, I would remember it.” Your heart skipped. “And because I do know you,” he added, “I am proud.”

That stopped your breath in your throat. Proud. The word echoed through you, knocking loose something quiet and warm that had been nesting beneath your ribs for days now. You tried to speak, but all that came out was a shaky, “Oh.” Shadow Milk Cookie offered you one of his rare, gentler smiles fleeting, but enough to light every star-threaded strand of his hair. “Would you like help polishing the final sections before submission?”

You nodded a little too quickly. “Yes. Please.”

He reached for his quill again, already turning to the feedback notes he’d jotted in the margins. But before he lowered his gaze, he said, almost as an afterthought. “I meant every word.”

You clutched the portfolio to your chest, cheeks aching from how wide your grin had gotten. “This is such good news,” you laughed, breathless from relief. “I could kiss you.” It slipped out, soft and stunned, not something you meant literally but as soon as it left your mouth, your soul left your body.

You froze. Across the desk, Shadow Milk Cookie paused. Very slowly, he lifted his head, gaze gliding over the rim of his monocle as if he were trying to determine whether he’d actually heard you right or if he simply wanted to hear it again. You opened your mouth likely to make it worse. “I mean-I wasn’t saying-I just meant like…like, thank you-like that! Not-” He tilted his head, and his expression was far too composed.

“So,” he said, voice smooth as starlight, “that’s the reward system I’ve been missing out on.”

Your brain stalled. “What?”

“A kiss,” he repeated calmly. “Apparently, all I needed to do to earn one was tell you your writing was competent.”

“Competent?” you gasped, scandalized, flustered, mortified. He was teasing you. You knew he was. His mouth was twitching at the corners now, barely hiding a smile but his tone was so matter-of-fact, so utterly in-character, it only flustered you further.

You groaned, pressing the binder against your face. “Please pretend I said nothing.”

“I could,” he said, tapping a finger lightly against the desk. “But then I’d have to pretend you don’t find me kissable.”

You choked. “I never said-!”

“I’m merely finishing the logic you began,” he said, the picture of scholarly innocence. You narrowed your eyes over the edge of your binder.

“You're impossible.”

He offered the barest of shrugs, a curl of amusement in his voice. “And yet you keep returning.”

You let out a dramatic, strangled sigh, dragging your hands down your face. “Why are you like this?”

Shadow Milk Cookie looked over his notes, completely unbothered. “Because if I weren’t, you might actually follow through on your impulse,” he said softly.

Your thoughts promptly disintegrated into cosmic dust. He didn’t look up this time. Just smiled faintly to himself and turned another page. He continued speaking. He had that thoughtful tone again, half analysis, half affection as he began, “If I were to offer formal feedback, I’d say your articulation of the second research objective could benefit from stronger-”

You kissed him. You didn’t think about it. You didn’t weigh the pros and cons. There was no grand swell of music or preamble or poetic metaphor to excuse it. You just leaned forward, hand still braced on the edge of his desk, breath uneven from the nerves coiled like vines around your ribs and kissed him, right in the middle of his sentence. It was quick. A press of your lips to his awkward and sudden, nothing rehearsed or careful. A breathless punctuation mark in the shape of a kiss.

And then you pulled back. Fast. Like touching him had been a dare you barely managed to complete. Like the moment itself would collapse in on you if you stayed too long. Shadow Milk Cookie had gone perfectly still. His sentence, whatever it had been hung in the air, unfinished.

You stared at him, heat roaring in your ears, lips still tingling with the realization of what you’d just done. “…Sorry,” you blurted, because what else could you say?

He blinked once. Slowly. His lips, slightly parted from where your kiss had interrupted him, closed with maddening calm. Then he tilted his head. “Should I assume,” he said, voice soft with dangerous amusement, “that your research statement is no longer the most urgent topic on your mind?”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Please forget that happened.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t, even if I wished to.” He leaned back in his chair, gold eyes catching the light in a way that made your stomach flip. “But I don’t wish to.”

You stared at him. “You’re unbearable.”

“However,” he murmured, his voice impossibly gentle, “you kissed me.”

Your face burned. “I was trying to prove a point!”

He smiled now fully, clearly, devastatingly. “Then perhaps,” he said, “you ought to clarify what the point was.”

You sank lower in your chair. “I hate you.” But your lips betrayed you with a smile. And his eyes held something far more honest than teasing. Something that looked suspiciously like wonder. He didn’t say anything else after that. Not right away. But the air between you had shifted. And from the way his eyes kept lingering on your face, you knew he’d be replaying that kiss for a very, very long time. You practically shoved the binder back toward him, face burning, voice a little too high and far too rushed.

“Just write it down, okay? Whatever needs fixing. Please.” You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not after that. The kiss had been impulsive, stupid, so very you half-born from flustered panic, half-born from the desire to wipe that smug little knowing smile off his face. And now? Now you wanted to melt through the floor.

There was a quiet pause, and then the familiar sound of his quill scratching across paper. You clutched at the edge of your seat like it would anchor you in time, praying he wouldn’t say anything not yet, not while your heart was still trying to climb out of your chest and run screaming into the sea. But of course, he couldn’t help himself. “You kissed me mid-sentence,” he said, voice maddeningly composed. “How… bold of you.”

You groaned into your hands. “Please stop talking.”

“You requested a written response,” he murmured, clearly amused. “I am merely honoring your wishes.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I am certainly… intrigued.”

You peeked at him from between your fingers. He was still writing, serene as ever but the corners of his mouth were twitching, and there was the faintest, faintest flush dusting his cheekbones. He wasn’t entirely unruffled. That was something.

“You didn’t even finish your thought,” you muttered.

“No,” he agreed, dipping his quill again, “but I find I’m rather fond of how you chose to interrupt me.”

You dropped your forehead to the desk with a soft thunk. “I hate you.”

“That,” he said, setting the quill aside and finally looking at you, golden eye far too warm, “is objectively untrue.”

And then he slid the notes back toward you, meticulously annotated, sectioned off with clear, neat revisions. But his hand lingered for just a moment close, not quite touching yours. “…You don’t have to rush to say anything,” he added, quieter this time. “But I’ll always listen. Whenever you're ready.”

You nodded, throat tight, fingers curling over the marked-up pages. You weren’t ready to speak again. But he’d given you something better…time. And that, from him, was everything. You exhaled sharply, half-laugh, half-groan, as you clutched your binder to your chest like it might stop your heart from sprinting straight out of your ribcage.

“If I ever betray you one day,” you said, tilting your head with mock gravity, “it’ll be because of this. Right here. This exact moment.”

He raised a brow, setting his quill aside, fingers lacing together over his desk in that composed, scholarly way that only made everything worse. “Oh?” he mused. “And what, precisely, have I done to earn such a fate?”

You gestured vaguely toward him. “That. All of… this. The way you talk. The way you look at me like I’m the most fascinating equation in the world. It’s not fair.”

His gaze shimmered like light on the rim of a teacup refined, precise, unshaken. “You find it unfair to be studied with care?”

“I find it dangerous,” you said. “You should come with a warning label. May cause emotional whiplash.”

He huffed a quiet breath of amusement. “I could say the same about you.” You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn the tables. Be infuriatingly charming. Make me forget what I was saying.” You sighed, folding your arms over the binder now. “If one day I turn on you, you’ll know why.”

A pause. “I’ll consider it an honor,” he said, voice low, half-laced with mischief. “To be remembered at all… even in betrayal.”

You blinked, the smile faltering for half a second. There was something there. Something just beneath the velvet edge of his words fleeting, unspoken, too sincere to call out. But he didn’t give it time to linger. With a quiet hum, he picked up your portfolio again, flipping to the next page. “In the meantime,” he said, “your transitions are strong, but your closing paragraph needs work.” You blinked again, stunned by the sudden shift. “…You’re the worst,” you muttered, cheeks warm.

“I’m thorough,” he corrected.

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward slightly. “Same difference.” But as his eyes skimmed the page steady, patient, entirely focused on your work you couldn’t help but wonder. Would he still remember this moment, too? Even if one day… you were gone. You dragged your chair next to him and leaned on his shoulder…he didn’t seem startled by the weight of your head against his shoulder if anything, he stilled for a moment, as if to make room for it. Like this quiet leaning in was something fragile, and sacred. Then he simply adjusted, as he always did around you, and continued reading.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled, your voice softened by proximity and the quiet security of the moment. “Okay. I get it. I’m a dramatic underseller.”

“You said it, not I,” he replied, but there was a smile in his voice. A faint, amused lilt that vibrated gently where your temple rested against him. You didn’t bother to lift your head. You just watched his hand move across the page, long fingers gliding effortlessly between lines, underlining a sentence here, circling a phrase there. You could feel the minute shifts in his posture, the subtle cadence of his breath steady, quiet, certain. It was the kind of certainty you rarely felt in yourself, but always found in him.

You’d lost count of how many times he had guided you through theories and tangled footnotes. But this? This was different. Not because of what he was saying but because of where you were. Who you were to each other now. Not just tutor and student. Not just two paths crossing by fate or chance. “I do mean it,” he said suddenly, voice low as he circled another section in your research outline.

“This is good. Very good.” You closed your eyes for a beat, soaking in the sound of his approval like warmth beneath your skin. “Even with the metaphors?” you asked, cracking one eye open. “I know I got carried away.”

He hummed. “You’ve always been a little excessive. But the right kind of excessive.”

You laughed quietly, your breath brushing the fabric of his robes. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

He turned a page, slow and unhurried. “It was meant as such.” The silence that followed was the kind you’d grown to love with him. Thoughtful. Comfortable. A shared space where nothing had to be explained. And so, you let your eyes close again, letting the steady movement of his hands and the soft scratch of quill on parchment lull you into something calm. If the world stopped here if it never moved past this moment you thought you’d be alright. You slumped against his shoulder with a quiet breath, no more than a whisper of movement as your weight settled into his side. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You never did. But there was something about the way he read each word deliberate, as though even the air bent to listen that made your eyes heavy. That made time slow.

That made it easy to let go. Shadow Milk Cookie stilled the moment he felt you yield to sleep. The pen in his hand hovered mid-mark above the parchment, its ink trembling slightly at the tip before blotting into the page, forgotten.

He looked at you. Not a glance. Not a fleeting moment of curiosity. He looked like someone who had spent centuries collecting fragments of truth, only to find something unbearably precious in the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes brushed your skin, the way your lips parted in rest. “…You shouldn’t do this,” he murmured. Not to you. To himself. His voice cracked in the quiet.

“You shouldn’t give me this,” he said, so softly the words barely escaped his chest. “Not when I will keep it long after you're gone.” He reached up, hesitating, then brushed a knuckle down your temple, slow and reverent. You didn’t stir.

“I could name a hundred constellations,” he whispered, “but none would chart what you’ve done to me.” The words tasted like grief. Like longing not yet allowed to take root. He tilted his head back against the chair, eyes drifting upward to the ceiling as though the heavens might grant him mercy.

They didn’t.

“I was not made for this,” he said. “Not for something fragile. Not for something fleeting.” And yet here you were, cradled against him like a promise he never dared to make. He laughed, quietly bitter and broken all at once. “I will spend lifetimes dissecting truth. Defining it. Proving it. But you...”

His hand, still near your cheek, curled into a fist and dropped to his lap. “You make me wish I could lie.” A beat of silence.

Then his voice lowered, “You make me wish I was mortal.” He turned his face, pressing his lips to your hair, the motion so subtle it could have been the breath of a breeze. But it wasn’t. It was desperation. It was devotion. It was the cruel truth of someone who would never forget what it was to be held by someone who could.

“You’ll forget this moment,” he whispered. “But I won’t.”

His eyes shut. “I will never stop remembering.” Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t wake you. Even when the golden light of afternoon began to fade into the mellow hues of dusk, even when the lanterns of the Scholar’s Wing flickered to life one by one and bathed the room in quiet, scholarly warmth he simply let you sleep. You didn’t stir. Not once. Not when he shifted beneath you, not when he reached for another sheet of parchment, not even when his hand brushed past yours to pull your portfolio a little closer. It went against his better judgment. He knew that. But tonight, he allowed something else to win. Truth was not always cold and rigid. Truth, at times, could be kindness. Could be mercy.

And this was no lie. With careful fingers, he turned the pages you’d agonized over, his eyes scanning each section with a focus sharpened by years of discipline. Your notes were scribbled in the margins, questions jotted hastily and underlined twice. There were moments where you’d second-guessed yourself and tried again, and again, and again. Shadow Milk Cookie studied each line with quiet reverence, as though your ambition itself had been woven into the ink.

You deserved the best chance. And if that meant he set aside his title for an evening not as the Sage of Truth, not even as the Fount of Knowledge but simply as Shadow Milk, then so be it. He dipped his quill. One by one, the revisions began. Not rewritten…no never rewritten. He respected you too much for that. But refined, clarified, strengthened with the kind of insight only someone who had shaped knowledge itself could offer.

He didn’t leave notes for you to fix later. He made the changes. Clean, efficient strokes of truth and logic, slipping seamlessly into the work you’d already built with trembling hands and sleepless nights. He worked until the final sentence had been trimmed to its most perfect version, until the last page was immaculate. Only then did he glance toward the tall arched window. Dinner would be soon no doubt. He looked down at you again. Your head still rested against his shoulder, your brow soft and your breathing even. You looked peaceful. He didn’t dare move. So instead, he folded his hands over the closed portfolio, now complete. A quiet smile touched his lips. Tired. Small. But real.

“This,” he whispered, barely audible, “isn’t dishonesty.” His fingers hovered above yours for a moment. “It’s devotion.”

You stirred slowly, breath catching as your eyes blinked open to the soft gold of late afternoon filtering through the high windows. The scent of aged parchment and ink lingered in the air, as grounding as the voice that greeted you before your thoughts fully formed. “You’re awake.” Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice was soft, low, and just a touch amused. You groaned and pushed yourself up, blinking at the feel of his shoulder still beneath you. “Wait did I fall asleep on you?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep. He glanced down at you, expression unreadable but unmistakably fond. “You did.”

You squinted, rubbing at your eyes. “How long?”

“Long enough for the sun to drift lower,” he said calmly. “Not quite dinner. Your friends will likely start wondering soon.”

You groaned again, dragging a hand through your hair. “Great. That’s not embarrassing at all.”

“Not at all,” he said dryly. You glanced at him, catching the slight curve at the corner of his lips.

“Did I… drool?” There was a pause, which he seemed to draw out on purpose before answering, “Only slightly.”

You gaped. “You’re joking.”

“I am.” You exhaled, clutching your chest. “You can’t do that to me, Shadow Milk. I just woke up. My soul hasn’t returned to my body yet.”

He gave the faintest smile. “It would explain why you’ve yet to ask about your portfolio.” You blinked, only now noticing the organized stack of parchment laid neatly on the desk beside him your handwriting scattered among his. “…Wait. You revised it?” you asked, straightening. “While I was asleep?”

He nodded. “There wasn’t much left to fix, but I added the necessary polish. Your content was strong. It simply needed better flow.” You stared at him, lips parting. “You did that for me?”

“Yes.” His gaze was steady. “And I also wrote your letter of recommendation.” Your breath hitched. “You what?”

“I had the time. And the reason.” His voice lowered just slightly. “You deserved it.”

You blinked hard, processing. “Shadow Milk,” you started, then stopped, then rubbed your face again. “I’m going to cry. That’s illegal.”

“It is not,” he said mildly. “But I understand the impulse.”

“You did all that while I was unconscious on your shoulder,” you said, mouth twitching at the sheer absurdity. “Unbelievable.”

“I did.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that level of kindness?” you asked, squinting at him.

“You could turn in your portfolio,” he replied, ever composed. “Preferably before the deadline.”

You laughed, soft and disbelieving. “You are something else.

” He tilted his head. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes,” you sighed, standing and stretching, “and a warning. You’re making it really hard not to fall in love with you all over again.” A beat of silence.

“So I’ve made it difficult.” You blinked, caught off guard by the quiet honesty in his tone. But before you could respond, he stood as well, smoothing his robes. “I’ll walk you to the dining halls,” he said. “Your friends are likely wondering if you’ve been abducted by ancient scrolls.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” you murmured, tucking the revised portfolio under your arm. Shadow Milk Cookie opened the door for you, his shoulder brushing yours lightly as you passed. And as you stepped into the quiet corridor, late sunlight spilling through the tall windows, you couldn’t help but smile. He had let you rest. And in the meantime, he had lifted your burdens not out of obligation, but out of care. Something about that felt more valuable than any letter.

The halls of the Scholar’s Wing were quieter now, draped in the hush of late afternoon and streaked with the golden fingers of light filtering through stained glass. You walked beside him, your revised portfolio tucked securely beneath your arm, your shoulder brushing his every few steps just enough to remind you he was still there.

You both said little. But the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt charged with something else, something that hummed between you like a secret shared only in glances and breath. The warmth of what he’d done for you still lingered.

Not just the revisions, not just the letter. But the way he had let you rest. The way he had carried your work when you could not. That quiet, tender devotion lingered in the air between you now like static, crackling beneath your skin. You wanted to reach out for his hand. You could feel the urge in your fingertips aching, light, almost foolish.

But your hand stayed curled at your side, brushing occasionally against the fabric of your robes. You didn’t reach for him. You couldn’t. Because the halls, though quiet, weren’t empty. And even if they had been, he wasn’t just anyone. He was the Sage of Truth. Or rather the Fount of Knowledge. His name carried weight. His presence turned heads.

To be seen touching him, reaching for him in a way that said he’s mine… It would only invite eyes, rumors, and worse. So you kept walking. Your fingers brushed his once as your steps aligned, a fleeting moment. It could’ve been an accident. Maybe it was. But he didn’t pull away. And when you glanced up at him, his expression remained composed but his gaze was softer than usual. Gentler.

“I’m glad you let me read it,” he said quietly, his voice like velvet in the quiet corridor. “Even if it meant I had to watch you sleep over your own words.”

You rolled your eyes, but it was half-hearted at best. “You could’ve just let me nap the day away.”

He glanced sideways, the faintest glimmer of something playful in his eyes. “I considered it. But then I remembered how particular your friends are about timely reunions.”

You snorted. “You make it sound like I have a curfew.”

“You do. It’s called Chai Latte Cookie.” That made you laugh soft, surprised, warm. The sound echoed gently against the tall stone walls. As you exited the Scholar’s Wing and the scent of parchment and candlelight gave way to the gentle aroma of roasted herbs and hearth-baked bread drifting from the dining hall, you hesitated again.

You wanted to hold his hand. But instead, you said, “Thanks. For today. Really.”

He looked at you, and there was something in his eyes then something unreadable, but not unkind. “You’re welcome,” he said. “For every day like it.”

And though your hand never touched his, though your fingers never found the courage, the air between you shimmered with the closeness of almost.

And for now, almost was enough. You lingered just before the threshold of the dining hall, the warm scent of supper curling out into the corridor, mixing with the golden hush of late afternoon. The light caught in his hair as he slowed to a stop beside you, casting him in a glow so unreal it made your heart skip. You looked up at him, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“Would you… join us?” you asked, voice soft, not wanting to press. “Or do you have other matters to attend to?”

There was a beat of silence, not the heavy kind, not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. The way he always paused before answering, as if even your simplest questions deserved consideration. His gaze, when it met yours, was calm. Unreadable to most but not to you. Not anymore. Well no that was a lie…but sometimes you could decipher him. There was warmth in it, threaded carefully behind his usual composure.

“I do have matters,” he said, his tone gentle, almost regretful. “But none so urgent they cannot wait… a little longer.” Your heart gave a small, unbidden lurch. He inclined his head slightly, as though that settled it. “If I’m invited, I will accompany you.”

You blinked. “Of course you’re invited,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your face despite your best efforts. “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

“Then lead the way.”

And just like that, you stepped into the dining hall together, the low murmur of conversation and the familiar clatter of trays washing over you. You didn’t reach for him. But you walked close enough that your sleeve brushed his once more, and this time, he didn’t just let it pass. He leaned ever so slightly toward you subtle, invisible to anyone else but it was enough. It was more than enough.

You both moved through the dining hall in tandem his presence quiet and commanding beside you, yours a quiet hum of nerves beneath your skin. You tried not to think too hard about how it looked, how close you walked, how your tray nearly clinked into his when you reached for the same serving spoon. He said nothing about it, only glanced at you briefly.

You spotted your friends before he did same table, same spot near the windows, light pooling over Chai Latte Cookie’s curls like a halo. She saw you instantly. And when she saw him walking beside you? Her entire face lit up like a lantern. You wanted to melt. But she bless her didn’t say a word. Not even a squeal. She simply adjusted in her seat, a graceful shift to make room for you both without comment.

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie raised his brows at the two trays. Earl Grey Cookie looked over the rim of his cup, subtle as ever. But neither of them spoke. Not a single teasing remark. Not a smirk. Not a knowing glance. Not even a nudge. Just calm, measured silence as you both approached the table. It was… disarming.

You sat down beside Chai Latte, Shadow Milk taking the open space on your other side. It was a squeeze, maybe more than necessary, but no one pointed it out. Not even Chai, though you felt her energy radiating beside you like a bubbling kettle, barely restrained joy threatening to whistle through her teeth. Still, she just smiled. “Didn’t expect you both to be back so soon,” she said lightly, sipping her tea. “We were just talking about the paper due for Comparative Theory.”

“We were talking about how none of us have started it,” Hazelnut corrected, already halfway through his roll.

Earl Grey Cookie gave a noncommittal hum. “Some of us started. Some of us intend to coast on instinct and charm.” Hazelnut biscotti flashed him a grin. “You say that like it’s not a viable strategy.” Shadow Milk said nothing, only reached for his utensils in a practiced motion perfectly composed, perfectly at ease. But his presence beside you felt like something settled, something new and deeply unspoken. And not once did your friends break their promise. You tried not to smile. Really, you did.

But when your elbow bumped gently into his by accident and he didn’t move away your grin betrayed you. Chai Latte caught it. And instead of teasing, she simply reached for the sugar jar, poured a delicate spoonful into her cup, and stirred slowly, dreamily. “I’m really glad,” she murmured under her breath. Not to him. Not to anyone in particular. Just to you. Only to you.

And you didn’t say it, but your smile told her everything she needed to know. You cleared your throat, desperate to say something, anything, before the tension could grow legs and start pacing around the table. The heat in your cheeks refused to die down, and you could feel the way Earl Grey’s eyes watched you without watching you, the way Chai Latte Cookie was frozen mid-sip, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie well, he was never subtle to begin with. So you did what you always did when the moment got too heavy. You leaned back, fork in hand, and said, “You know, I’ve heard a rumor.” Hazelnut’s ears perked. “Oh?”

“Apparently,” you said, spearing a grape like it had personally offended you, “they’re going to start serving pineapple ice cream in the dining halls.”

Chai Latte blinked. “Pineapple… ice cream?” You nodded solemnly, barely hiding your grin. “Mm-hmm. Creamy. Tart. Fruity. Forbidden.”

Earl Grey, deadpan as ever, stirred his tea. “That sounds like something they’d invent during a failed culinary alchemy lecture.”

Hazelnut biscotti lit up. “I’d try it.”

“Of course you would,” Chai muttered, elbowing him. “You once ate an entire cup of jelly made from fluorescent fungi.”

“You dared me,” Hazelnut Biscotti pointed out proudly. You grinned. “Anyway, when pineapple ice cream does arrive, I expect full honors and the ceremonial first scoop.”

“I’ll get you a gold spoon,” Chai Latte said with a giggle. “I’ll forge it myself,” Hazelnut biscotti added. “Please don’t,” Earl Grey said blandly. “The last time you tried to forge anything, it exploded.”

“I learned a lot from that explosion!”

“You learned how to set the bell tower on fire,” Chai said. You smiled into your cup, tension ebbing away with the laughter that followed. Across from you, the air felt light again familiar. Safe. Just you and your friends around a table like always. And beside you, you felt the smallest shift Shadow Milk Cookie’s elbow brushing yours, subtle, like a question he didn’t ask aloud. When you turned your head to look at him, he wasn’t smiling. But the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.

You hadn’t fixed the heaviness in his heart. Not entirely. But you’d made him laugh earlier. And maybe pineapple ice cream could do the rest. You shifted slightly in your seat, laughing at something Hazelnut muttered under his breath about pineapple sorcery and golden spoons. Your hand brushed against Shadow Milk Cookie’s beneath the table an accident at first.

Or maybe not. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. You could feel the quiet hum of his presence, the way he’d gone still beside you in that careful, composed way of his as if he knew the question lingering at your fingertips before you asked it. So you asked it, in your own way.

Your fingers, slow and deliberate, found his beneath the table. You tugged, just slightly, like a secret shared in silence. And he let you. His hand shifted, threading carefully through yours, palm warm, fingers long and elegant. It was subtle. Safe. Hidden by the edge of the table and the noise of your friends. No one would notice not if you both stayed still, not if you kept smiling, not if Chai kept raving about pineapple poetry for you and Hazelnut kept threatening to steal the head chef’s spice rack.

You dared a glance his way, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was still facing forward, the picture of calm shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable save for the smallest pull of a smile at the corner of his lips.

You might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him like this. If you hadn’t spent so long watching that expression shift between lines of truth and moments of quiet. Your fingers curled around his just a little tighter. It would be fine, you told yourself. Just this. Just now.

No one had to know. You leaned back just slightly in your chair, hand still curled into Shadow Milk Cookie’s beneath the table, the soft pressure of his palm grounding you in a way none of your friends could see.

The conversation had turned chaotic again Hazelnut claiming he could create the perfect pineapple-chili gelato, Chai Latte insisting the world wasn’t ready for that kind of culinary catastrophe, and Earl Grey, ever neutral, musing aloud about the chemistry of it all like a scientist caught between philosophers.

You smiled to yourself before squeezing his hand lightly against. He turned his head slightly, and though he didn’t look directly at you, you knew he was listening. You tilted your voice lower, casual, as though it were just a passing thought. “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”

There was a pause. A breath. “Ice cream?” he repeated, his tone soft, almost amused.

You nodded, trying not to grin. “Yes, ice cream. Surely even the Sage of Truth must have a weakness.”

Hazelnut biscotti caught wind of your question and perked up. “Wait…oh, now this I gotta hear. Don’t let him dodge it…”

“He will try,” Chai chimed in, resting her chin in her hand and turning toward him expectantly. “Come on, enlighten us, Fount of Frozen Preferences.”

Earl Grey stirred his tea calmly. “He’s going to say something obscure, like wildflower-and-moonstone swirl.”

“I think it’ll be something unexpected,” you murmured. Shadow Milk Cookie’s lips curled, just slightly. “You assume I partake often enough to have a favorite.”

“That’s not an answer,” you teased. Another quiet moment passed. “…Honey lavender.” Chai gasped. “That’s so specific.”

“And delicate,” Earl Grey added with a half-smile. “Fitting.”

“It’s floral,” you said quietly, squeezing his hand beneath the table. “Like… soft things you don’t expect from someone like you.”

He didn’t speak, not right away. But his gaze flickered to you, and his fingers tightened just slightly around yours. “It reminds me of something,” he said, voice so low it nearly drowned beneath the sound of laughter around you.

You tilted your head. “What’s that?” He hesitated. Then, with the smallest smile, he said, “Moments like this.” You blinked, heart skipping just a bit, the noise of the dining hall suddenly distant.

“Gods,” Hazelnut groaned, throwing his head back dramatically, “even his ice cream preferences are poetic.”

Chai Latte nudged you with her foot under the table. “You hear that?” she whispered, voice full of amusement. “Honey lavender. That’s romantic-coded.” You bit your lip, face warming.

Shadow Milk Cookie just returned to his tea, but the faintest blush traced his cheekbones. You didn’t say anything else, only let your thumb brush over his knuckles beneath the table as you leaned into the conversation once more.

Dinner eventually came to a close, the soft clatter of trays and the hum of conversation thinning as students filtered out into the amber-lit corridors of the Academy. You were still lingering, the last bite of dessert melting on your tongue as Chai Latte Cookie pushed her chair back with exaggerated effort.

“Ugh, I forgot we still have to finish that tactical report,” she groaned, stretching her arms above her head. “The one for the Labyrinth Tactician. The really boring one.”

Earl Grey Cookie stood more gracefully, already collecting their empty cups. “I wouldn’t call it boring. Just long. And unnecessarily philosophical.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie grinned as he wiped his hands on a napkin. “We’ve procrastinated so well. I’m proud of us.”

Chai snorted. “No pride, just panic. Come on, we’ll meet in my dorm again.” Hazelnut Biscotti blinked. “Wait, now?”

Chai leaned down, patting your shoulder. “Mhm. Sorry, we’d drag you into it, but you’re not in that class. Be thankful.”

Earl Grey gave you a subtle look. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

You nodded, trying not to feel the sudden shift in energy. “Yeah. Definitely.”

Hazelnut Biscotti smirked as he passed by. “Don’t have too much fun without us.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“Only a little.”

And with that, the three of them disappeared into the evening crowd, their voices fading into the echo of footsteps and magical lantern light. You turned back to your table, suddenly very aware of the quiet. It was just you and Shadow Milk Cookie now. He hadn’t moved, still seated beside you, hands folded gently over the table’s edge. The soft golden glow above cast subtle light across his face, outlining the elegant line of his jaw, the slight shimmer in his eyes, the calm composure he wore so naturally. It should’ve felt strange being left alone like this after the warmth and chaos of dinner but it didn’t. It felt… steady.

Like a chapter you hadn’t realized you’d been reading toward. He glanced at you, not speaking at first, and yet the silence between you felt full rather than empty. Something lived in it a kind of understanding that didn’t need words to bloom. You shifted slightly, tucking your hands into your lap to stop yourself from reaching for his again. “Guess it’s just us now.” He inclined his head. “So it seems.” A pause.

Then, quietly he asked “Would you like to take a walk?” Your heart fluttered in that quiet, fluttery way it did whenever he looked at you like that like you weren’t just another fleeting moment in his long life, but something he wanted to linger in. Even just a little longer.

“…Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that.” You exhaled slowly, watching as a breeze stirred the willow leaves above. The sky had deepened into a soft lavender now, streaked with the last gold threads of sunset. Everything felt quiet here softened, like the garden knew not to intrude. Your hand found his again. Fingers sliding between his with a certainty you hadn’t known you possessed.

“I don’t know when it started,” you said, voice quiet, almost reverent. “This feeling. Whatever this is.” You gave a shaky laugh, the kind you only ever let yourself have around him soft, uncertain, sincere. “But I think I’ve felt it longer than I realized. And I’m glad… that we’re in this together.”

You didn’t look at him. Not yet. The words still trembled in your throat. “I know it’s different for you. That time doesn’t weigh the same.”

You turned your hand, pressing your palm to his. “But even if I’m only a blink in your story… I’d rather be that than nothing at all.” And then maybe it was foolishness, or maybe it was something braver than that you pulled him in and kissed his cheek. Not for show. Not in jest. Just a quiet, devoted press of lips to skin.

He stilled. Not like he was caught off guard, but like the world itself had paused to listen. You drew back slowly, barely able to meet his eyes now that the moment had passed. You weren’t usually so bold. But tonight, something inside you had needed him to know. “That’s all I’ve got,” you whispered.

“A small, mortal life. But I want to live it… loving you.” His fingers curled around yours tight, trembling, anchored. And when he turned to face you, the look in his eyes wasn’t unreadable anymore.

It was everything. Shadow Milk Cookie turned toward you slowly, as if moved by some ancient tide. The light from the reflecting pool shimmered faintly across his features, the soft glow making him look almost otherworldly like something carved from the stars, long before your time, long before your world had even begun.

But in this moment, he looked only at you. And for once, his gaze wasn’t composed, wasn’t quiet, wasn’t distant. It was bare. He lifted his free hand the one not already holding yours and rested it gently against your cheek.

His thumb brushed just below your eye, reverent. “You are,” he said, voice soft, “the one thing I did not expect.” You blinked, heart rising painfully in your throat.

“I will see centuries pass,” he continued, his words unhurried. “I will watch stars burn out, kingdoms fall, and knowledge rewrite itself again and again. I have known truths that outlive their meaning… and still” he leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours, “I was unprepared for you.”

You swallowed hard, suddenly breathless. His voice dropped, barely a whisper now. “You speak of a small, mortal life, as if it is not the most precious thing I have ever been entrusted with.”

Your chest ached. And then, quieter still “If you will give it to me… I will spend eternity remembering that it was once mine to hold.” His hand trembled slightly where it rested against your skin, and it undid you completely.

You didn’t answer him with words. You just leaned in, forehead against his, eyes closed. Your fingers curled around his like a vow. The moment folded around the two of you like twilight itself was willing to stand still. If love was a language, then this, this was fluent.

And it spoke volumes. Your voice was barely a murmur, a breath carried on the quiet wind curling through the willow branches overhead. The glowing leaves stirred faintly in the hush between you. “In another life,” you said, your gaze fixed on your joined hands, “we’re both mortal.”

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He was listening in that way only he could fully, silently, like the world might shift if he missed a single word. “In that life,” you went on, “we get to worry about aging together. We get to argue about who forgot what in the market, or who left the books out in the rain. We grow slower, clumsier, softer. And when the end comes, it’s not this impossible divide it’s just time.”

You paused, swallowing against the weight of your own thoughts. “I think about that sometimes. Not because I wish I didn’t meet you here, but because…” You looked up at him, eyes earnest. “Because I want a future where we both have endings. The same kind. The kind we meet side by side.”

There was no bitterness in your voice. No regret. Just truth. A soft, grim truth. Shadow Milk Cookie turned his hand in yours, fingers intertwining more securely.

His gaze, golden and quiet, searched yours with that impossible depth that always left you a little breathless. “I have imagined every possibility,” he said at last, voice low and sure. “Every world where I never met you. Every future where I did, but you looked through me. Every fate where we missed each other by inches.”

He exhaled, like it ached to say.

“This one where you live, here, and choose me despite it all this is the one I treasure.” He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “If I must outlive you, then let it be with the memory of this. Of you, choosing to love me even knowing the cost.”

You closed your eyes, letting the moment settle like falling starlight. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. And sometimes, real was enough. Under the soft shimmer of the Academy Gardens, where the willows whispered like secrets and the reflecting pool mirrored the stars before the sky could catch up, you stood suspended in something not quite time, not quite magic, just presence.

Just him. Just you. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it didn’t matter. One moment, your breath hitched at the closeness, your heart pressed wild against your ribs and then his lips were on yours, and yours on his. Gentle at first. Barely there. Like neither of you could quite believe it was happening, like the truth of it needed to be tested one more time. A slow, searching thing. Then deeper. Certain. The kind of kiss that wasn’t trying to prove anything it simply was.

You were warm all over. Dizzy. His hand cradled the side of your face so carefully it nearly broke you. You leaned into it, into him, tasting every ounce of feeling he never said aloud but always, always carried.

Your hands curled in the fabric of his coat. His breath stuttered just a little when your nose brushed his. You both pulled back at the same time, foreheads still pressed together, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. You were both grinning. Foolishly. Breathlessly. Unapologetically. “I’m glad it’s you,” you whispered. His voice, quiet and impossibly tender, barely made it to your ears.

“And I, you.” The stars above seemed to pause for you. And for a long, perfect moment you let yourselves stay there.

Just two souls. Not a Sage. Not a student. Not immortal. Not mortal.

Just real.

The next week passed in a blur.

Not in chaos, not in stress but in quiet resolve. The kind born from people who had each other, who wanted things enough to work for them.

You met up with Chai Latte Cookie, Earl Grey Cookie, and Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie every afternoon after classes. You studied. Reviewed. Polished. Earl Grey, as promised, brought every rubric and cross-referenced every section. Chai Latte fueled you with stolen snacks and pep talks while doodling pineapples in the margins of your drafts. Hazelnut claimed he did “nothing” but was always the first to catch small errors no one else saw.

And Shadow Milk Cookie?

He never once hovered. But his presence lingered in every footnote you revised, every theory you reshaped. He’d said what he needed to say and you carried it with you.

You submitted your portfolio with your friends that following week, the deadline having been graciously extended due to “review committee backlog” a miracle Chai Latte swore she manifested with her sheer willpower alone.

And the exam the one you thought would crush you? You passed it. An 86. Not perfect. Not a miracle. But something more honest. Something that said; you made it. Because of effort. Because of care. Because someone, no someones believed you could.

And as you stepped out of the submission hall that day, arms full of papers and hearts full of relief, you looked at your friends. And you smiled. You had made it. And this this strange, beautiful moment was only the beginning.

You sat on the stone steps just outside the Hall of Records, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the courtyard. A soft breeze carried the scent of parchment and spring blossoms freshly graded exam scrolls in hand, your little group had gathered with bated breath and varying levels of smugness.

Chai Latte Cookie had been the first to announce hers. “Eighty-nine!” she beamed, practically glowing as she held her scroll high. “Okay, not bad, right? Not the highest, but I will absolutely take it.”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie was next, already smirking before he even unrolled his. “Ninety,” he declared, wiggling his eyebrows. “Suck it, margins.”

Chai snorted. “Oh, come on, one point?”

“A victory is a victory.”

Earl Grey Cookie took his time, of course. Unrolling his scroll like it was the most natural thing in the world. He read it once, blinked slowly, and said with all the humility of someone born excellent, “Ninety-four.”

You looked down at your own scroll. Eighty-six. Not bad. Not bad at all. But still lower than all three of them. You tried to keep your expression neutral as you rolled it back up, tucking the paper between your fingers before anyone asked. Too late. “What’d you get?” Chai asked, already leaning toward you with a hopeful smile.

You held up the scroll, just slightly. “Eighty-six.” There was a pause brief, almost imperceptible. Then Chai gasped like you’d told her something miraculous.

“That’s amazing!” Hazelnut Biscotti grinned. “Hey, look at you! Up top!”

You gave him a flat look. “I scored the lowest.”

“Yes,” Earl Grey agreed mildly, “but not by much.”

Chai nodded, reaching over to nudge your shoulder. “Seriously. This is the best you’ve done in this class, right?”

You shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“No guessing.” She leaned closer, her voice softer now. “You worked your butt off. And it paid off. We’re proud of you.”

Hazelnut biscotti offered his hand, palm up. “Come on. High five. You earned it.”

You smacked his hand lightly, despite yourself. Earl Grey folded his scroll neatly and glanced at you. “A score is just one measure of success,” he said. “You should be pleased with your progress.”

You looked between them, heart quietly swelling. Not one of them treated you like you’d failed. Not one comment that made you feel small. Only warmth. Only encouragement. “Thanks,” you murmured. Chai flung an arm around your shoulders, nearly knocking the scroll from your hands. “Now. Ice cream?”

“I heard pineapple ice cream might finally be on the menu,” Hazelnut added. You groaned. “If it’s not there after all this build-up, I’m never trusting the dining hall again.” Chai grinned. “Then let’s go verify.” And as the four of you walked back toward the dining halls, laughter echoing between the walls, you held your scroll a little tighter. They had all done better than you, that didn’t mean you didn’t belong. You did.

Sure enough, there it was nestled like a golden promise in the chilled basin of the dessert station: pineapple ice cream. You froze for a moment, barely believing it, then turned slowly to your friends with wide, reverent eyes. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. “You look like you just saw the divine.”

“I did,” you breathed, already reaching for a bowl. “This is it. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for my entire academic career.” Chai Latte Cookie laughed behind you. “It’s barely ten in the morning.”

“And yet,” you said solemnly, scooping a mountainous heap into your bowl, “this is justice.”

Earl Grey Cookie raised a brow. “I assume this means you’ll be skipping lunch?”

You didn’t even look up. “Lunch is dead to me.” Chai giggled. “You’re going to regret that by noon.”

“Let future me suffer. Present me is thriving.” And truly, you were. You beelined for a table, ice cream bowl balanced like a sacred artifact in your hands. It was more than anyone should reasonably eat before lunch.

Your eyes were absolutely bigger than your stomach but you didn’t care. You dug in with fervor, sighing at the first bite. Sweet. Tangy. A little too cold. Perfect.

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned over the table, watching you with a grin. “That’s a lot of pineapple ice cream.”

“Do you want some?” you asked through a mouthful, only half-offering the bowl.

“I value my tongue too much,” he said, waving you off even though he literally had his own bowl. What was the logic here. Earl Grey sat down with an amused shake of his head, teacup in hand as always. “You’re an enigma.”

“I contain multitudes,” you said, and took another dramatic bite. Chai reached over and plucked the spoon from your hand, stealing a taste. “Okay, okay, I admit it’s good. Still. Before lunch?”

“I’m making memories,” you mumbled. And as your friends laughed around you, as the sun filtered through the stained-glass windows in fractured gold, you smiled into your pineapple mountain. Today was a good day. A sweet one, even.

And it was only just getting started. You slumped forward in your seat, your stomach making quiet protests with every breath you dared to take.

The bowl sat in front of you now, nearly empty, just a smear of golden cream clinging to the edges, a small spoon half-buried like a fallen flag in a battlefield of your own making. “I’m fine,” you said, with the flat tone of someone very much not fine. “This was good for me.”

Chai Latte Cookie leaned her cheek into her palm, watching you with the fond exasperation of someone who had witnessed this exact scenario at least three times before. “You are visibly suffering.”

“This is the face of fulfillment,” you replied, deadpan. Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie snorted. “This is the face of dairy betrayal.”

“I don’t regret it,” you mumbled, both hands braced against the table like you might actually fall over. “My body just doesn’t understand joy when it happens all at once.”

Earl Grey Cookie sipped his tea, setting it down with a quiet clink. “You’ve declared victory far too early,” he said, glancing pointedly at the clock on the wall. “It’s not even lunch. There’s still a whole day left.”

“Then I’ve peaked,” you said, eyes half-lidded with the weight of your self-inflicted sugar crash. “It’s downhill from here.” Chai poked your arm gently. “You need a walk. Or a nap. Possibly both.”

“Don’t touch me. I’m fragile.”

“Do you want me to carry you?” Hazelnut offered, entirely too amused.

You groaned. “Emotionally? Yes. Physically? I don’t think either of us would survive that.” Still, despite the fullness in your stomach and the ache blooming behind your eyes, you smiled. Warm and soft, like the pineapple ice cream hadn’t just ruined your digestive system but healed something inside you.

“This,” you said, waving vaguely at your emptied bowl, “was absolutely good for me.” Chai rolled her eyes and reached over to flick a stray piece of napkin off your sleeve. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re enabling me.”

“And I always will.”

You leaned back in your chair with a groan, head tilting to the side to catch a glimpse of Shadow Milk Cookie across the hall, his presence unmistakable even from a distance. Quiet, composed until his eyes flicked toward yours and, just for a moment, softened. Maybe you were full. Maybe you were a little miserable.

But you were also content. Maybe that was good for you. You waved him over with the sluggish flap of someone far too full to be moving, let alone thinking clearly. Shadow Milk Cookie noticed immediately your posture, your face, the telltale discomfort practically written in your furrowed brow.

He approached with that same measured grace, hands clasped behind his back, though his expression had just the faintest hint of concern.

“What,” he began, eyes scanning your disheveled state, “have you done?”

You sighed dramatically, dragging your fingers through your hair like the weight of your decisions was far too great to bear. “What am I doing out here? What are you doing out here this early?”

Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, they’re suffering.” Chai Latte Cookie, never one to miss an opportunity, added cheerfully, “They ate an entire bowl of pineapple ice cream before noon.”

“Two bowls,” Earl Grey Cookie corrected, not even looking up from his tea. “And half of Hazelnut’s when he wasn’t looking.” Shadow Milk’s eyes lowered slowly to the empty bowl still clutched in your trembling grasp. “Before noon,” he repeated. “They said it was good for them,” Chai said, voice full of playful betrayal.

“Spiritually,” you mumbled. “You appear to be in the throes of an existential dessert crisis,” Shadow Milk said, tone perfectly neutral save for the very slight twitch of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. You narrowed your eyes at your so-called companions, utterly betrayed. “I just wanted to eat in peace.”

“You made no attempt at peace,” Earl Grey murmured, sipping serenely. Shadow Milk Cookie stepped closer to the table, folding his arms as he regarded you like a scholar confronted with a case study gone mildly rogue. “And yet, you’ve survived.”

“Barely,” you said, leaning your head against the table. “This is the end of me.”

Hazelnut Biscotti leaned in, stage-whispering to Shadow Milk, “They said that after breakfast too.” Chai Latte giggled.

You peeked up at Shadow Milk from beneath your arms, cheeks puffed in a pout. “Are you going to scold me, too?”

He regarded you for a long moment, his gaze slow and deliberate. “No,” he said softly. “I am simply here to observe the consequences of your freedom.”

You groaned. “That’s worse.” But even through the dramatic misery and the shame of being called out, his presence calmed something in you. Quiet and steady like a lighthouse in your pineapple-induced storm. And when his fingers brushed lightly against your shoulder, barely there, barely noticed by anyone else… You smiled, even if you didn’t lift your head. And just like that, it didn’t feel so bad being ratted out.

You let out a dramatic groan and buried your face in your arms again. “Okay,” you mumbled, voice muffled against the table. “I take it back. I take everything back. This was not good for me. I am suffering.”

A/N this was made partially as a thank you but also because I need everyone to be emotionally invested for future plot points <3/lh

Y'all if you ever end up in a lab make sure to wash everything with acetone and dry it...and if it still doesn't work it might not be your fault stay strong....

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