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vibelladonna · 7 days ago

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❛ 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓃𝓃𝒶 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝑔𝑒𝑜 𝓍 𝑔𝓃! 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: They say poison is dangerous—yes, a substance that is capable of causing illness or death by taste, by touch, it should never be taken under any circumstances.

You’re a belladonna—a beautiful, deadly kind of poison.

Geo has always been a mystery wrapped in thorns—bitter to the touch, beautiful in a way that promised pain. A slow-acting poison with no antidote, the kind you’re warned to avoid. But warnings are wasted when the danger is exactly what you crave… and your body keeps reaching for the burn. You're not soft, and neither is he.

One’s poison—potent, addicting. The other? perhaps immune?

The question is... Does your venom suit his craving?

Or will you be the sweetest thing to ever ruin him—beautifully, completely, irreversibly?

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: For my dearest mutuals, @mint0hhh artist of the [ header picture ] fun fact this was first geo art I saw on tumblr, and @lu-dao-writes who gave me the setting and plot—plus a few add-ons from anons who asked for angst (you know who you are).

This one's personal—a self-insert with a QPR dynamic between Aroace!Geo and Aroace!Reader (since I'm Ace, still figuring out if I'm Aro—read and let me know). Inspired by the recent announcement, I kept it gender-neutral with they/them pronouns. It's been a while since I wrote something just for me, and I missed that.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: geo x gn and self insert!, angst (like. hella angst. cried while writing it.), slow burn, in vino veritas, mutual pining, enemies and lovers (kinda), queerplatonic relationship, aroace rep, mentions of OCD, hyperawareness anxiety, emotional damage, (i really hurt my own damn feelings with this one.)

Halloween.

Though it is just one evening where the entire world resonates with your energy—for wildness, wickedness, just the edge of something fun. Crisp air un-soak sober, the wind carries the scent of burning leaves, cheap whiskey, and whatever questionable punch someone dumped into a cauldron. Shadows stretch long, neon lights flash in the distance, and for once—just once—you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

Now Halloween in college?

Oh, it’s so much more than just an excuse to party across the world. It’s a whole ass experience. While some people come for the horror—the haunted houses, wacky dares, and fake blood sprayed all over bathroom mirrors—some seek an excuse to just simply go out of their minds for the night with cheap booze and transient and rash decisions.

You have come here for all of it.

The parties, the madness, the whole campus feels like it vibrates with energy and begs the night to get you a little too drunk or too bold or to leave you in a state of being a little too gone to care about anything at all except the moment.

You can already see the Campus alive at night; jack-lanterns are flickering, far away, screaming from haunted houses on Greek row, music blasting so much that you feel it in your ribs.

Someone's already passing with devil horns and all smeared lipstick and laughter trailing behind them. The streets are packed, bodies pressed together, and slurred conversations and this night is only beginning.

You take a deep breath, imagining the hits, everything from alcohol, throbbing adrenaline under the skin, and absolute certainty that this night will only be a blur with poor decisions and even worse ideas.

And really? Wouldn't want it any other way.

“Why are you so obsessed with Halloween?” Crowe’s voice carried that usual mix of amusement and curiosity—light, teasing, but just sharp enough to let you know he actually wanted an answer.

The vice president of the student council—polished, poised, untouchable—sat beside you outside during lunch, mirroring your posture with his legs crossed like it was second nature.

You glanced at him briefly before shifting your gaze away, eyes trailing the glow of streetlights and the flickering jack-o’-lanterns scattered around campus then you took sip of your drink in front of you.

“Because Halloween is cool.”

Simple. Honest. Direct.

Exactly what anyone should expect from you.

But Crowe? Yeah, he wasn’t buying that for a damn second.

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head before dragging his gaze over your outfit—the kind of once-over that wasn’t just looking, however analyzing the living hell out of you. The knowing glint in his eyes said everything his words didn’t. “Right,” he mused, voice dripping with amusement. “Somehow, I’m inclined to think you’re a little more than just ‘excited-going.’”

Of course, he would say something like that.

Out of everyone, Crowe had probably the best read on you—not that you ever made it easy for him.

You’d met him about, what? You place your hand under your chin, like two years ago..? His dumbass had thrown himself between you and a group of bullies like some martyr, despite having the fighting skills of a wet paper bag. The whole thing had been pitiful to watch, honestly. You’d barely broken a sweat handling it yourself, and yet, there he was, trying to be your knight in shining armor.

You weren’t sure if it was bravery or sheer stupidity, but something about him stuck. Maybe it was how he kept trying to befriend you, even when you ignored him outright. Maybe it was because you saw the way he needed to be needed, even when you didn’t.

Either way, you let him stick around. Vice versa.

And now? You were here—hanging out with his actual friend group. A group he’d tried—and kinda almost failed to properly integrate you into.

You remember their names clearly.

Brittany and Jess were currently locked in some very passionate debate over future costumes. Deryl was talking Geo’s ear off—though, from the way Geo was sitting, arms crossed and eyes closed, perhaps asleep or ignoring him? It was safe to say he was not invested in the conversation.

And then there was you. Caught up in your own little world with Crowe, as usual. Even then, he knew. Knew that Halloween wasn’t just some holiday to you—it was a part of you, something that slipped through the cracks even when you didn’t mean for it to.

It was in the way you dressed. The way the flowing fabric of your outfit moved with you, catching the light just right, embroidered with intricate patterns that shimmered like something out of a dream. The layers you wore weren’t just for the cool air—they were intentional, a mix of comfort, just for you. Your platform boots added weight to your steps, grounding you, making each movement feel purposeful—like you didn’t just walk, you arrived.

Silver rings caught the dim light, a mix of old and new, each one with a story. Skulls, amethysts, gothic designs—they weren’t just accessories, they were pieces of you, woven through your hair, your fingers, the very air around you.

It wasn’t a costume. It wasn’t dress-up. It was you.

You exhaled, watching your breath curl into the autumn air before finally meeting Crowe’s gaze. A small, knowing sigh pulled at your lips.

“In other words… this is the only time I feel alive.”

Crowe hummed, a thoughtful look settling on his face. Oh no—you knew that look. He was about to suggest something. “You know,” he started, way too casually, “you should host a Halloween party. At my place.” …Oh.

Well, you definitely weren’t expecting that.

You thought he was gonna ask about your classes again—because who actually wants to talk about that unless they’re in class? Or maybe try, once again, to convince you to befriend his actual friends. But this? You blinked, tilting your head like you must’ve misheard him. “At your place?”

He nodded. Completely serious. Wow.

You scoffed, glancing away. “Okay, and how exactly am I supposed to host a party at your place? Am I just supposed to roll up, kick down your front door, and start handing out invitations?”

Crowe smirked, completely unfazed. “I’d give you permission, of course. You and me? We could throw the best damn Halloween party this school has ever seen.” He nudged your shoulder, “I got the council on board for this party,” he continued, undeterred.

“We all think it’s a solid idea.” His eyes narrowed slightly like he was trying to figure out how to sell it to you. Even flashed that smile—the one he usually aimed at the hopelessly charmed, the ones who practically melted under his attention.

You, however, were not impressed. Not even a little.

Your face scrunched up in pure disinterest as you leveled him with a deadpan stare, “This is such rich, high-class boy energy. ‘Oh, let me just hand you a key to my estate so you can throw a party, where it’s just a bunch of young adults making bad decisions—like we’re in some kind of horror movie.’”

You mimicked his smooth, confident tone with just enough exaggeration to make him roll his eyes. “What’s next, Crowe? You gonna have a killer show up to really set the mood?”

He lifted a brow, clearly about to laugh but held it back. “First of all,” he started, completely ignoring your impression, “I think it would be good. You have the vibe, you know how to make things fun, and—” He gestured vaguely at you.

“Look at you. You are Halloween. If anyone should throw the biggest party of the season, it’s you.” Then he added, “With my help, of course.”

You squinted at him, unimpressed, before casually checking your phone. “Uh-huh. And what’s in it for you, prince?”

Crowe shrugged, before flashing that infuriating smirk. “I enjoy a good party.”

“Right,” you said flatly, giving him a knowing look. “And definitely not because you get to sit back and watch the crazy shit unfold.”

Because if there was one thing you knew about Crowe, it was that he loved a little bit of drama. Sure, he had the prince act down to a science—student council vice president, responsible, mature—but deep down?

He lowkey lived for the drama. As long as it didn’t involve him directly, of course. Eventually, he’d have to step in and be the voice of reason, but you knew he liked to watch the mess build first.

“I mean,” he mused, smirking, “that is a bonus.”

You shook your head, though a grin threatened to break through. “All right, fine, golden boy. I’ll help plan your exclusive, high-class Halloween bash. But—” you held up a finger—“on one condition.”

Crowe tilted his head, amusement showing in his eyes. “And that is?”

“You,” you said, jabbing a finger at his chest like a judge delivering a sentence, “are going to be the main host. I’ll be your party-planning partner, but no way in hell am I letting you dump this whole thing on me while you kick back with some overpriced whiskey, watching drunk idiots puke in the potted plants.” You gestured vaguely. “Plus, this isn’t my house. You get to be responsible for the aftermath.”

Crowe’s smirk stretched wider, something downright sneaky about the glint in his eyes. “Oh, now that—” he exhaled a soft laugh, “that is actually a fantastic idea.” Then he suddenly added, “Yeah. By looking at you, I need the best of the best from you.”

You tilted your head, a little confused. “You want psychological horror at a uni party?" Then questioned, "You do realize half these people are gonna be too drunk to appreciate subtle fear, right? Or they might just straight-up shit themselves, actually…” you trailed off, looking somewhat away, suddenly picturing someone sobbing in a corner after a jumpscare gone wrong.

Crowe, ever the dramatist, flicked a fallen leaf off your shoulder to catch your attention again. “Exactly why we have to make it inescapable.” His voice dipped lower, conspiratorial. “Something interactive. Something that makes them question what’s real and what’s just part of the game.”

You become quiet, allowing a ton of ideas to unravel in your mind like a quick-burning flame. Crowe watched you, expectant, because he knew you weren’t about to pass up the opportunity for pure, chaotic entertainment.

You let out a soft, resigned sigh. "All right, host," you agreed, flashing a slow, devilish grin. "Let’s make this the best damn Halloween this campus has ever seen." Your voice dropped, laced with mischief. "Let’s make them suffer."

Crowe’s grin stretched wider, victorious.

"Now that’s the spirit."

Without missing a second, he quickly turned away from you to address the group. "All right, listen up!" he announced, voice cutting through the conversations. "We’ve decided—we’re throwing a Halloween party. But not just any party. It’s going to be the party of the year. No, of the decade."

Everyone’s conversations paused.

Heads turned toward him… and then toward you, who sat coolly with your head tilted, watching them carefully. You didn’t care how they reacted—but it was always so entertaining to see how easily people got excited or rattled when you got involved.

Predictably, Brittany—the self-proclaimed fashion gyaru queen—gasped dramatically. "Oh my god, finally! Someone who actually knows how to plan something fun. I’m all in! I’m planning everyone’s costumes!"

Next to her, Jess, who you thought of as Brittany’s bookworm assistant—even though you knew their relationship ran way deeper than that—clasped her hands together as if she’d just been handed the keys to her dream. "I can handle decorations if you need" She softly said.

Across the table, Deryl—still half-distracted, ranting about something to Geo—ears perked up immediately. "Sick! I’ll bring the food and drinks!" he shouted, ever the bundle of chaotic energy.

And then… there was Geo.

Without even lifting his head, flatly, "I’m not going."

The entire table fell silent, as the air itself paused.

You weren’t surprised. Not really. But still, damn, Geo had a way of shutting things down so fast it was almost impressive.

What did bother you—no, annoy you—was the fact that you could never really read him the way you did everyone else. It wasn’t just about his words or his expression; it was his entire existence.

Every single person in this group had something—some defining action that made them them.

Brittany had her dramatics, Jess had her quiet enthusiasm, Deryl was loud and chaotic, and Crowe? Well, Crowe is the group leader, he kinda born and lived to be the center of attention.

All these moments when you knew exactly what everyone was feeling just by those simple actions. All except for Geo…

Geo was an fucking enigma.

No ticks, no habits that stood out, no tells—nothing. You had spent enough time observing people to know that everyone had had something. Some little unconscious action that gave them away. A twitch of the fingers, a glance to the side, a shift in posture.

He gave nothing.

Like ‘go-girl-gives-us-nothing’ type way. It was like he had perfected the art of being unreadable, and you hated that. Not because you wanted to know his secrets, but because it made him the only person in the damn circle you couldn’t get a solid read on.

And that was just frustrating.

Crowe, of course, was the first to break the silence, eyes gleaming with mischief and a hint of desperation. “Aww, come on. Live a little. It won’t kill you.”

Geo barely glanced up from whatever deep void of thought he was drowning in, his expression as flat as ever. “Debatable.”

Crowe gasped, clutching his chest like he’d just been personally betrayed. “You wound me.”

Deryl snorted. “Dude, we all know you never get tired of that kind of rejection.”

"True, but that doesn’t mean I like it," Crowe shot back, before turning to you. And there it was—that look. That smug, expectant smirk like he already decided you’d be the one to fix this for him.

“What do you think, fearless party planner?” he mused, tilting his head. "Think we can convince our dear, beloved Geo to make an appearance?"

You barely spared Crowe a glance before shifting your gaze to Geo, who was already looking at you. Same unreadable, sharp stare.

God, you hated that.

You folded your arms. “Convince him for what?” you deadpanned before flicking your gaze back to Crowe. “He’s a grown-ass man. If he doesn’t wanna come, he doesn’t have to.” Then, with a casual shrug, you added, “Like he just said—he’s not going. Guessing he has better things to do.”

Crowe raised a brow. “Like what?”

Geo, without hesitation: “Staying home.”

You scoffed. "Wow. Never mind. That’s not ‘better things.’ That’s just you being anti-social."

"Exactly."

Crowe, ever the instigator, leaned in with a wicked smirk. “C’mon, Geo. Can’t let your favorite person down.”

Geo didn’t even blink. “You’ll be fine.”

Crowe clicked his tongue. “I meant them.”

Geo did blink then, his head tilting slightly toward you. His expression, as always, unreadable.

You sighed dramatically, rubbing your temple. "Oh, don’t look at me. I’m not in the business of dragging unwilling hermits to social gatherings." Then, with a knowing smirk, you added, “Besides, I figured you’d wanna avoid watching people flirt all night. You do hate that.”

Geo exhaled through his nose. “Hate’s a strong word.”

“You called Deryl insufferable for existing in the same room as a couple making out.”

Deryl, meanwhile, was still processing. He gestured vaguely between you and Geo. “Hold on—I’m insufferable now?”

“You are insufferable,” Geo replied then looked back at you, “And?”

“And nothing,” you sighed, pushing yourself to your feet and striding toward Geo without hesitation. You stood up in front of him, arms crossed, meeting his gaze head-on. No flinching. No backing down.

Crowe stiffened. “Uh, wait a sec—”

Deryl raised a hand, almost like he was trying to stop a collision in real-time. “Hold on, they’re really not the type to—” He cut himself off, realizing too late that nothing was going to stop you once you were on a roll.

“I just think it’s funny that you’d rather sit in your room and rot than tolerate a few hours of other people’s bad decisions.” You leaned in slightly, tone casual but laced with challenge. “Not saying I disagree—hell, I’d do the same—but your friends are trying to plan something for once. It’s not like this happens every day. When was the last time you had fun?”

The question hung in the air.

Geo didn’t answer right away. He just stared at you, expression flat, eyes sharp, like he was analyzing the situation—breaking it down piece by piece, deciding whether this was even worth his time.

You weren’t about to let him off the hook that easily. Shifting your weight to one side, arms still crossed, you waited.

The silence stretched. The tension was almost comical.

Crowe let out a low whistle. “Damn. He’s actually engaging.”

Deryl nudged him. “And not in his usual ‘leave me alone before I ruin your entire existence’ way. That’s new.”

Despite being the center of attention, Geo didn’t seem fazed. He just kept his gaze locked onto you—steady, unreadable. But something was missing, something that made everyone else exchange glances.

The usual disinterest wasn’t there. If anything…

He actually looked like he was considering what you’d said. Almost.

Because this conversation had already drained his will to live, he dragged a hand down his face. “Define your version of ‘fun’.”

You rolled your eyes. “Geo.” You shot him a pointed look. “See, that’s the problem. You shouldn’t have to think that hard. Fun is just… doing things. No overanalyzing. No brooding. Just existing and actually enjoying something. Not everything has to be a damn chess game. Trust me, I’d know.”

He shrugged, as effortlessly indifferent as ever. “I have fun.”

“Oh yeah?” You tilted your head, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Name one thing you’ve done in the past month that qualifies as fun.”

Silence. Geo just looked at you.

Brittney, who had been watching from the sidelines, leaned in with growing amusement. “Ooh, this is good. Two rounds in a row. That’s a new record.”

Crowe grinned. “Yeah, ‘cause he’s thinking way too hard about it.”

You pressed on, relentless. “Exactly. Fun isn’t something you have to dig through your mental archives for. It’s not a research paper. It just happens. But no, not you. You have to break it down like it’s some kind of military operation.”

Geo finally broke eye contact, glancing at his friends—who were all watching with barely contained smirks. He exhaled sharply, somewhere between a sigh and the world’s most unamused laugh.

“I don’t overanalyze everything,” he muttered.

Crowe snorted. “Oh, you so do.”

Deryl crossed his arms. “And yet, instead of shutting this down, you’re still letting them roast you.”

Everyone went quiet, exchanging looks.

Geo never entertained conversations like this. He shut people down fast—disinterest, sarcasm, a flat-out refusal to engage. And yet, here he was. Still sitting there.

Still responding to you.

Crowe lit up like he’d just uncovered some grand secret. “Damn. You’re like the Geo Whisperer.”

You shot him a glare. “Oh, shut up.” Though, admittedly, you were still a little annoyed. Someone had to put the smug bastard in his place. Why did everyone just let him get away with being so rude?

Geo, predictably, ignored the remark entirely. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, meeting your gaze once more. “So what? You expect me to go to this party just to prove I know how to have fun?” He clicked his tongue, glancing away for a brief moment before looking back at you. “Sounds exhausting.”

You threw your hands up. “You are exhausting!”

Deryl barked out a laugh, slinging an arm around Crowe. “I love this. We should do this more often.”

Crowe nodded sagely. “This feels like an intervention.”

Geo remained entirely unbothered, stretching out lazily. “I don’t need an intervention.”

“You do if your idea of fun is staring,” you shot back.

Geo raised a brow. “It’s peaceful.”

“I don’t have time for this.” You reached for your bag, which Crowe handed over without a word, already anticipating your next move. “I’m gonna be late for class.”

But before leaving, you turned back, stepping closer until you were face-to-face with Geo. “Are you coming or not?”

Geo tapped his fingers idly against his knee, pretending to give it deep thought. “…To that sorry excuse of a Halloween party, or the lame-ass Art gen ed you’re being forced to take?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know exactly which one I’m talking about. Don’t start with me.”

“…No,” he said flatly, without hesitation.

Deryl let out a low snort. “Damn. Shot down eventually.”

You huffed. “Look, all I’m saying is you should show up so people don’t turn you into some urban legend—the guy who never left his cave.” Then, with a smirk, you added, “But hey, if you wanna keep the mystery alive, be my guest. I’m sure your fans would love it. Hell, I can see them behind you right now.”

Geo frowned before glancing back—and sure enough, there they were. The usual group that trailed after him like lost puppies, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Subaru!” one called out.

“Please, we have better gifts this time!” another pleaded.

“Who’s that talking to him? They need to back off,” someone whispered, loud enough to be heard.

You sighed, utterly done. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. People here are so clouded.” The way they obsessed over Geo, over the idea of him—like he was some puzzle they could solve or a prize they could win.

It was simply exhausting. Turning, you walked up to Crowe and gave him a simple pat on his head. "I’m off, see you later everyone." He let out a small gasp, briefly catching your hand in his before releasing it, eyes wide with exaggerated surprise.

Then, just as quickly, he beamed. “Hhm, okay.”

Without another word, you turned and walked away, shaking off the lingering irritation as you headed to class.

He knew that look on your face—annoyance, exasperation, but not the kind people had when they wanted something from him. You weren’t like the others, not circling him like vultures, not clouded by whatever ridiculous infatuation everyone else seemed to have.

That’s what made it odd.

You talked to him, called him out, and never once looked at him with expectation. No attempt to impress, no ulterior motive. Just blunt honesty, the same way he was with everyone else.

And yet, unlike most, you weren’t scared off by it.

Geo stayed quiet, standing up as well. “I’m heading to class too.” He exhaled sharply, covering his mouth with his hand—but not fast enough to hide the small, amused scoff that slipped out.

Crowe gasped dramatically. “Oh my God. Was that a laugh?”

Deryl shook his head, grinning. “Nah. Impossible. Geo doesn’t laugh.”

“Please shut up,” Geo muttered, his expression quickly settling back into its usual blank indifference. But even as he turned away, his gaze flickered—just for a second—focused somewhere else.

Somewhere else on campus, a quiet spot near the hall pillar, half-hidden in its shadow, Sol watched as you walked away—your irritation still evident in the way your shoulders tensed and the way you didn’t bother looking back.

But instead of heading straight to class, you took your usual detour.

Sol knew your routine well enough by now. Instead of the direct path, you veered toward the student center, the familiar rhythm of your movements unchanging. The market upstairs—probably grabbing a snack before heading off to whatever class had you rushing. You always did this. Always made time for small comforts, even when you were annoyed.

He exhaled softly, his red-orange eyes following you even after you disappeared into the building.

You didn’t see him. Maybe you never did.

The way the autumn wind caught in your hair, tugging at it like it wanted to keep you there. The way the faint glint of silver jewelry flickered under the weak sunlight. The way you moved, deliberate yet unhurried, like the world wasn’t something to be conquered but something to be entertained by.

Sol had never cared much for people’s routines. Never cared to notice them.

But yours?

Yours was different. And that was the problem.

Sol shifted his weight against the pillar, the cool stone grounding him as he watched from a distance, his expression unreadable. The crisp autumn air did little to cool the heat crawling up his spine as his thoughts replayed that small moment: you patting Crowe’s head, and Crowe, as always, taking the opportunity to pull you closer with that smug, almost playful smile.

The effortless way he grabbed your hand had Sol’s jaw tightening, a flicker of irritation sparking deep inside him. It wasn’t anything obvious—Crowe did that with everyone, after all.

But still, Sol couldn’t shake it.

He wasn’t sure why he was even standing here, loitering like some background character in a movie where he didn’t belong. You barely knew each other—a handful of passing conversations, one awkward art class where you’d been paired together because his only friend had stopped showing up—that was it.

And yet...

That day in art class, when he first met you… something had changed.

You were late, nearly crashing into the tables as you hurried in, breathless but laughing, as if your own disarray amused you. You spotted the empty seat beside him, and without hesitation, asked to be his partner.

No hesitation. No judgment. Just... acceptance.

Sol had agreed with a nonchalant shrug, but at that moment, something unfamiliar had curled inside him.

Again, you were different. Not like the usual people he tolerated.

You weren’t just there for the grade, despite not being an art major—you genuinely cared about the work. The way you got lost in it, when something caught your eye, and you couldn’t stop talking about it—no matter how trivial it might’ve seemed to others. You’d explain your thoughts, your logic, about every detail, about how each stroke of the pencil had a purpose, how every line and shade carried intention.

Sol barely spoke, but he didn’t need to. He watched. He watched the way your hands moved with purpose, the way you’d trace the contours of your sketchbook with such precision, smudging graphite into shadows as if it came naturally to you. The way you furrowed your brow in concentration, completely lost in the work, and how, for just a moment, the world seemed to fade away for you. It was mesmerizing, the way you brought an image to life was like it was second nature.

It was captivating. You were… captivating. Stalker

Sol exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake off whatever this was. But somehow, that one class, that single moment, had spiraled into something far more complicated.

Now, he always noticed you before anyone else did. In short, the way your voice carried a subtle lilt, full of amusement when you spoke about the things that made you light up. Again, the way your hands moved as you explained your thoughts, and the fluid gestures made everything you said seem deliberate and meaningful. The way you laughed when you thought no one was watching—soft, hidden under your hand, as though you were trying to keep it contained, but it slipped out anyway.

But then, there was the part Sol hated—the part he couldn’t escape.

You with Crowe and his friends. It was always the same. You were normally alone, but Crowe—fucking Crowe—always seemed to be the one to invite you first. Sol would watch from a distance, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight, as Crowe casually touched you—your hands, your arm, always in that effortless, easy way that made it seem like it meant nothing.

Like you were just another part of his world. Sol hated it. Not that he had any right to. Because, in the end, he barely knew you.

Yet, here he was, wanting—no, needing—you to see him.

“Sol!” No response.

You squinted, tilting your head as you watched him from across the table. You both were supposed to be working on your art gen ed project, but there he was—sitting next to you, physically present, yet his mind was miles away.

You could practically see the wheels turning in his head, but they weren’t turning toward the project. No, they were off somewhere in his personal, brooding universe.

“Sol!” you called again, dragging out his name, waving a hand in front of his face like you were trying to snap a possessed doll out of its trance.

Still nothing. Your eyes narrowed. Oh, hell no.

You grabbed the nearest object—an innocent pencil—and flicked the back of it, hitting his forehead with just enough force to yank him out of whatever deep, spiraling thought he’d fallen into. Sol blinked, his red-orange eyes sharpening, the look of someone just rudely pulled back to reality. He stared at you, mildly startled, brows furrowed in confusion.

You crossed your arms. “I’ve been calling your name for like five minutes now—are you okay or something?”

He blinked again, seemingly processing. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I am not exaggerating,” you shot back. “I called your name like, at least four times. That’s practically an hour in ‘I’m-talking-to-a-wall’ time.”

Sol rubbed the spot where the pencil hit him, exhaling through his nose as he tried to reset his brain. Damn it. He’d gotten stuck in his thoughts again—thoughts about you, no less. Not on purpose, of course. It just… happened.

Against his will. Completely unfair.

Meanwhile, you were already talking again, hands gesturing as you rambled. “Listen, I need your full, undivided attention because I have very important news.” You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice like you were about to drop some life-altering information.

Sol, still mildly annoyed but intrigued despite himself, gave you a blank stare. “…What.”

You grinned. “I’m now a party planner with one of my closest friends. He’s the host of this upcoming Halloween party, wanted my insight since, you know…”

Sol’s face remained impressively neutral. “...Okay?”

You gasped, like he had just insulted your entire existence. “Okay?! That’s all you have to say?! Do you even know what this means?”

“It means I should probably prepare for a disaster,” he deadpanned.

“Excuse you,” you huffed. “This is going to be legendary. The Halloween party of the century.” You sighed, “Spooky. Chaotic. Unforgettable. I will be designing an experience that will haunt everyone for therest of their lives.”

Sol raised an eyebrow. “...So, a disaster.”

You crossed your arms, “Good parties always lead to disaster that’s how you have fun—oh I’m sorry, you never got invited to parties, Mr. Lonely. Says the one-that-only-has-one fucking-friend in their life.” You added, playfully teasing.No personally, I meant that.

Sol rolled his eyes and sighed, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated groan. “Okay and? Tell me how did this ‘friend’ of yours manage to rope you into this mess, exactly?”

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Like I said, he needed my Halloween expertise, you know since Halloween is like my whole vibe.” You gestured vaguely at yourself like it was obvious.

Sol gave you a once-over, his eyes lingering a bit longer than necessary. Then he shook his head with that typical, bemused look. “Yeah, no kidding. You dress like a witch all year round, it only makes sense.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Excuse you. And what about you, Mr. Basement Dweller? You’re practically one mood away from turning into a permanent shadow, always sitting in the back of the class as per usual.” You mentioned that you and he are currently sitting at the back of the class.

His lips twitched in an almost smile, but he shot you a deadpan glare. “Basement dweller? That’s your go-to insult?”

“Oh, am I wrong?” you teased, leaning back with a smirk.

Sol let out another theatrical sigh, shaking his head like he was somehow disappointed in you. “And here I thought we were building a solid foundation of mutual respect.”

“You thought wrong,” you said smoothly, resting your chin on your hand, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “But seriously, you should come to the party. I’ll even let you sulk in the darkest corner like the brooding emo you are.”

He gave you a look that could only be described as deadpan, followed by a dismissive click of his tongue. “I’ll think about it.”

You grinned, leaning forward just a bit. “That’s the closest thing to a ‘yes’ I’m ever gonna get from you, huh?”

Sol muttered something under his breath, clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t intrigued, but the faintest ghost of a smirk betrayed him.

Yeah, he was definitely thinking about it.

Later, the soft hum of students murmuring over their own art projects faded into the background as your attention snapped back to your half-finished piece. The assignment was straightforward—create something abstract that conveyed either movement or emotion. Simple enough.

Sol, however, was lost in his own world. Beside you, his sleeves pushed up, charcoal smudges marking his fingers, working with that same detached intensity that had defined your first partnered project.

The only sounds between you were the occasional scratch of his pencil against paper. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was an odd, unspoken feeling hanging in the air. A quiet tension that you couldn’t quite place.

He paused for a moment, fingers hovering in mid-air, and despite yourself, you glanced up. He wasn’t focused on the work anymore.

“…How much to get in?”

You blinked, taking a few seconds to process the question before finally looking up, caught off guard. “For what?”

Sol didn’t look up, his hand moving slowly and deliberately over the paper as he continued sketching. "For the Halloween party." His tone was neutral, like it didn’t really matter, but the way his fingers tightened around the pencil suggested otherwise.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you actually interested in going?”

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing just a fraction before he finally glanced at you. "Just asking," he muttered, quickly diverting his gaze back to the paper.

Then amusement flickering across your face. “You don’t seem like the type to care about university parties.”

“I don’t,” he admitted, finally setting his pencil down and meeting your gaze fully. “But you’re helping plan it…”

That stopped you in your tracks. Someone was actually interested in your party, unlike a certain someone. The way Sol said it so plainly, without teasing or deflecting, was strange—like it was simply a fact. No hidden meaning.

Sol looked away for a second, rubbing at the back of his neck, fingers smudging charcoal on his skin. You noticed the faint bruises there, ones that lingered around his neck and lower waist, the kind that showed when his shirt lifted just slightly, only for him to quickly pull it back down.

You never questioned it, though.

You had a feeling those marks weren’t from accidents, they were from bullies of course. You’d seen him at the infirmary too many times to think otherwise. The school always offered help and therapy, but it felt like nothing ever came of it. University Olympus didn’t really care about anyone who wasn’t rich or connected.

"You look like someone who actually knows horror," he muttered, still not meeting your eyes. "Not just cheap jump scares and plastic skeletons." His fingers twitched slightly before dropping back to the table. "If you're the one making it, then it might actually be... worth going."

A small sigh escaped your lips before you could stop it—nothing mocking, just amused, warm, maybe even a little surprised.

"So that’s why you’re asking."

Sol stiffened, and for the first time since you'd met him, you noticed the flush of red creeping up his neck, dusting his cheeks. He huffed, quickly turning back to his drawing like it would shield him from your reaction.

"Forget it."

But you didn’t. You could never. "No, no. I’ll make sure to send you a free ticket." You waved your hand nonchalantly before pulling out your phone.

Sol didn’t say anything back, but you caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He definitely appreciated it, especially when it came from you.

As the art class ended, the usual shuffle of students packing up their supplies filled the room. Others rushed out the door to either get home or catch the last few minutes of the dining hall's late hours.

The sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and muted conversations about upcoming deadlines echoed in the background. The sky outside had begun its slow descent into dusk, streaks of orange and purple bleeding into the horizon. You and Sol stepped out of the art building, the cool autumn air settling against your skin.

You pulled out your phone to check the time, and a thought crossed your mind. "Sol," you called.

He quickly turned his head, and you noticed how he always did that whenever you called his name. "Yes?"

"I won’t be able to walk with you to class, or from it, for the next few days," you mentioned, feeling a slight pang of regret. "This party planning's eating up my time. I’ll finish my part of the project later this week so I won’t forget."

Sol didn’t respond right away, shoving his hands into his pants pockets as he walked beside you, the gravel crunching underfoot. After a beat, he said, “I can finish it for you.”

You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

He shrugged, his gaze fixed ahead as though the offer wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. “Your part. I can finish it for you.”

That threw you off. Again. You weren't the type to leave someone hanging like that, especially not on a project that was worth a significant chunk of your grade. While you trusted your own skills, handing it off to someone else—even someone as skilled as Sol—felt... odd.

“I don’t know…” You frowned slightly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “It’s not that I don’t think you can do it, but I usually handle my own work. I don’t like slacking off, even if it’s something small.”

Sol exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m not saying you’re slacking. You already did most of it.” He glanced at you then, his eyes sharper than before. “I just get it.”

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly as you tried to process his words. “Get what?”

Sol's response was almost automatic. "You," he said simply, his tone flat, like it was an obvious thing. Then, just as quickly, a faint flush of red crept up his neck, and he looked away, clearly a little caught off guard.

“I-I meant, your style." You noticed the shift in his demeanor, the way he hesitated before continuing. “The way you layer shadows, the details you focus on—it’s something I can learn from. Won’t take me more than an hour, maybe a day at most.”

His voice, though still steady, held a quiet certainty that you couldn’t quite place. There was no arrogance this time, no challenge. It wasn’t about proving he could do it better. It was just… different.

He wanted to learn from you, wanted to understand your approach.

And that, for some reason, felt strange.

You studied him for a moment, the words lingering between you like a question. There was an odd intimacy in the idea of someone else taking over your work—something about it felt too personal, too close. The thought of it made your stomach twist in a way you couldn’t fully explain.

But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just the offer. You had sensed something else before—how his gaze always seemed to follow you, how his attention lingered longer than it should. There was an intensity to it, something beneath the surface that you couldn’t ignore. You always kept it at the back of your mind, locked away and left unspoken, but it was there.

You shook it off, focusing back on his offer, trying to suppress that tight feeling in your chest. “Nah, I can complete it,” you said, brushing off the unease as best as you could.

Sol shrugged nonchalantly, though his gaze flicked back to you, a quiet understanding settling between you. “Suit yourself.”

You both started walking, the cool air tugging at the strands of your hair, and the quiet hum of the campus seemed to pulse with life in the stillness between you. As you walked, Sol’s pace slowed, and his gaze flickered briefly to the ground, a subtle shift that made you catch it—something in him had changed. You barely noticed, but you did.

“Are you heading home?” he asked, his voice casual, but there was something sharp beneath it, like a blade wrapped in velvet.

You shook your head, feeling that familiar prickling unease at the back of your neck. “No. Crowe still needs help with the party planning. There’s a ton to do, and he’s counting on me.”

Sol’s expression faltered for a split second. His lips tightened, his jaw clenching slightly as if something inside him had shifted. “So this friend of yours is Crowe, huh?” he asked, his voice more strained than you expected. His eyes narrowed just enough for you to catch it, but not enough to make it obvious.

You noticed the tension in his voice, and it made the air between you feel thicker. “Yeah… He’s my friend. I’m helping him out. The party’s important to him, so I promised I’d help,” you said, trying to keep things light, but the back of your mind nagged at you. There was something in his tone, something that hinted at more than just casual curiosity.

For a moment, Sol didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on the ground, and you could almost see the thoughts churning behind his eyes. The silence between you stretched longer than it should have, until Sol finally muttered, quieter now, as if he was sorting through his thoughts.

“Right,” he said, his voice almost hesitant.

His shoulders slumped slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller, more distant. “I’ll… I’ll take you home afterward, then.”

You blinked, surprised by the offer. “Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’ll figure it out. Also, I was thinking… I might send you a ticket or two for the party, in case you’ve got someone to bring along—maybe a date?” You teased lightly, the smile on your lips almost automatic, but the flutter in your chest lingered, a feeling you couldn’t shake.

For a moment, Sol’s gaze shifted to you, his brow furrowing, lips pressing into a tight line. In that fleeting second, you caught a flash of irritation before he masked it again. “I’ll go. But a date is out of the question for someone like me. Hyugo will come with me,” he said, his tone calm, clipped.

He glanced at you then, his gaze softer, almost uncertain, and the shift didn’t go unnoticed. It was like he was wrestling with something internally, and it made you uneasy, though you couldn't quite place why.

The silence stretched between you as you both continued walking, the hum of campus fading into the background. Sol seemed lost in thought, distant, until he spoke again, his voice breaking the quiet like a sudden ripple in calm water.

“Hey,” Sol called out, his tone casual, but now there was something unsteady in it. You stopped, turning back to face him, an eyebrow raised in curiosity at the shift in his voice.

“Do you, uh, like him?”

Sol asked, his words almost hesitant, like they slipped out before he could stop them. His gaze was steady, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a slight tension that made your pulse quicken just a little. It was almost as if he was fishing for something, but you couldn't quite place what.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze—the sounds of the campus, the distant chatter of students, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. The world fell away as you processed his question, a weight settling in the pit of your stomach. “What now?" you asked, trying to keep your voice level as low as possible. "Who are you referring to?"

Sol shifted, his eyes not quite meeting yours as he said, "Your friend, Crowe..." His voice dropped lower, the words hanging between you like an unanswered question. The air around you seemed to hum with an unspoken tension, and you could feel it in your chest—a tightening you couldn’t ignore.

You side-eyed him, trying to process what was happening, and why his question seemed to carry more weight than it should. "Why are you asking such a question?" you asked, crossing your arms defensively, trying to push back against the uncomfortable feeling creeping in.

Sol hesitated for a beat, his fingers curling into fists before he forced himself to relax them. "Just cause," he muttered, his eyes avoiding yours just a moment too long. Then, he looked at you again, his gaze almost sad now, like he was waiting for something.

"What do you think of him?"

You blinked, feeling an unfamiliar heat rush to your skin. "I mean... shit, he's my friend," you said slowly, trying to make sense of why he was asking this, why it felt so strange.

Sol's jaw tightened visibly, but he quickly masked it with a shrug, his usual cool demeanor slipping back into place. "Do you like him or not?” His voice held an edge like he was pushing for an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

You didn’t answer immediately, unsure of how to even begin.

The question felt... invasive, almost too personal like he was probing into something that wasn’t his business. Instead, you looked away, crossing your arms as if that could shield you from whatever he was looking for.

"Okay," you said, almost dismissively.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as the words hung between you. “Since you want my answer so badly…” You paused, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t really feel... anything for Crowe. He’s just a close friend, that’s all I’ll say.”

It felt strange to say it out loud, but the truth was simple—your relationships with people weren’t complicated in the way most people seemed to be. You didn’t get the rush of excitement, the butterflies, the desire to be close to someone in that way.

That wasn’t something you’d ever felt.

Crowe was just someone you gave pity to be friends with, like now, someone who needed help with the party planning. Nothing more. And it wasn’t like you didn’t appreciate him as a friend—he’s trusting and reliable—but your feelings didn’t go beyond that.

There was a flicker in Sol’s eyes as he processed your words, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he just gave you a small nod, as if satisfied with your answer. The silence between you stretched, and you could feel his gaze lingering on you, but you didn’t look back at him.

And then, almost as if on cue, Sol spoke again, his voice a little too casual, like he was trying to mask whatever it was he was really thinking.

“So… do you like anyone else, then?”

What the fuck. You paused, taken aback. Another question seemed so out of left field. You weren’t someone who spent time thinking about relationships or feelings, and honestly, the thought hadn’t crossed your mind in ages. You shrugged nonchalantly, the weight of his question still lingering like an itch you couldn’t scratch. “I don’t know,” you said, the answer rolling off your tongue with little care.

"It’s not something I really think about, honestly."

It wasn’t a lie. You’d never really put much thought into who you were supposed to like, who you were supposed to want, or any of that typical nonsense people obsessed over. You had a type, theoretically, sure. You knew what attributes you were ‘supposed’ to like. But, you never actually fell for someone with those qualities. Maybe it was just the concept of attraction that you understood, but the actual feeling?

That was still foreign to you.

Oh my god, thinking about it made your brain spiral. What did attract you? You could only pinpoint superficial stuff, like how someone looked, or how clean and put-together they were. That sounded so shallow, but it was the damn truth.

You liked people you got along with. That was it. That was all.

The idea of attraction—how people acted on it—wasn’t just distant. It hurt to think about. The obsessive thoughts started crawling into your brain, uninvited, picking apart every little thing. The more you thought, the more it didn’t make sense. The more your head started to pound, the more everything became a blur of unrealistic expectations that didn’t fit you, didn’t interest you. It had never made sense, not the way it seemed to for everyone else.

You clenched your jaw, trying to push the thoughts away, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands. Ugh, this was too much. Just thinking about it made your head hurt too much. So much unwanted noise.

You frowned deeply, shaking off the thoughts, but the irritation still lingered.

For Sol to be thinking about you… liking someone… well, that was a different story entirely.

The more you dwelled on it, the more uncomfortable it felt.

Like he was pressing you into a space that wasn’t yours to occupy. Why was he asking you these questions? What did it matter to him who you liked or didn’t like? The thoughts didn’t stop, though. They lingered.

You couldn’t help but notice the way Sol’s gaze shifted when you gave your answer. The way he seemed almost... invested in your response. It left a bad taste in your mouth like there was something you were missing, something obvious he wasn’t saying, but the longer you thought about it, the stranger it felt.

Sol didn’t press further after that. Instead, he fell into silence, his expression unreadable as he stared ahead, lost in his thoughts.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about who Sol meant, Crowe. You couldn’t stop thinking about how easily you and Crowe interacted, how natural it was for you two to fall into a rhythm. He was one of the few people who didn’t overwhelm your brain.

Sol had been watching that dynamic, hadn’t he?

And it irked him. That much was clear. The way Crowe smiled—effortless, easy. The way his eyes always seemed to be calculating something, like he was always two steps ahead of everyone else. That cool, confident air Crowe carried around—it grated on Sol in ways he couldn’t fully explain.

He wasn’t jealous—It wasn’t about that. But something about the way you and Crowe meshed... it made something inside of Sol twist, in a way he couldn’t control, couldn’t understand.

But he kept all of that to himself, kept the thoughts buried deep.

You were your own person. Whatever dynamic you had with Crowe, it wasn’t his place to question. He tried to remind himself of that, even if it didn’t sit quite right.

But damn, watching you and Crowe together—how effortless it seemed, how naturally you both slipped into your own little world—it gnawed at Sol in a way he couldn’t explain. It wasn’t immediate, but over time, every time he saw the two of you together, something dark twisted in his gut. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he could feel it now, creeping under his skin like a slow-burning ache.

It wasn’t about Crowe—not really.

It was you.

How much of your attention he commanded, how easily you gave it to him, how little was left for anyone else. For Sol. It made him want to pull you back, to demand that you notice him the way you noticed Crowe.

The frustration burned in his chest, a familiar acid, but he buried it. He told himself it was nothing, just a fleeting feeling. Yet, every time you laughed with Crowe, every time he saw the two of you deep in conversation, Sol couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang of something ugly stir inside him.

Fuck it. Sol was jealous.

Lost in the clamor of his thoughts, Sol barely registered the sudden force that knocked you off balance, halting your steps beside him. His body tensed, irritation flaring instantly as his eyes snapped to the figure responsible.

Geo. That smug, silent bastard.

Geo’s grip on your arm was firm—possessive, yet controlled, his fingers pressing just enough to make it clear you weren’t slipping away from him so easily. His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unreadable.

“I was calling your name.” His voice was steady, but there was something unmistakably demanding beneath it.

You exhaled sharply, yanked out of your thoughts by the sudden tug. His hold wasn’t painful, but it wasn’t exactly gentle either—it was the kind of grip that left no room for argument.

“Well, damn. Hello to you too, Geo,” you muttered, irritation flickering in your voice as you glanced at where his hand still held you.

Sol stood still, his eyes narrowed as he followed Geo’s actions, though he seemed completely oblivious to the stir he caused. What made Sol’s blood boil, however, was the way Geo’s gaze flicked down at you, lingering just a fraction too long.

Sol’s jaw tightened, in frustration. He wanted to close the gap between you and Geo, wanted to do something, anything, to put some distance between you two, but he forced himself to remain still, the pressure of his feelings simmering just beneath the surface. He took a half-step forward, his voice cool but edged with an unmistakable hint of concern.

“You okay?” His eyes scanned you, looking for any sign of discomfort, something that would give him a reason to intervene.

Before you could respond, Geo’s hand landed on your head, ruffling your hair in a slow, almost patronizing motion, pushing it back and forth like you were some distracted kid. “You need to stop letting your thoughts take over. It’s all over your damn face.”

Sol’s muscles tensed, irritation prickling under his skin. The sight of Geo touching you—so casually, so familiar—sent a sharp surge of frustration through him. His fingers twitched at his side, the urge to shove Geo’s hand away clawing at his chest.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even react.

Instead, you reached up, fingers curling around Geo’s wrist in a quiet but firm grip, stopping him from shaking you any further. There was no aggression in your touch, just a steady, silent plea for him to quit it. “I’m aware,” you muttered, exhaling through your nose. “Shit, did something happen?”

Geo didn’t move, his hand still resting in yours, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. His sharp gaze locked onto yours, unwavering—as if Sol wasn’t even there.

“Jericho says you’re late,” Geo stated flatly, his voice carrying its usual indifference. “He needs your help with the party. Told me to pick you up after class.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing. “Really? Why you?”

Geo shrugged, unconcerned. “Be grateful I agreed, or you’d be walking.” His hand slipped from yours as he took a step back, already turning to leave. He didn’t bother with another word—just a glance over his shoulder at Sol, a brief, knowing look that said more than words ever could. “I’ll be waiting ahead when you’re done talking to your…” His eyes flickered to Sol, annoyance barely concealed in his expression before he continued on his way.

You let out a frustrated sigh, irritated by the lack of help from Geo, but knowing there was little you could do to change it. As Geo walked off, you turned back to Sol, trying to piece together what had just happened.

"Right, just so you know, that’s Subaru Oogami. AKA Geo, Crowe’s supposed best friend," you explained, your tone casual, as if what he’d just done was nothing out of the ordinary.

You could tell from the look on Sol’s face that he was confused—probably wondering how you could treat that behavior as if it meant nothing. To be honest, you knew Geo well enough to know he wasn’t the type to hurt you, and as long as someone was friends with Crowe, you figured you could trust them.

But that was unnecessary to mention, so you didn’t.

Sol’s eyes narrowed, still tracking Geo’s retreating figure. Something was simmering beneath the surface, a flicker of something uncomfortably possessive in the way his jaw clenched. “Him, huh?” he muttered, trying to mask the chill in his voice, but it was obvious he was unsettled.

“Ah, right, I’ve heard of him. A strict rich guy from that high society, right?”

You scoff softly, though it comes out strained as you look away. The awkward tension between you two was building, and you shifted uncomfortably under his intense gaze. “You could say that. But he’s harmless. Just…” You trailed off, unsure how to explain without defending Geo too much. It wasn’t like you had to explain yourself to Sol, anyway.

“He’s like that with everyone. Don’t read too much into it.”

Sol wasn’t convinced.

His eyes didn’t leave the spot where Geo had stood ahead, his focus still locked on him, like he was trying to figure out something deeper he couldn’t grasp. His voice dropped, taking on a more measured tone, but there was still a sharpness to it. “I see,” he muttered, but it felt loaded with something unspoken. Like he was holding back, processing more than he was letting on.

You sensed it, too—the odd moment hanging between you. You tried to defuse it, rolling your eyes, “Soo, anyway, I really have to go. Or Crowe will get my ass again.” You shrugged and gave him a teasing smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “See you later. Don’t get too caught up in your art thing.”

Just as you turned to walk away, Sol’s voice rang out, “Wait.”

You froze, his tone pulling you back. Before you could fully react, Sol had taken a step closer, his hand reaching out, about to grip your shoulder. The motion was quick, but you pulled back instinctively, creating space between you two.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze with an arched brow, silently asking, “What is it?”

Sol’s eyes somewhat widened, something almost reluctant, before he pulled his hand back, looking at you with a mix of frustration and pity. “Uh, Nothing,” Sol said, his voice tight, the moment of tension hanging in the air between you both. “Just... take care.”

With that, he stepped back, his expression unreadable. You gave him a nod, flashing another teasing smile, hoping to ease the tension still lingering in the air. “Okay, I’ll expect to see you at the party.” Your tone was light, casual—like nothing had shifted between you.

But as you turned on your heel and started walking away, Sol didn’t move. He stayed rooted in place, his gaze locked onto your back, watching the way you made your way toward Geo without hesitation.

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, a quiet frustration settling deep in his chest. He watched the way Geo barely had to say anything before you fell into step beside him, the way the space between you felt so natural—so practiced.

Sol exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

You didn’t even glance back.

His mind raced with thoughts of what had just happened.

You didn’t let him touch you… but you let Crowe—Mr. perfect hold your hands all the time. Hell, even that smug asshole Geo had touched your head and your hands, yet you didn’t let Sol so much as touch your shoulder?

Fuck… He pushed his chance too early.

Then Sol’s eyes widen suddenly locked with Geo’s. When Geo glanced back at him, it was subtle, but Sol caught it—a quick sweep of his eyes, sharp and knowing.

A warning.

Sol had heard a bit about Geo from Hyugo, though Hyugo barely talked about him. When he did, it was always cryptic, like there was more going on with Geo than anyone realized.

The one thing Sol knew for sure was that those two were brothers.

As you walked beside Geo, Sol couldn’t help but notice how Geo’s sharp eyes never stopped scanning, constantly absorbing everything around him while you spoke, not really looking at him—more like explaining yourself, knowing he could hear you from that distance.

“I need to be careful around him,” Sol thought to himself, his pulse quickening with frustration.

It gnawed at him, the feeling that Geo knew exactly what he was doing—keeping your attention locked firmly on Crowe.

It was maddening.

The way Geo so effortlessly positioned himself between you and Sol, like a silent, immovable wall, made his blood boil. It was too perfect, too deliberate, and worst of all...

You didn’t seem to mind. Not one bit.

"Seriously, Geo," you started, your voice cutting through the quiet as the two of you walked side by side. The only sound between you was the faint rustling of leaves underfoot, the crisp evening air settling around you.

You shot him an exasperated look, brows furrowed. "Did you have to be that rude to Sol back there? You could’ve at least said hi instead of… whatever that was."

Geo, unsurprisingly, didn’t even glance your way. His posture remained as indifferent as ever, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders relaxed, exuding that same effortless disinterest. He rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion, the very picture of unbothered.

"Why would I bother?" His tone was flat, dismissive. "It’s not like he’s important. Just some emo lame-ass."

You let out a sharp sigh, resisting the growing urge to shove him. "Geo," you warned, irritation creeping into your voice. "You don’t have to like him, but could you at least try to be civil?"

Geo, as expected, didn’t dignify that with a response. His expression remained unreadable, gaze fixed ahead like he had all the time in the world. His silence only made your frustration simmer more—how effortlessly detached he always was, how little anything seemed to faze him.

The two of you stepped into the campus parking lot, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. The night air carried a sharp chill, but Geo, as always, seemed completely unfazed—so much so that you almost entertained the funny idea that he must be cold-blooded. Heh. Wouldn’t be surprising.

The dim glow of the flickering streetlights reflected off his car’s sleek, freshly painted black exterior, its polished surface gleaming under the occasional passing headlights. A perfect match for the man leaning against it—unapproachable, unreadable, and utterly composed.

Without a word, Geo moved ahead of you, his steps fluid and deliberate as he reached the passenger side door. There was nothing particularly chivalrous about the way he opened it—no warmth, no grand gesture—just a smooth, effortless motion as if it was more out of habit than kindness.

Still, before stepping aside, he glanced over his shoulder, sharp gaze scanning the lot, the street beyond—checking for something. Or someone. His expression remained inscrutable, his piercing eyes flickering toward the empty road for only a fraction of a second before he moved back, allowing you to slide in.

Geo shut the door behind you with quiet finality. Again, no words.

No unnecessary pleasantries.

You observed as he strolled around the front of the car, his hands in his pockets, his stride leisurely. The detached, cool confidence in his gait was something that never changed, regardless of the circumstances. As he made it to the driver's side, he slipped in without delay, the subtle aroma of cologne hanging on the interior.

Geo didn't say anything as he started the engine, the low rumble breaking the silence between you. The dashboard lights cast a pale blue glow over his face, highlighting the angularity of his jaw and the perpetual distance in his eyes.

With one hand on the steering wheel, he shifted the car into gear, his other hand resting casually against the window. The streets blurred past as he drove, his gaze fixed ahead, entirely focused on the road—or maybe lost in thought?

Again, you had always been good at reading people—effortlessly picking up on emotions, the subtle shifts in their expressions, the way their body language betrayed thoughts they hadn’t even voiced yet.

It was something you had learned young, a skill sharpened by necessity, whether to stay on someone’s good side or simply to understand them before they understood you.

Most people were easy. Predictable.

Their emotions—fear, joy, anger, love—bled through no matter how much they tried to suppress them.

Geo was different. He was like a book with half its pages torn out, again, an enigma wrapped in cold stares and dismissive words. No tells, no cracks, nothing to latch onto. He existed in a space just out of reach, like a shadow cast by something unseen.

And yet, when it was just the two of you, something is… different.

He wasn’t easier to read, not exactly, but there were moments—fleeting, barely noticeable—where you caught glimpses of something beneath the indifference. It was subtle, but it was there.

A blessing and a curse.

Because it almost always made you overthink.

It was something you had done for as long as you could remember—analyzing, dissecting, obsessing over details most people wouldn’t even notice. Not because you wanted to, but because your mind wouldn’t let you stop. A cycle of over-awareness that had long since bled into something deeper, something you couldn’t quite turn off.

Your parents never noticed. They were too busy working to make sure you lived comfortably, too preoccupied to catch the way your thoughts spiraled, looping endlessly in a pattern you couldn’t break.

You weren’t high-class, but you weren’t lower-class either—just somewhere in between, comfortable, stable.

Geo, on the other hand, had been high society. Until he wasn’t.

Crowe had mentioned it once, in passing. How Geo had struggled after being kicked out. How he had to help him adjust to a life outside of luxury, outside of the world he had once belonged to.

You never asked Geo about it.

Now, sitting beside him in his car, you didn’t need to.

You could see it.

Not visibly—Geo never made things obvious—but in the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly, in the sharpness of his eyes despite the tiredness behind them, in the way his back pressed against the seat like he was holding something in.

His grip on the steering wheel was tight. Too tight.

You shifted, turning your body slightly toward the passenger-side window, pretending to focus on something outside. In reality, you were watching him. Studying him.

Should you say something?

Should you ask him what’s wrong?

Or would he shut you out before you even had the chance?

The silence stretched between you, thick and weighted, the only sound filling the space was the low hum of the car’s engine. Your eyes remained on the window, you could feel Geo’s presence beside you—his controlled breathing, the tension in his posture, the way his fingers flexed just slightly against the wheel.

Then, his voice broke the quiet. Low, rough, but steady.

“You keep looking at me like that.”

You didn’t move right away. Just blinked. The words were casual, but his tone wasn’t. It wasn’t annoyed, wasn’t mocking—it was something else. Something unreadable, yet laced with that same quiet intensity he always carried.

Finally, you turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze. "Like what?" you asked, feigning indifference.

Geo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowed to a stop just a little way down from Crowe’s place, the car idling. His fingers tapped against the leather steering wheel—a slow, deliberate rhythm—before he exhaled, controlled as always.

“You’ve been glancing at me for the past twenty minutes,” he muttered, voice as flat as ever. “Are you trying to pick me apart?”

You almost smirked. Almost. “Maybe I am.”

His expression remained unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes—something brief, something you couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Annoyance? Maybe both. Geo scoffed quietly, tilting his head just a little, like he was debating whether or not to humor you. One hand stayed on the wheel, the other resting lazily on his thigh, completely at ease.

“For someone who calls me out for overanalyzing,” he said, voice flat, “you’re the biggest overthinker I know.”

Your brows furrowed, a small flicker of something sharp twisting in your chest. He wasn’t wrong, but hearing him say it—so plainly, so certain—made your stomach tighten.

You shifted in your seat, crossing your arms. "And you’re avoiding the question."

This time, he actually smirked. Just a little. The kind of expression that barely counted, but for Geo, it was practically a full reaction.

"Maybe I am." Your own words are thrown back at you. Fuck.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, but before you could respond, Geo turned to face you completely. His gaze wasn’t distant anymore—wasn’t cold—it was sharp, focused, and something about it made your skin prickle.

He studied you for a moment, his eyes like a scalpel, then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, but before you could respond, Geo turned, fully looking at you now. His gaze wasn’t distant anymore, wasn’t cold—it was sharp, focused, and something about it made your skin prickle.

Geo studied you for a moment longer, then, almost as an afterthought, he spoke.

"You never shut your brain off, do you?"

You raised an eyebrow, already on edge. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Geo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he veered the car toward the curb, the tires rolling over gravel before he threw it in park on the side of the street. The sudden stop made the silence louder—thick and heavy.

His lips curled into a sharp, almost condescending smirk.

"It means you’re too caught up in your head." His tone was flat but laced with irritation. "You’ve got that party planned with Jericho, all the shit you’ve stacked on your plate—and yet you can’t see the problem. You’re blind."

A bitter chuckle escaped him as he leaned back slightly, arms crossed like he was preparing for a fight. "You really think it’s fine to just go—like everything’s normal? Like you can control everything around you?"

His voice sharpened, and when he looked at you again, it was with that signature, cold-eyed disdain.

“You’re delusional.”

Your stomach flipped, and you clenched your jaw, again completely thrown off by his words. You had no idea what the hell made him say that, is this what he was thinking about while driving? Anyway, something in you couldn’t just let it slide? Right? Impossible.

You pushed back, curiosity getting the best of you. “I’m not delusional,” you muttered, voice tight.

"You are." His voice was low, and steady, like he was explaining something painfully obvious.

"You don’t see what’s right in front of your face. Which is crazy for an overthinker, you should’ve seen it.” He sighed, the space between you suddenly feeling too small. "You’ve got all these people circling you, and you can’t even tell that one of them is obsessed with you."

Your eyes widened in disbelief, heart pounding in your chest.

"Stay home. Stay with me, or just stay the hell out of that mess. Just don’t go to that damn party. Tell Jericho you’re sick or—"

"No," you interrupted, voice steadier than you felt. "I’m going."

Geo’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. For a split second, frustration flickered across his face, but then it twisted into something darker, more bitter. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his eyes cold.

“You’re a fucking waste of brain matter, you know that?”

Your stomach dropped, but you didn’t back down.

“All this damn time, I thought you were different. I thought you actually had some fucking potential. But no. You’re just like every other idiot who always comes up to me, the same ones who think they have a damn chance with me.”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, cutting more profound than anything you’d ever expected. You froze, unable to hide the hurt as it twisted inside you.

“You don’t have a clue what you’re getting into,” Geo went on, his voice thick with disdain. “You’re so wrapped up in your stupid head and pride that you can’t even see what’s right in front of you. This whole ‘I’ve got it all figured out’ act? It’s pathetic.”

He scoffed, his lips curling in disdain as he finished.

“You’re fucking pathetic.”

You stayed quiet, your chest heavy with the weight of his words. They echoed in your mind, louder than anything else. Shit—you shouldn’t push anything… like damn. The sting, the sharpness of it, burned deep. You tried to breathe, but it felt like something was stuck in your chest, choking you.

You wanted to snap back. You wanted to tell him to shut up, throw something back at him like you always did—but no words came.

There was nothing.

Who would’ve thought that he saw it too? The weakness…

The parts of you that you worked so hard to hide. It hurt more than you cared to admit. You thought you could handle it—hell, you always handled things—but this... again, this was different. This was Geo everyone that talked about, someone you never imagined would rip through your walls like that. His words weren’t just rude—they were calculated like he wanted to see how much he could break you.

Geo watched you, waiting for you to speak, but you couldn’t. Not yet. Not when you felt like you were on the verge of cracking. The silence dragged on, thick, suffocating. Finally, you forced the words out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m still going to that party. No matter what you say." You could feel his frustration building before he even spoke, his jaw tight and his fists gripping the wheel as if holding himself back.

“Fine, be a damn idiot,” he sneered, “Don’t say no one—”

"Fuck you, Geo." The words shot out like a bullet, sharp and bitter, and you didn’t even try to stop them.

"I’m not staying home or with you. I’m going," you spat, your voice steadier now, but your chest felt tight from the sting of his words, still burning through you like acid.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. You turned your head just enough to throw one last cutting glance his way, your words coming faster now, "I don’t need your pity, Geo. Don’t bother showing up to the damn party. That’s all you could’ve said, but no—you had to go full-on asshole, like always."

You saw the flicker of something cross his face, something you couldn’t quite name. It felt damn good—like for once, you were finally getting under his skin.

You sighed, your voice growing heavier. "You’re such damn pessimistic all the time. Don’t be mad at me because I actually want to have a little optimism. We only get one shot at this life, you know? Sure, we might be seen as lower class, but that doesn’t mean we can’t live it out and make something of it.”

You let that flicker grow into a sharp, mocking smirk.

"Everyone’s right about you… You’re just some smug asshole to everyone. Anyone but Crowe." You snorted, shaking your head. "Like you won’t show respect to anyone unless they’re bending over backward just to earn a sliver of your attention."

You took a breath, steadying your voice even as the weight in your chest tightened.

"I listened to Crowe, you know. When everyone else told me to leave you the hell alone, that you weren’t worth the trouble—I didn’t. He told me you were worth trying for. That under all the sharp edges and venom, there was something real."

You looked at Geo, jaw clenched.

"So I pushed past your rudeness, your walls, your cold, condescending bullshit. I held myself strong to talk to you sometimes—because I didn’t get it. I didn’t understand why those simpering idiots were always swooning over you like you were some prize to be won."

Your voice lowered, bitter.

"They never even knew you. They never gave a damn about how you actually think or feel. They just loved the image, the fantasy. But I—I actually made the effort. I learned who you were. I tried to be your friend, even when you made it nearly impossible."

You paused, your gaze hard and unwavering.

"And you still lumped me in with them. You really think I ever saw you the way they did? That I ever put you on some pedestal like you’re some untouchable god?"

You shook your head slowly.

"You must be out of your damn mind."

You turned your head just enough to look at him one last time. You refused to let him see how much it was hurting you—how his words had gotten under your skin, how they twisted everything you thought you knew about him.

The silence that followed was thick with everything you weren’t saying. Geo’s posture was rigid, his jaw set, but you could see the shift in him—the moment his walls snapped shut.

He didn’t say anything.

And that was good enough for you.

You threw the passenger door open and stepped out without hesitation. The slam of the door behind you echoed with finality—loud, sharp, and unapologetic. You didn’t look back.

Screw it. Screw his expensive car, his cold stares, his bullshit attitude. You didn’t care what he felt anymore—if he even felt anything at all. You were sick of trying to guess, sick of trying to prove yourself to someone who refused to see you.

He wasn’t going to control you.

Not your plans, not your night, not your damn heart.

Your footsteps hit the pavement hard as you headed up toward Crowe’s house. There was weight in every step, but also something else—a kind of clarity, a sharpness cutting through the fog. The ache in your chest didn’t vanish, but it settled.

Became something you could carry without breaking.

You were done. Truly done.

You spent the last few weeks of October wrapped in party planning with Crowe and his far more tolerable, socially functional friends. Between costume designs, playlists, and coordinating food runs, you stayed busy—meticulously so.

Obsessively, if you were honest with yourself. Every little detail had to be perfect. Every task had to be just right. It kept your hands full, your mind somewhat quiet.

But no matter how much you tried to bury yourself in logistics and glitter, Geo still haunted the back of your thoughts like a splinter you couldn’t tweeze out.

Why him?

Why was he so compelling to you?

It wasn’t attraction, not in the way others meant it. You knew yourself too well for that. You weren’t yearning for some romantic happily-ever-after or anything as messily complicated as sex. No, it was something deeper and much harder to name—something primal and cerebral all at once.

You didn’t really know Geo. Not personally.

Not in the way that counted. And maybe that was part of the reason you couldn’t stop circling back to him like your mind was caught in a loop it couldn’t break. That sense of tension, of unresolved something between you both—it lingered, heavy and unfinished.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. You’d studied him like a puzzle, tried to map out the jagged edges of his personality, chipped away at the walls he kept so deliberately high. You thought if you pushed hard enough, and reached far enough, you might finally understand what it was that pulled you to him despite everything telling you to turn away.

Maybe, just maybe, you had hoped there was something mutual buried underneath all that cold, arrogant silence.

But then again… maybe not.

Geo was an enigma—emotionally locked down, guarded in a way that felt almost strategic. Maybe even cruel. You weren’t even sure he understood himself, let alone whatever this weird, intangible bond between you two was. And it was never about fear of rejection.

That would have been easier. Cleaner.

No, what terrified you more was the ambiguity.

Was it just one-sided intensity on your part? Was it some projection, some need to feel seen by the one person who refused to be easily figured out?

You hated not knowing.

Not being able to label it, define it, solve it.

And like clockwork, the quiet moments became the most unbearable.

Your thoughts didn’t settle—they spiraled. Repeating, rearranging, recalculating. You’d catch yourself organizing the same party checklist over and over again, rewriting the guest list, recounting the plates, double—no, triple—checking the labels like it was the only thing holding your world in place. The tiniest details suddenly felt urgent, like if you didn’t get them exactly right, something worse might slip through the cracks.

Because if you control that maybe you could drown out the ache.

The ache of not knowing what the hell Geo meant to you anymore.

Ever since the argument—sharp words exchanged like knives behind closed car doors—you hadn’t spoken to each other beyond the bare minimum. A few clipped greetings. One-word replies. Careful silences. You weren’t even sure anyone else in the group knew what had happened between you two.

At least, you hoped not.

You told yourself, even now, that all you ever wanted was to be his friend. That was safer. Simpler. Honest enough.

But being around Geo always felt like walking a tightrope strung across a minefield—one wrong step, one wrong look, and you were done. Every conversation felt like holding your breath, waiting for the inevitable shutdown. Waiting for him to pull away again.

And then there was the weight of everything that came with him.

Lunchtime on campus made it worse—sitting on the cracked stone benches in the courtyard, the sun catching on chrome thermoses and gossip-laced grins. Geo never said much, barely touched his food, just sat there with his arms crossed while the world leaned in around him.

People watched him like he was something more than human—untouchable, unknowable. They hung off his every word even when he looked too tired to speak. And God, he was tired. You could see it in the way he pinched the bridge of his nose, the subtle twitch of annoyance when someone got too close.

Still, they hovered—those simpering idiots who trailed behind him like moths to a cold flame. Smiling too hard. Laughing too loud. Guarding the fantasy they’d built of him with something that felt close to reverence. They worshipped from a distance and tore into anyone who got too close.

You weren’t one of them. You never had been. You didn’t want to be.

But something inside you still reached—aching, grasping, quietly, stubbornly.

You knew better. Always had.

And yet here you were… pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending that raw thing you felt—that hollow, sharp, impossible thing in your chest—wasn’t real. Just a trick of proximity. Just curiosity.

But you knew it wasn’t curiosity.

It wasn’t love, not in the traditional sense. Not romantic, not sexual. Just something real. Something you couldn't name but couldn't ignore.

Something yours.

And maybe it was easier to keep pushing it down.

But how much longer could you do that?

How much longer before it started to swallow you whole?

You didn’t have an answer. All you had was the countdown in your chest—and it hit zero faster than you expected.

The Halloween party had arrived.

What once felt like some distant event, a plan scrawled in notebooks and smoothed over in too many group chats, was suddenly real. Immediate. Inevitable.

The university buzzed with anticipation—half-baked costume decisions, whispered hookups, people making last-minute runs for glitter, masks, and fake blood. The energy in the air clung to everything like static, sharp, and waiting to snap.

And at the center of it all… was you.

You and Crowe hadn’t just thrown a party—you’d curated an experience. A spectacle. And it showed. His family’s house, already intimidating in its quiet wealth, had been reimagined under your hands as something cinematic. Unsettling. The kind of place that made people stop at the gate and take a breath before stepping in.

The lawn was a stage: flickering jack-o'-lanterns casting shifting light across the path, ghostly projections stitched into the siding, and fog machines hissing slow tendrils across the cobblestone-like creeping fingers. It looked haunted, like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

Inside, it was worse in the best way—an exquisite kind of chaos, curated down to the last unnerving detail. Every corner was scrubbed, styled, and sharpened into something eerie and cinematic, like a fever dream with a guest list.

Cobwebs draped from antique chandeliers, casting spider-silk shadows across the vaulted ceilings. The rooms glowed with an otherworldly wash of sickly green and violet light, highlighting skeletal decorations curled around stair railings as they belonged there.

Animatronics were spaced just far enough apart to lull people into a false sense of safety before jerking to life with mechanical shrieks and hollow eyes, making even the boldest students jump.

A fog machine hissed from some hidden corner, spilling thick mist across the hardwood floors and blurring everything into a surreal haze—nothing quite solid, nothing quite real.

Music throbbed through concealed speakers in every room. A mix of haunted remixes and high-energy basslines created a strange harmony—half rave, half séance. The sound wrapped around the crowd like a spell, pulling them deeper into the night.

The house was alive—choked with bodies and breath and artificial blood. Students pressed shoulder to shoulder in the crush of celebration, faces half-hidden behind masks, makeup, and shadows. Laughter rose like smoke. Screams echoed from the haunted hallway setups you’d helped build.

And still, the night was just beginning.

You stood beside Crowe at the entrance, watching it all unfold. People lined up outside in the cold, either flashing last-minute tickets or raising phones with QR codes shimmering under flickering porch lights. You scanned them in, mechanical and composed, your mask in place.

Crowe was in his element—smiling that easy pretty prince smile, and talking easily with each individual who passed through. He worked the crowd like he owned it—which, in a way, he did, turning what could have been a chaotic check-in nightmare and making it smooth, almost seamless.

Sometimes, a person would fumble with their phone, attempting to pull up their ticket, and Crowe—charmer that he was—would lightly tease them before waving them in regardless. "Come on, don't make me regret this," he'd say, laughing in return.

It was effortless for him. Natural. And yet, as the line snaked down the driveway, the buzz of conversation and the pounding bass of the music lingering in the air, your mind started to drift.

You, though, weren't quite as swept up in the moment. Sure, you'd been a part of the planning, and on paper and as line, the night was supposed to be perfect.

But tonight?

Your mind was elsewhere. Not perfect.

Somewhere far away.

You barely registered Crowe’s voice when he asked about your costume. Something about whether it was too tight, or if you were still comfortable.

You didn’t really answer. But you thought about it.

Brittany had planned everyone’s costumes weeks ago, assigning them out like she was the director of a twisted stage play. She’d made Crowe dress as a prince—of course she did.

It was almost too fitting with his deep blue eyes, long brown hair braided down his shoulder, and that easy confidence that made him look like royalty even without the costume. The dark velvet jacket, silver-stitched and regal, only cemented the image. He didn’t protest. He wore it like it was made for him.

Then you spotted them by the punch bowl—Jess and Brittany, standing close but radiating entirely different energies.

Brittany was already the center of attention, surrounded by people hanging on her every exaggerated laugh. She thrived there, in the thick of it, her voice sugary and slick, like honey laced with venom.

Her devil costume was unapologetically dramatic: a red corset dress that shimmered like sin, fishnet tights, thigh-high boots, and glittery horns that caught the light every time she turned her head. The tail? Real. Not literally—but it flicked behind her with every step like it had a mind of its own.

She moved like she owned the party like the floor should part for her heels. The way she looked at people—like they were either pawns or competition—fit the role a little too well.

Jess, in contrast, looked like she'd been dragged there by divine obligation. She stood just behind Brittany, an angel in soft white. Her dress was simple, flowy, ethereal in that gentle, untouched kind of way. White feathery wings sat neatly between her shoulder blades, a delicate halo perched above her head like it didn’t quite belong to her.

Very much Heaven and hell, playing nice—for now.

Naturally, Deryl had been shoved into a werewolf costume—if you could even call it that. He was half-shirtless, with fake fur strapped across his shoulders like an afterthought, plastic fangs barely clinging to his teeth, and clawed gloves that he kept using to dramatically rake through his hair.

Honestly? It suited him way more than it should’ve.

He was mid-keg stand when you caught sight of him, legs flailing while two guys held him up and a crowd screamed like it was a full moon. His howl—somewhere between a frat bro and a dying animal—rattled through the house with zero shame.

Deryl didn’t need alcohol to act feral… but it definitely helped.

And then there was you.

Brittany had all but bullied you into dressing as what she lovingly dubbed a “sexy fine-ass cat”—in her words, “You already dress like a damn witch every day, babe. Spice it up. Be a mystical slut.”

You weren't sure what part of you gave off sexy feline energy, but apparently, your everyday vibe screamed witchy recluse turned seductive alley cat, and she was ready to roll with it.

Somehow, against all logic and reason, you had agreed.

Possibly in a moment of sleep deprivation. Possibly under threat. Possibly because Brittany said if you didn’t wear the cat ears, she’d cry—and she looked dead serious about it. So now you stood at the glass front door, staring at your reflection like you were seeing a cursed mirror in a haunted house.

The dress wasn’t… bad. Honestly, it was hot. It was just… a lot.

It clung to you like it had plans and didn’t believe in boundaries. Black lace, party chic, dipped just enough in the front to remind you that bending over was not on the agenda tonight. The asymmetrical ruffled hem flirted with your thighs in a way that felt downright criminal.

Every few steps you had to subtly yank it down so it didn’t transform into a glorified napkin. And the sleeves—long, flared by your hands, and vaguely witchy—made you feel like you were one minor inconvenience away from casting a petty hex. You kinda loved them. But they didn’t distract from the very intentional peek of your bralette and matching boyshorts through the lace.

Because of course, Brittany insisted. “Just a hint of slut,” she said. “Like you accidentally seduced someone on your way to hex their ex. Tasteful thot.”

You bargained for a silver chain belt—your last shred of sanity—and she allowed it only after you swore on your grave and hers that you’d wear the damn cat ears.

Whiskers, though? Absolutely not. She tried. Oh, she tried.

Came at you with eyeliner and the audacity. Tried to draw a little nose and whiskers like you were a children’s cartoon. You almost left. She had to physically block the door and swear on all her overpriced brushes that she wouldn’t touch your face again.

She kept her word. Technically.

Because of the makeup she was allowed to do? Dangerously good.

Smoky eyeshadow with a silver shimmer so subtle it made your eyelids look like enchanted moon dust. A razor-sharp winged liner that made your eyes look exhausted, dangerous, and vaguely mythological. “Your tired-ass eyes need drama,” she muttered like a war general.

“You're mysterious. Like a cat that’s also seen some shit.” Your lips? Just a clear gloss. Deceptively simple. Pure bait. And don’t even bring up the eyebrows. Brittany shaped them like she was designing the arches of a cursed cathedral. You weren’t allowed to leave until they were “even, spiritual, and slightly threatening.”

So now, here you were. A seductive black cat from some weird fever dream. Tail not included—but dignity? Also missing.

You looked too hot. It felt illegal.

Just as you were adjusting to the new, foreign sensation of being seen in a way you usually avoided, Crowe paused the ticket check-in. His usual composure faltered just enough for him to take a step back, and then he motioned for one of the other student council members to take over.

Without a word, he gently guided you to the side, away from the loudness of the party. His touch was light but steady as if he instinctively knew you needed a moment away from all the noise.

The music and laughter seemed to fade as he led you toward a quieter corner, his gaze softening like he could sense that the night was taking its toll on you in ways you weren’t ready to admit.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and reassuring, "You okay?" His words were careful as if he was treading lightly, always aware of your boundaries.

“Hm?” You looked up at him, your mind still lost in the haze of the party and your own thoughts.

“At the front door, I told you how beautiful you are, and you didn’t say a word back. You out of touch," Crowe said with a teasing smile, but there was an edge of concern beneath it.

You shrugged, trying to brush it off. "It’s nothing," you murmured, your gaze flickering back toward the crowd. "Just... stuff. You know.”

Crowe’s easy smile faltered for just a second, a flicker of uncertainty passing through his eyes. He was used to seeing you sharp, in control, untouchable. But tonight? You felt anything but. Like you were drifting just out of reach, your skin felt foreign and too tight.

He stepped a little closer, his tone shifting, softer. "Is it about the party?" he asked, the confidence he usually wore so easily now mixed with a rare hint of concern. "I know it’s a lot, overwhelming, but we pulled it off, right?"

You hesitated, fighting the urge to tell him what was really gnawing at you. Because it wasn’t the party—like the party is perfectly fine.

It was Geo, fucking asshole himself.

But telling Crowe that? You already knew how it would go.

And as much as he acted like he had it all together, Crowe wasn’t a prince in shining armor—he was more like a mother goose, ready to swoop in and take care of everyone. The last thing you needed tonight was for him to start hovering over you like he always did when things got too messy.

“The party’s going great,” you said, forcing a smile that you knew didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s turning out exactly how we planned.”

Crowe studied you with that sharp, perceptive gaze of his. He didn’t speak right away, but the way his eyes softened told you everything you needed to know—he was about fifty percent convinced.

“I see,” he murmured. Fuck.

The unspoken understanding hung in the air between you two, silent but enough to acknowledge what was unsaid. For now, it was enough. But then, true to form, Crowe shifted gears—his grin slipping back into place like a well-worn mask, the kind that made everything feel just a little bit easier.

“Well, since you're not planning to entertain the guests, at least make sure you have a little fun. I've got surprises lined up for tonight—keep your eyes peeled, all right?”

A small, light laugh escaped you, despite yourself. Classic fucking Crowe. Always ready with a distraction, always able to steer the ship when it felt like it might veer off course. And while it didn’t entirely loosen the tight knot twisting in your stomach, it was something.

A welcome break, even if just for a moment.

The music shifted, bass-heavy and pulsing through the floor, as another wave of guests arrived, their costumes ranging from carefully curated masterpieces to last-minute, half-assed efforts. Crowe turned his attention to them, smoothly slipping into host mode, greeting people with his usual charisma.

And you? You turned toward the bar table where one of the student council members was mixing drinks like they were auditioning for a bartending competition.

Because let’s be real, if you spent too much time listening to the thoughts running in your head, you might as well just call it a night. And after everything you’d put into this party? No way in hell.

You weren’t going to let your overthinking ruin the only night you’d had the time to enjoy. You deserved one damn night of fun, and you were going to get it, even if it meant hitting the booze a little harder than usual.

So, what did you do?

You grabbed a Blackberry Margarita, obviously.

It was fruity. It was sweet. And deceptively strong. The kind of drink that burned just enough to remind you it wasn’t juice but still tasted like candy—dangerous, but perfect.

One glass turned into two, then three, and before you knew it, you were feeling warm in places that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Your thoughts started to blur a little, edges softening, and suddenly, this night was looking a lot better.

This was fun. It had to be. It’s Halloween.

This is your chance to have fun. Like Crowe had it all under control. Safe to drink. So, for now, you could pretend the world was fine and focus on the music that thumped through the room, pulling you into a nostalgic vibe you didn’t know you were missing. Four drinks in, and yeah, you were starting to think maybe you were finally having fun.

You made your way to the nearly packed dance floor, the chaos of the living room fading into the background. A familiar song—one you used to play on repeat back when you were younger—boomed from the speakers, its nostalgic pulse tugging at you like an old memory resurfacing.

You didn’t blend into the crowd. You never did. Instead, your movements took on their own rhythm—less about the usual grind and more about the flow. With the flick of your wrist, you spun, your body twisting in fluid, whimsical arcs.

Your hands sliced through the air like they were painting shapes, each motion deliberate and graceful, your goth-whimsy style putting a contrast against the more traditional dance moves around you. You leaned, arms sweeping low, letting the music guide you like it was all a dream.

The crowd melted away, the music pulling you deeper, blending the present and past into each graceful twist. You felt like the only person moving in the world, wrapped in the rhythm, lost in the melody that had stuck with you through the years.

Then, through the haze of the dance, you heard it. “Hey!”

A voice. Familiar. Light-hearted, cutting through the noise like it was meant for you alone.

You froze mid-spin, the music suddenly too loud in your ears, and the flow of your movements interrupted. Your feet stumbled slightly as you pulled yourself out of the crowd, suddenly aware of everything again.

You turned, startled, and found Sol standing there, his arms crossed with a slight, almost imperceptible blush coloring his face. His zombie costume clung to him with the perfect amount of eerie charm, as if it had been tailored for his usual emo energy.

Next to Sol was Hyugo, looking like he’d stepped straight out of an old-school horror flick, his tattered mummy costume hanging off him in the most charmingly out-of-place way.

But it wasn’t the costumes that caught your attention—it was Sol. His gaze was locked on the crowd, intense and calculating, like he was reading each person in the room. When his eyes found you, they didn’t just skim over you like they usually did. They locked.

It wasn’t casual this time.

“You made it after all,” you said, trying to find your footing again, though your voice sounded a little distant like you were still processing everything around you. Your eyes held his for a moment, and you forgot the usual back-and-forth banter. “And I see you brought your date,” you added, trying to keep it light. “Hi, Hyugo.” You offered a soft smile.

“Hey! You look so pretty!” Hyugo chimed in, his grin infectious.

Sol shifted a little closer, subtly nodding in your direction. “Yeah, well, someone told me you were going all out for this. Figured I’d see for myself if it lived up to the hype.” His voice was playful, but there was something in it that didn’t quite match his usual tone—like he was holding back.

Hyugo, grinning mischievously, rolled his eyes. “You should’ve heard him,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. “‘Gotta go to this party. Gotta go.’ Like it was some kind of mission or something.”

Sol’s posture stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line at the jab, but the flicker of something else in his eyes passed so quickly that you almost missed it. He turned back to you, his gaze lingering just a little too long.

It wasn’t just a look anymore.

“You know,” Hyugo cut in, nudging Sol with an exaggerated grin, “I always thought zombies went after brains, but I think this one’s hunting for someone’s heart tonight.”

Sol’s head snapped toward him, caught completely off guard for a split second. His face didn’t betray much, but the sharp glare he threw Hyugo could’ve sliced through steel. And yet… he didn’t deny it. Didn’t joke it off either. He just kept staring—at Hyugo first, then at you.

And when his gaze landed on you again, something shifted.

Your stomach knotted.

Whether it was the margaritas or the way Sol was looking at you—like he knew something you didn’t—you weren’t sure. Either way, the air felt heavier now, thick with something that made your pulse stutter.

Hyugo, blissfully unaware or maybe choosing chaos on purpose, clapped Sol on the back with a wink. “Good luck, dude,” he muttered before strolling off into the crowd like it was nothing.

And just like that, it was just the two of you.

Alone. Oh, fuck.

It was like time hiccuped.

Everything slowed—just enough to feel off-kilter, like you were suddenly too aware of your own breathing, your posture, the way your fingertips itched with nervous energy. The music thumped in the background, but it felt distant now, muffled by the whirlwind in your own head. You stood still, rooted, not quite sure what to do with your hands or your face or your damn heartbeat.

Then Sol shifted slightly, just enough to close the space between you. His voice dropped—low, quiet, private—and the sound of it jolted something in your chest.

“You look... different tonight.”

You blinked, startled by the way the words landed—unexpected and heavy. “What do you mean?” you asked a bit too fast, your voice edged with something sharper than you intended, a reflex defense. Your tongue felt clumsy in your mouth like you couldn’t quite keep up with yourself.

You felt off, and it wasn’t just the alcohol. It was him.

The way he was watching you.

Sol didn’t flinch at your tone. He studied you for a beat longer than felt casual, eyes dragging across your features with an unsettling kind of precision. Not in a creepy way, but like he was measuring something. As if you were a puzzle he was still trying to solve.

You shifted your weight, arms folding like a subconscious shield. His gaze made your skin feel warm, but not in a flattering way—more like being under a spotlight when you hadn’t asked for one.

“I-I mean you just look really pretty, I just…” Sol’s voice faltered like it had tripped over itself. “I didn’t think you’d wear… this.” He gestured vaguely at your outfit, and though his tone tried to stay casual, it didn’t land that way. Not even close.

There was no teasing. No smugness. Just something sharp beneath it—something edged in disbelief, frustration, and something dangerously close to yearning.

Maybe even a little bitter.

You forced a smile, lopsided and tight. “It’s Halloween. My friend Brittany made me be a black cat,” you said, your voice dry. “Meow.”

A laugh slipped out—awkward, half-hearted, and absolutely doomed from the start.

Sol didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smile.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the crowd, watching nothing. Like he needed to recalibrate. People moved past, shouting, dancing, laughing—utter chaos—and yet here he was, still.

Frozen. Staring at you like you broke something in him just by existing.

And then, finally, his eyes returned to yours. The look he gave you wasn’t neutral. It was heated, heavy, and dark in a way that made the cat ears on your head feel ten times worse. Like they were personally attacking him.

This time, Sol’s voice was gentler, quieter than before. Like he was picking through each word carefully, testing them on his tongue before releasing them. “Anyway… I came because I wanted to talk to you.”

You let out a soft sigh, eyes still on Sol. “About what…?”

But your attention was already splintering—slipping through the cracks of the moment. Like your body was still here, anchored in front of him, but your mind had quietly drifted elsewhere, tugged by something faint… familiar. You weren’t sure why you looked, just that you had to.

And then you saw him.

Geo.

Wait. Wait—wait a damn minute. He came??

He actually showed up?

Your pulse tripped. There he was, just past the wavering edge of the living room crowd, stiff and statuesque near the kitchen archway. A cheap plastic skeleton hung limply in front of him, swaying as someone brushed past it. Two partygoers beside him were reenacting a ridiculous slasher-movie death scene, laughing too loud, too close.

And Deryl—because of course it was Deryl—had one arm slung over Geo’s shoulder like they were best bros in a buddy cop film. Geo did not look thrilled about this. Actually, Geo looked like he was being held hostage by social interaction itself.

By the way… No costume. No effort.

Just Geo, in his normal clothes, standing in the middle of Halloween chaos like he was silently calculating how to disappear through the nearest wall.

Your brain did a somersault.

Your eyes locked with his for just a second. A blink. But it was enough. You saw it—the flicker. Not annoyance. Not boredom. But something softer. Tighter. Concern, maybe. Worry, definitely.

You blinked rapidly and turned your head, forcing your eyes away before Sol could follow your gaze. With a subtle shift, you angled your body just enough to block his line of sight—like the literal black cat slipping through the sight before anything was exposed.

Your hand brushed lightly against Sol’s arm, a casual, grounding touch that seemed to anchor his attention. “Wait—what were you saying again?” you asked, voice slightly too upbeat, your tone wearing a thin coat of distraction.

Sol’s head tilted, eyes widen just slightly. He wasn’t oblivious—never was. There was a flicker of suspicion behind his gaze, the kind that made your spine tighten.

But before he could say anything—

“Can I steal you for a second?”

Crowe’s voice slipped in from behind, smooth and quiet, like he’d been waiting for the exact moment. No warning. No preamble. Just presence.

You turned instinctively.

Crowe stood there, composed as ever, the picture of casual control—drink in hand, the other already half-extended toward you like this moment had been planned down to the second. His eyes flicked to Sol briefly—acknowledging, not inviting—and then settled on you with a look too polished to be anything but intentional.

“Sorry to cut in,” he said smoothly, flashing an apologetic smile so polished it barely masked the calculation underneath. “Just need a quick word with our feline coordinator. Party logistics.”

The air beside you changed.

You didn’t have to look to feel the way Sol tensed—his body stiffening like he’d been struck. His jaw ticked, a single muscle shifting under his skin. He didn’t speak, but his silence screamed. Like he had something to say, something sharp and burning, but kept it behind gritted teeth.

You didn’t give him the chance.

“Yeah, of course,” you said lightly, already turning toward Crowe. Your hand brushed his, barely there, and his touch answered at the small of your back—guiding, light, but firm enough to steer.

You felt the heat of Sol’s stare follow you as you left him behind. Crowe led you toward the stairs like nothing had happened, taking a sip from his cup, cool and unbothered. Like he hadn’t just intercepted a moment teetering on the edge of something volatile.

“What’s this about?” you asked, side-eying him.

“Well,” he started, tone smooth as ever, an arm draping over your shoulders like it belonged there, “Some people are getting danced out—figured I’d switch things up.”

You squinted, suspicious. “Switch things up how?”

Crowe’s grin curved gentle and easy. “Games.”

You blinked at him. “You wanna bring out games? At a college party.”

“Yes.” He didn’t even flinch. You stared harder. “Like... Connect Four? Uno? You’re telling me drunk twenty-somethings want to sit on the floor and relive kindergarten?”

Crowe shrugged, maddeningly smug. “You’d be surprised. People crave childhood nostalgia when they’re buzzed and existential. Give them enough alcohol and suddenly Jenga’s the most intense thing they’ve done all year.”

You blinked again. Damn it… he had a point.

Still, something in his tone felt a little too casual. “The games are in the big closet upstairs,” he added like that wasn’t the most suspicious sentence in existence. “You know the one.”

You blinked at him. Yeah, you knew the one. That oversized, borderline-abandoned linen closet that felt like a junk drawer for the entire house. The one people only opened when they were desperate or nosy. Or both. “Right,” you muttered, nodding slowly, distracted already as you ran through the mental gymnastics of reaching whatever “games” Crowe had buried in there.

You started up the stairs, heels clicking against the hardwood, the thump of bass fading behind you the higher you climbed. The hallway was quieter, shadows stretched long under dim lights—like the party forgot this part of the house existed.

You reached the closet and popped it open without a second thought, flipping the light on and stepping inside like it was just another errand. The air inside was cool, faintly dusty, and the whole space had that weird too-still vibe.

Your eyes immediately found the box of games—of course—perched on the very top shelf.

You stared up at it. “Great.”

Because of course Crowe wouldn’t make it easy. Why leave them somewhere normal when he could turn it into a damn climbing expedition? You stepped in further, squinting around for anything resembling a stool—fucking nothing.

Just dusty boxes, tangled holiday lights, and some ancient-looking trunk shoved in the corner like a dead body in a bad mystery movie. Whatever.

You stretched up, fingers brushing the edge of the game box, willing it to just fall into your hands. Hoping, the tip of your fingers nudged the box… and then—

“Why are you in here?”

You nearly fucking screamed.

Your body jerked, your spine going stiff as your eyes snapped wide. You twisted just enough to glance behind you—Close. No—too close.

Geo was right there.

You were practically pressed against him, your back meeting the solid wall of his chest. Broad. Warm. Unyielding. His presence filled the already-cramped closet like he belonged there like he’d been standing behind you this whole time, watching. Waiting.

Your breath hitched. You tilted your head back on instinct—eyes dragging up the line of his throat, to his jaw, to the calm, unreadable look in his face.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

Instead, he just reached past you, arm brushing your shoulder as he casually plucked the game box off the top shelf—cool as ever, like this wasn’t one of the most intimate positions two people could be in without making it weird.

Stupid tall guy with freakish long arm reach. He glanced around the room, finally shifting just a little so you could breathe again.

You blinked up at him, deadpan. “Seriously?”

He glanced down at you, then looked around the room like he wasn’t the one who’d just appeared out of the void. “Could ask you the same,” he said.

You squinted at him. “Crowe sent me up here. Said people were tired of dancing and wanted something else to do.”

Geo let out a quiet breath, almost like a scoff, somewhat a little lost. “Deryl asked me to come grab the games too.”

Your brows furrowed. “Huh.”

Before either of you could say more—SLAM.

The closet door slammed. Hard. You spun around mid-what the hell just as the knob jiggled—once, twice—and then stopped. Click.

You stared at it like it had personally betrayed you.

Geo stepped up beside you, calm as hell, and gave the handle a test twist. A polite little shake. Then the verdict: “…Locked.”

You blinked slowly, mentally buffering while your heart caught up to the situation. “Oh my god.” You said it like a prayer and a curse all rolled into one. “Those sons of bitches.”

And right on cue, came laughter—low, amused, 100% guilty.

Crowe’s voice floated through the door like this was just another Thursday. “Whoops.”

Then Deryl, chipper as ever: “Don’t worry! We’ll let you out in like… twenty minutes! Or whenever you emotionally bond! Whichever comes first!”

You slapped your hand against the door with the force of a goddamn anime character powering up. “Crowe!”

“Love you too~!” he sang back, way too cheerfully.

“See you!” Deryl added before he and Crowe walked away from the door, heading back to the party downstairs.

Geo let out the most exhausted sigh known to mankind, shook his head, and leaned back against the wall like this was mildly inconvenient at best.

Like he was above it all. Like always.

“Ugh. You’ve got fucking to be kidding me…” he muttered, his tone dangerously deadpan. He looked down at you again, not with anger—more like straight judgment. Like you were the wild animal in this cage and he was the zookeeper trying to guess if you’d bite.

Didn’t say anything mean, but his silence was definitely loud. You groaned dramatically and stomped over to the old wooden trunk in the corner, plopping down with a huff. “If I die in here, tell everyone I went out bitter and vengeful.”

Geo crossed his arms. “You’ll die of being over-dramatic before the air runs out.”

This was it.

You were going to die here. At a Halloween party. Locked in a closet. With him.

Out of everyone—you had to get trapped in here with Geo. Tall, grumpy, impossible, judgmental, annoying Geo.

You glared at him from your seat on the trunk like your sheer rage could burn a hole through his stupid, emotionally constipated face.

He stared right back, arms crossed, completely unfazed. “You know, I didn’t realize Halloween was code for desperate cosplay.”

Your jaw hit the floor. “Excuse me?”

He gestured vaguely in your direction, the way someone might motion toward a car crash. “The ears. The makeup. The Dress. The whole…” His eyes scanned you once, slow and unimpressed, “situation.”

You stared at him, incredulous. You were this close to hurling the Monopoly box at his smug face.

“First of all, I didn’t choose this costume. Second, it’s Halloween—the one night where wearing cat ears is legal. Third?” You gestured back to him dramatically. “You’re wearing the same damn bluish purple hoodie you always wear. White turtleneck underneath. And those tight-ass ripped black jeans. What, exactly, are you supposed to be?”

Geo didn’t even blink. “I’m not dressed as anything.”

“Exactly!” You threw your hands up. “You’ve literally made ‘casual apathy’ your costume. Well congrats, you nailed it.”

The energy in the closet shifted, sharp and crackling. Like the two of you were circling each other in a very polite cage match. You hated how nonchalant he looked even when he was being a smug jerk.

And worse—you hated that he always acted like he didn’t even want to be here. Like he had more important things to do. So you pitted the thought that you figure you said out loud.

“You didn’t even want to come tonight, did you?”

That movement. A slight shift in his shoulders, a pause before he responded, “I wasn’t going to,” he admitted. “I didn’t plan on it.”

You snorted, crossing your arms. “Then why show up at all? Thought this whole thing was beneath you.”

Geo sighed, but it wasn’t at you—it was at himself. His eyes flicked to the door, like maybe he was second-guessing this whole situation, and then finally, he met your eyes.

For real this time. “…Crowe said something along the lines of you wanting to leave, and asked me to pick you up,” Geo muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

“What?” You blinked, a little thrown off. “I had no plans on leaving.” You raised an eyebrow then scoffed, “What, you didn’t trust me to survive a university party without you babysitting me? Came here so fast without thinking? Is that a first? Crowe definitely tricked you…”

He looked unamused, his eyes narrowing at your jab, and then he huffed, crossing his arms again. “Shut up. I just thought of how stupid you might be.”

You snickered, even though it came out a little sharper than you meant. “Rich, coming from you.”

A few seconds of silence passed, like something was almost ready to spill, however Geo the one that hesitated. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he muttered, “I didn’t like the idea of something happening and me not being there. That’s all.”

You blinked. Oh. Wow.

There it was.

The thing that no one ever really said out loud but everyone could feel—the tiny sliver of overprotectiveness buried beneath his sarcastic armor.

The reason he always stood too close in crowded rooms. The reason he was always a little too aware when you were quiet or too distant. The reason he’d shown up to this godforsaken Halloween party when it was clear he hated every single second of it… just in case. Just in case something went wrong, and he had to be the one to fix it.

You stared at him, really looked at him for the first time in forever. He was standing there, arms crossed, but his eyes? They were looking away, avoiding yours like they were trying to bury every little soft thing he didn’t want to admit. And God, that was the thing with Geo: He wore that sarcasm like a shield but underneath it?

He was a goddamn mess.

And you were so tired.

Tired of the whole damn situation.

Tired of pretending you didn’t see through him. Tired of all these pointless, exhausting words you both keep throwing at each other.

You started laughing. And—you mean, laughing.

At first, it was just a snicker—a short burst of air escaping because, well, it was ridiculous. Geo, standing there like he was the world’s biggest conundrum, thinking that all his careful control over his feelings somehow hid it all.

But it didn’t. It was obvious. Then it got louder.

You couldn’t stop yourself. You laughed until it was more of a giggle, the kind that felt borderline manic as you realized how utterly absurd this whole situation was.

This party. Him. You. The closet. Everything.

Geo’s eyes narrowed as he watched you, clearly unamused. There was a display of pure disgust on his face, followed by a confusion that only he could pull off. He took a step toward you, brows furrowing deeper. “…Why the hell are you laughing?" His voice was disbelief, and you could hear the irritation bubbling up—he had no idea how to handle you when you were this far gone.

You wiped your eyes, still laughing through the cracks in your voice, and it was starting to sound borderline hysterical now. You couldn’t even breathe properly, but it didn’t matter. This was all just so stupid, and the laughter spilled out like a flood.

The noise from the party downstairs felt miles away like it was all part of some different universe. All that mattered was the absurdity of the situation. You had no idea how long you'd been stuck in this mess with Geo, trying to keep your sanity, trying to pretend like you were okay.

But that was it.

You weren’t okay.

And the more you thought about it, the funnier it seemed. You laughed harder, the sound echoing in the cramped space like you were losing your mind—shit maybe you were.

Geo’s eyes filed with confusion, frustration, and something else you couldn’t quite place as he stood there, arms crossed, trying to figure you out. It was clear he was torn—torn between being angry, concerned, or just disgusted. But all he managed to do was scowl harder and cross his arms tighter, his posture so stiff it could have been carved from stone.

“Seriously, this is what you’re doing right now?” he muttered, voice low, but it wasn’t sharp with the usual edge. No, this time, there was no anger in it—just confusion, like he didn’t know what the hell was going on inside your head.

And God, you didn’t even know yourself anymore.

You could barely get the words out between the gasps that hitched in your chest, but you finally managed to gasp, your voice thick and strangled, “I… I’m just… I’m so tired.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. He was still standing there, his arms tightly crossed, his face unreadable but somehow more human than you'd ever let him seem. And the reality of it all crashed down on you with a weight so heavy, that your breath faltered as you kept going, unable to stop yourself.

“I’m a college student, Geo. A fucking genius in madness, might I add,” you continued, your voice shaking now with frustration. “A psych major with a future ahead of me, you know? I’m perceptive as hell—meticulous. I notice everything.” You wave your hands around, trying to get your point across.

“I can catch the tiniest details—like the way someone shifts when they’re lying or how they suddenly change their tone when they’re uncomfortable. Facial expressions, body language, and even the tiniest flickers of thought cross their mind. I’m accurate almost all the time when it comes to reading people, picking up on the shit they try to hide. I can tell when someone’s gaslighting me, or projecting their trauma, or hiding something behind their words."

Your words rushed out now, and the more you spoke, the more frenzied you became. “I can read people! I can catch a lie from a mile away and see through all the bullshit! I—"

You choked out a bitter laugh. “I’m supposed to be living my life. I’m supposed to be enjoying the hell out of my time, being free at this Halloween party. You know, but instead—” You stopped yourself, cutting off the rest of the words. You wiped your face, eyes fixed on the floor for a moment, before meeting Geo’s gaze with a look so filled with pity that it almost hurt to hold.

Your throat was tight, but the laugh that escaped you was hollow, desperate. “Here I am,” you muttered softly, almost to yourself with a little laugh, “locked in a closet... losing it over a guy.” And then the laugh came again, louder this time—again, hysterical, almost unhinged—as you took in a shaky breath and closed your eyes for a second to try and collect yourself.

When you looked up at Geo, the weight of everything finally hit you. Like you couldn’t stop it.

It just spilled out, a jagged mess of emotions you couldn’t keep inside any longer.

“God, I’m so tired,” you said again, voice cracking. You wiped at your face, “Tired of my own mind. Tired of trying to make sense of everything. Tired of you, and honestly, tired of me for putting myself in these stupid situations. Tired of this goddamn universe for locking me in a closet at a Halloween party with the last person I ever wanted to be stuck with.”

Your eyes never leave Geo’s face, searching for something in him that would make this make sense.

But you didn’t find anything.

Just the same fucking unreadable expression, the same armor he wore so carefully. His eyes were fixed on you, scanning you with a look that was impossible to read. And you hated it—because you wanted him to say something, anything that would take the sting out of everything that had just spilled out of you.

But again, he didn’t.

The laugh died in your throat, leaving only an oppressive silence in its wake. And yet, it still felt louder than anything you could’ve said.

You were still here. He was still here.

And the universe?

Well, it was still a cruel joke, one you couldn’t stop laughing at, even though it was suffocating you.

"You know," you started, your voice barely audible at first, the weight of your thoughts pulling at you "I always had this one thought, something that just... randomly pops into my head."

You paused for a moment, swallowing the tightness in your throat, trying to organize the mess of emotions in your chest. Your gaze dropped to the floor as if the space beneath you could somehow make sense of all the chaos swirling in your mind.

“I think, if I were to be alone…” You lead off, “…like, for the rest of my life... I’d be okay." The words came out soft, almost like you were saying them to yourself, testing their truth. Your voice trembled slightly, but you pushed through.

“It’s not ideal, sure. But at least I wouldn’t have to be in something I don’t want. I wouldn’t have to deal with all the shit that comes with friendships, fuck even relationships, or with people who only care because of how I look or what they can get from me.”

You let out a bitter laugh, a hollow sound that felt more like a cry than anything remotely close to humor. You shook your head as if trying to push the weight of your thoughts out of your mind, but they clung to you, suffocating.

“It’s not that I hate people. It’s not even about self-esteem,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “it’s just... I don’t think anyone will ever truly understand me. Hell, you definitely don’t.”

The words hung in the air like an accusation, and for a moment, the silence between you two felt like a physical thing pressing down on your chest. You had already cracked, the floodgates opened, and now there was no going back.

No stopping it. You let your eyes drop to the floor, trying to steady your breath, but the words were coming faster than you could control.

“I mean... I look at people, how they act around me, how they pretend to know me, and I just... I can’t connect with any of it. I can’t understand why everyone keeps talking about falling in love like it’s.. filling, something everyone’s supposed to want. It feels... unreal. And I don’t know if I’ll ever believe in it.”

The words tumbled out of you, and for once, you didn’t try to stop them. For once, there was no filter, no distance between you and the truth of releasing the unwanted thoughts. “It’s hard for me to even believe in love.” You admitted.

“The kind of love everyone talks about—real love, I mean. Not the bullshit kind where someone’s just looking for something from you. Because you and I know that feeling all too well.”

You sighed, “I know—like I knew the real reason you didn’t want me to go to this Halloween party, why you acted like a damn child over it." You sighed, narrowing your eyes.

"You were worried about Sol, weren’t you?”

You looked at him then, eyes raw with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. For the first time in what felt like forever, the words you spoke seemed to land with him.

His expression flickered, his plush lips pressing into a thin, tense line. His body stiffened just a little like he didn’t know how to handle the storm you were unleashing.

“You didn’t think I knew, did you?” you continued, your voice breaking just a bit. “You didn’t think I knew that Sol’s been obsessing over me, that he claims he likes me? If it weren’t for Crowe, he would’ve confessed right there on that damn dance floor, and you know what I had to do?”

You let out a bitter laugh, but it felt more like a breath you were holding in for too long. The tears you’d been fighting started to spill, but you didn’t bother wiping them away.

They were the only thing that felt real anymore.

"I had to reject him. Not just because he's a horrible guy, but because I don't see him like that. It's hard enough being friends with guys who can’t stay friends without suddenly deciding they like you.” You let out a frustrated sigh, shaking your head.

"And then I have to deal with this shit, all because of you,”

You pointed at him then standing up, walking back and forth to track your thoughts better, “Geo. Fucking Subaru Oogami. The rich kid who can’t stand anyone, all he wants to be is fucking alone with his bow and arrow, no friends or anyone.” Your voice cut through the silence, and before Geo could respond, you stopped him cold.

"Tell me what you’re gonna say now. Go ahead, say it. Tell me again that I’m wrong. You could’ve just told me the truth. You could’ve been honest with me, but instead, you lashed out at me. Made me feel like shit. Called me pathetic. Told me I’m a waste of brain matter.” You shook your head, eyes narrowed. "

You didn’t trust me to handle it. You didn’t even try to make it better. You just... made everything worse by showing up here. Forcing me to look at your pathetic ass face.”

Your chest tightened, a deep ache settling in your heart. The tears streaked down your face, ruining the makeup that had taken so much time to perfect. You didn’t care about the mess you were making anymore. It was all so pointless.

“And don’t take this personally, but... you're the worst. You know what you’ve done to me, and as much as it hurts, I can’t keep running away from it. I can't keep pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”

You took a shaky breath, your throat constricting as you wiped your face again, but the tears didn’t stop. You didn’t bother to fight them anymore.

“I don’t understand, Subaru. What do you want from me?”

Your voice cracked, calling him by his first real name, and you felt the weight of your own emotions pressing down on you, suffocating you.

“Do you know how foreign it is to even think about someone choosing to love me? I can’t... I can’t even wrap my mind around it. If someone loved me... I wouldn’t know what to do with that. It’s so unreal to me. It’s like... it doesn’t even make sense."

You paused, your chest tight, struggling for breath. “And all of this... all this mess... it makes me wonder if I’m just meant to be alone. If I’m just going to spend the rest of my life alone because I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending to feel something I don’t. I just... I don’t know if it’s even possible for me to feel that.”

You swallowed hard, the knot of frustration and confusion tightening in your throat. Slowly, you spoke again, quieter this time, like you were trying to make sense of everything you couldn’t understand.

“God, I’m so fucking lame. I’m never normal.” You said, mostly to yourself, the words leaving your lips, “I never have been. I guess I have to accept that at this point. I’ve spent my whole life alone... but even still... I still want something real.”

The tears continued to burn down your cheeks, but you didn’t bother wiping them away this time.

“No romantic love, no sexual love... just... someone—someone for once that understands me. You know? Like, someone actually gives a damn about me. Not because they want something from me, like my body, or the idea of me. Not because they want to possess me, control me... just because they care.”

Your voice cracked, and faltered, like the very words you spoke were sharp stones tearing you apart. You could feel the tears threatening again, but you pushed them back.

You couldn’t let him see. You couldn’t be weak.

“At the same time… I don’t feel comfortable being anyone’s significant. I don’t feel comfortable being anyone’s anything. And I know that. I know I’m messed up. I know I don’t fit into whatever you or anyone else thinks I should be. But... I’m so... tired of it all. Tired of pretending. Tired of being who everyone expects me to be. Tired of being seen as something I’m not.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, your chest tightening, suffocating under the weight of your own feelings. The closet felt like it was closing in than it already was, the anxiety smothering you, until there was nothing but the thudding of your heart in your ears.

Your eyes met his, pain and frustration mirrored in them, and for a brief moment, everything seemed to stand still.

“I should’ve never listened to Crowe,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Everyone said you were a fucking asshole. That you didn’t have time for anyone. That relationship wasn’t worth your time. I should’ve listened. I should’ve kept my distance…”

The words spilled out, jagged and desperate, like you’d been suffocating under them for too long and had no choice but to let them crash. “…I hate this. I hate how everything feels so twisted, how it’s all messed up. I don’t need you. But…”

You paused, the words caught in your throat, a bitter mix of frustration and confusion rising up.

“Shit, I care about you so fucking much.”

You took a sharp breath, trying to steady yourself.

“And I fucking hate that I do.” You scoffed at yourself, the sound bitter. “I don’t even know why it matters so much. Why does it hurt when I’ve always been so sure I shouldn’t feel like this? I never wanted any of this. It’s ridiculous. I always stick to what makes sense, and what’s practical. I don’t get tangled in this shit. But then... you came out of nowhere, flipped everything upside down, and now…” You signed.

Your chest tightened, your mind spiraling into chaos.

“I’m so lost, confused” you whispered, voice trembling. “I can’t make sense of any of it. What is this... damn feeling?”

It was all-consuming, suffocating, a weight you couldn’t escape.

Your heart hammered, each beat echoing like a drum in your chest, pounding harder with every breath. The pressure in your chest, like something cold and suffocating, grew with it—a belladonna, so beautiful and poisonous, that no one could handle it.

Your thoughts twisted into each other, darkening with every turn, spiraling deeper, suffocating you. The panic surged, a flood that filled your chest, tightening your lungs and making every breath feel like a struggle. You could feel the pulse hammering in your throat, frantic and uneven.

Your hands shook so violently, that you pressed them to your chest, trying to steady the feeling, but it only made the poison inside feel stronger, more suffocating.

What was wrong with you?

Why couldn’t you just be… normal?

Everything about you, your body, your voice—everything felt tainted.

Poisonous. [ 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓌𝑜 ]

it’s ‘cause I went over the 1,000 block limit per post—my bad T-T

#the kid at the back x reader #the kid at the back vn #tkatb #tkatb vn #tkatb geo #geo oogami #the kid at the back mc #the kid at the back geo #subaru oogami #tkatb geo x reader #bro im emotional #sorry if I just sound crazy

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malvoile · 9 days ago

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Me and the Devil ; iv

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ᴘᴀᴜʟ ɪꜱ ʀᴏᴜꜱᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ. ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴇɢɪɴ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴄᴏɢɴɪᴢᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ.

word count: 11.7k warnings: canon-typical violence, allusions to serious injury, heavy descriptions of blood, family death, brief mention of dying during childbirth, plot (im looking at u rn. u know who u are), foreshadowing. v v v brief allusion to former feydxreader (finger sucking. blood. im sorry its over quick). besides that, fluff and light angst - and a fair amount of lore. btw. if you're russian and reading this i love you notes: hey cuties!! it has been so long and i apologize for that! i was in a cast for my hand for a few weeks, and then life got busy. things are still busy busy and rough but here's an update for u all for being so effing nice :) i rly hope you enjoy, fun things are coming i swear! love u all [header image is for aesthetic purposes only.] pls consider supporting authors with comments/reblogs :) previous series masterlist

Dearest Niece,

I hope this message finds you in good health, despite the trying times you have endured. I cannot begin to imagine the pain and sorrow you must have experienced in the wake of the tragedy that befell our family. To have been thrust into the midst of such turmoil and danger must have been unimaginably difficult.

Today I write to you also with heartfelt congratulations on your recent betrothal to Paul Atreides; While I understand that this union may have come at an inopportune time, I have every confidence that you will make for yourself a splendid future on Caladan. Duke Leto is a noble, honorable man, and I have no doubt that his son is the very same.

Please know that you are not alone in your sorrow, my dear niece. Know that our home is always open to you, and one day I would be honored to meet your new husband and welcome him to Ginaz.

In the meantime, I hope this message brings some small comfort to your troubled heart. I have every confidence that you will emerge from this darkness stronger than ever before.

With all my love,

Lady Ginaz

- Message sent to Lady Bourbon from the Lady Ginaz. 10191. Caladan.

For the second time in his life, Paul is roused by his mother in the dead of the night.

At her hushed instruction, Paul blinks blearily, staggering after his mother’s grave visage, padding barefoot across the wing; a hall, lit only by the lick of waxed moon looming in the sky and the curling tendrils of slumber pulling at his mind.

It is not until his mother opens the door that the sense of dread fully solidifies within his chest – a chamber at the end of the hall, an ornate chair placed in the center – and sat within it, the Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohaim.

Any remnants of tired sighs and heavy eyes cease immediately; Paul’s eyes snap forward, blood thrumming and alert.

Searing pain; a memory of years ago washed onto the shores of his mind – humanity, that nameless obscurism. The Gom Jabbar. A test.

A bitter reminder of the consequence of trust; Paul spares a glance to his mother, his posture rigid. A crack in granite, a splintered thorn on a plucked rose.

The reminder is acidic upon his tongue.

He is dropped within the choppy waters of silence and anticipation – a phantom memory of pain and disquiet alike; and with a square of his shoulders, Paul steps forward towards the shrouded woman. It is a test in of itself, his mind computes in a whirring, quick blink, steel yourself. Do not betray your mind.

“What’s this?” His voice drips in condescension; no effort at all to hide such disdain.

The voice comes; a low drawl, chrisomed in black. “Tell me of your dreams, Paul Atreides.”

It is the sharp, needle-like stare that sends that wave of dissent through him – and a sharp glare is then moved to level his mother. She merely nods towards the Reverend Mother, and Paul drowns in the waters.

So, Paul steps forward, and he speaks of the hauntings that come to him each night.

Lapsed by the less pertinent details of his dreams, Paul’s lips spill of eerie clearings, a shroud of ceremony white against the weeping earth; flakes of smoky snow raining from a clear sky, streaks of missiles cracking along the orange the horizon, splintering the world in two. A large pine, shivering and quaking as its limbs creak and bend, unfurling its burnt sap and smoldering barked skin.

“I’ve tried to make use of them,” he murmurs, brows furrowed with visions of soft skin, sharp gasps and ashy snow.

And they are a portent of doom – that crawling thing that clutches his chest and reminds him with a pang of fear about the very dream he’d been roused from not minutes ago; of the flash of silver, the sharp gasp, and metal, piercing soft flesh.

Pain, in any other name.

“They’re…elusive.”

His voice is small and cold in the wide yawning chamber, and the piercing sparrow eyes of the Reverend Mother do not blink. His shoulders are weak, despite the way he holds them back; a weary voice, the swallow of a shaky worry, some hidden fear that nestles into his ribcage.

“She’s always there.”

And there is a small flashing under the thickened veil – a horrifying breath in which Paul reconsiders if he’d truly just seen the woman smile.

His stomach churns. There is no part of him which yearns to continue speaking – though a sharp glance from his mother draws forth the recent memories of his dream this very morning, the one he’d just been roused from.

“And…the last dream, sh–” His jaw is increasingly tight, though his efforts to conceal emotion prove decent; a vision burnt bright in his mind, the sharp memory of tissue pierced and torn, a sharp gasp – a black hilted knife. An engraved blade. “Someone stabbed me.”

He does not say what he indeed feels – the flutter of fear, the boiling anger, and that lick of worry that curls around corners of his racing mind.

You stabbed him. It was you.

Paul braces himself for the far-reaching consequences, knowing he cannot afford to hide what plagues his mind as the Imperium stirs in the eve of war.

Not if what you said about Sabberon is true.

There is a small leak in the window in the far right corner – Paul can nearly see the small droplets as they fall from the wooden beams and kiss the stone floor, dripping slow and passing the time as a grandfather clock.

“Your dreams hold great significance, Paul Atreides.”

Unimpressed with her words of grandiose, Paul's jaw ticks in indignation; he could have guessed as much himself.

It is an effort to resist a snarl; confusion is an unwelcome addition to anger and it simmers low in his gut. Great significance, she says.

“I am the heir to House Atreides," Paul starts, jaw tights, "The Imperium might hang by the brink after the coming Referendum,” as he spits, his mother places a hand on his shoulder, her sharp inhale bristling the hair on Paul's neck. It does not quell his anger. “I won't entertain any manipulations in the name of my fate–”

“Silence.”

Words dissolve on his tongue; lips shut, eyes roll, light disappears from their sconces in the murky corners of the room.

And in that hazy, prickling way, he emerges from the momentary dreamstate with a wash of shame, of sheer wrath. She once again dares use the Voice?

But she has begun speaking, and Paul has no choice but to listen.

“You are the heir to a great legacy. But with that inheritance comes duty.”

He does not dignify her with any response.

To his defiance, she tilts her head – a crow of black and veiled, her beading eyes glint through the low light. “Tread carefully, Paul Atreides. The choices you make will shape the fate of many.”

A spoiled disdain of fanatic manipulations – the words are discomforting as they are incendiary in Paul’s brain.

The Reverend Mother continues. “You possess a strength within you, a strength born of both blood and spirit; but true strength lies not in the wielding of power, but in the mastery of oneself. Trust in your instincts, but do not let them blind you.”

His mother is fearful behind him. He feels it, radiating off of her; that pulsing worry that leaks from a wounded antelope in the twilight of a chase, the bleeding heart of a wounded animal.

It seems that the Reverend Mother grows tired of Paul's presence, for after a terse moment, she nods harshly. “You may go.”

Paul finds no better relief than turning heel and stalking briskly towards the door.

“–Not you, Jessica.”

It is with fury that he nearly turns around; but somewhere in his mind is a hazy insistence from his mother – urging to leave them; and so he does, lingering with an ear to the doors as a child would, straining to find the hushed words whipped into the chamber.

“The boy..." and then, "the girl, too,” The voice is a whistled wind in the ears of an unwelcome fate; The fragments of sentences are chopped and warbled, “–down the right path.”

He does not bother to stay and hear the rest of it.

The morning crawl of sunrise comes crisp as you cross the halls to the training rooms.

It is early - far earlier than your usual training hours, though you still cross into the room, stopping upon your toes at the sound of fighting.

In lieu of the common sight of Duncan perched in thought, cleaning blades and awaiting your presence, you’re met with the thud of skin meeting skin, exercised breaths and grunts of focus; the sharp slice of blades against shields.

You haunt the doorway, staring owlishly as Paul and Duncan spar.

It is an odd thing, you observe as the morning sun climbs higher into the cool sky; it is odd, the way that Paul Atreides fights; quite unlike the fluid but brutish style of your formerly betrothed, with his painted chest and curved blades.

These are slower; ones that awaken some dormant emotion low in your stomach. The patterned leaps and strikes, the circling toes; It is a dance – a rhythm that beats the same as the blood in your veins.

One, then the other – legs lunging, arms parrying, striking; hawks, in a circling prance.

You realize, with creeping horror: You know this song.

There is a melody in it, that old formulaic law of the vast universe, beyond the Imperium. Those whispers of the people who came before yours, who carved their faces into the mines within Sabberon’s tallest peaks. Their dance, their song.

The Zakon Roka. The martial art from your ancestors, who poured their song into the teachings of the Ginaz Swordmasters.

Your lips are wettened with your tongue as you watch the slide of thighs, a sharp spurt of strength emphasized with the glinting of rich curls; Paul has struck Duncan across the shoulder. The Law of Fate, as it were; a dance with blade in hand.

And in this waltz, you find that familiar beat, the quick jolts of Kozachok; A cautious precision. Soldiers with thick trousers and balanced on ice-bracketed boots; gliding between sword parries and swipes to the legs. Thick dresses and furs; whooshing in the passing air as pointed toes slice through cold, tapping upon ice with the kiss of a feather.

Paul’s movements are fluid, graceful, calculated; your worry doubles but is only quelled by the growing discomfort in your ribs.

So he is trained in the ways of your people.

Something about it twists an ancient melancholy in your gut.

Your mouth is bitter. He should, by principle, be little match for Duncan Idaho; A young man so clearly well-endowed in the areas of strategy, politics, governance, you’d hoped you could wheedle out some clear pitfall of the heir.

But instead you watch, a phantom of snow and evergreen in the doorway, as his watery movements outmaneuver his counterpart; the lapping of cerulean waves against a frigid shore, the laugh of a hawk in a frosted forest – a game of échecs, placed upon a checkered board – or, in this case, a sparring mat.

Nevertheless, the Atreides heir fights in a way all too familiar, and you’d strike yourself a liar if you said it did not coax some unwanted heat around your neck.

Your heart throbs painfully in your ribcage. The boyish laughter of your youngest sister, hair unruly as she leapt to your brother, rapier prodding the shield protecting his precious skin.

Snowflakes still fell in those last days before you left for Giedi Prime; and you still held on to those foolish dreams of springtime in an Imperium that would soon be frozen in winter.

A sunbeam streaks through the green of Paul’s eyes just for a moment, glittering just as that sea which lies beyond the horizon. Your skin has grown small gooseflesh; a shuddering breath from your lips, furrowing your brows as Paul leaps, avoiding a low swipe from the glinting blade of his counterpart.

He fights like them, yes – like the wolves of Sabberon – but he too mirrors those quicker movements, the ones that were taken from ancient cultures of other civilizations; an amalgamation of the sharpest fighters in the Imperium, honed into one pattern of dance steps.

A waltz of death.

You should have expected as much.

After all, he's grown up here on Caladan – a Duke's son, trained to become a ruler one day; and he has been tutored in this dance by the greatest fighter you’ve known, a man who shared the blade with your people for many years.

Paul matches him blow for blow; and his cheeks, glowing and dusted with pink – to your dismay, barely a glean of sweat across his furrowed brow.

A strike against Duncan hits unblocked once more; The older man, in turn, lets out a huff of laughter – pride leaks through that sound.

Your blood turns to acid; and your patience is rapidly expiring in the knowledge that your betrothed is once again quite talented – and Duncan watches Paul as if he were his own son, an observation that festers somewhere horribly sore in the bruised chasm of your emptied, wanting heart.

Anger bites at your heels, and though you know he had no control over your fate, the bitterness lingers. The bruises upon your soul, the clawing betrayal of abandonment those years ago. Of when you last saw him.

Harvest season came on Sabberon with gusts of spiced air and merry visitors – each revolution of orbit, with leaves of crimson and amber falling to the ground; the scent of roasts and cider blowing with the harvest wind with the first few flakes of wintertide.

Each year, Duncan Idaho would visit; and then, even when you were no taller than his elbow, it’d been a dance for you too – your body in step, giving and taking with his own. A Waltz of Death. The Zakon Roka.

You’re brought back when Duncan's blade presses to Paul's side; Grunting, Paul cannot seem to parry – your eyes flicker with the red flash of the shield’s warning.

A vision behind your lids once more – viscous liquid, gleaming in the sun – a curved blade, dripping carmine.

The blade is slow, and it penetrates Paul’s shield; Your veins thrum in excitement at the widening of viridescent eyes, the glance of a doe along the point of a hunter’s bow.

God forbid he hurts that precious porcelain skin. What color, you wonder absently, would his blood flow from such a blade?

Feyd-Rautha's blood was so dark it was nearly black.

A crimson color when it smeared across his skin, though reflective and glinting in daunting light; a tangy, sharp metallic taste when you’d brought his bloodied fingers to your own lips.

A gasp echoes in your mind, a sickening squelch; the expiring rattle of breath, eyes desperate beneath knitted brows. Fear floods your stomach, a horrible thing as the outline of the sun leaks a halo over Paul’s curls.

It seems your dream from this morning has not left you – the dread threaded into your muscles as you’d woken pulls at your lips, weighs upon your shoulders.

A phantom pain lingers in your stomach.

Paul has escaped the slow blade somehow as you stood daydreaming; and he now moves along the ring of sunlight from the window.

His lips, furled in concentration – those lips, pinked and bitten in the haze of your memory, a dream of sighs and of bites against warm flesh.

Heat creeps once more around your neck: And your haze snaps, any such grasp of patience you may have had is gone.

It takes only a shift upon your feet to catch the attention of the two.

At the sight of you, Duncan hesitates. Seizing the moment, Paul strikes and Duncan tumbles to the ground with a blade to his throat.

You do not hide the lift of your brows.

Paul releases his grasp, pulling Duncan up with himself. With a wipe of sweat from his brow, Duncan's eyes skirt to the clock and he huffs, “Sorry. Must’ve lost track of time.”

Humming, you slink onto the mat; a panther stalking along the limb of a tree.

In greeting you receive a nod from Paul; though his gaze is more a fleeting brush from your face to the blade at your hip. It is a split moment – though the green in his eyes snags like a hook, reeling you back — back to the dream you woke fresh from this very morning. Of blood, bright as a jewel; A breath, shuddering its last. The sharp sting of fear - the whisper of a hidden blade.

“I’m early,” you reason, slipping past Duncan’s startled stare as he takes in your uncovered visage. It is the same look you received from the Houseworkers all morning.

The fresh-faced Bourbon.

Paul’s frame glows. A bathe of soft golden, flickering as his hand wipes sweat from his brow, chest heaving. A stirring deep in your chest turns bitter when it rises, warm and wanting, to your neck. You shove it down, recalling the ebbing gaze of his stare last evening aside the small tide pools.

In the turn of only a few weeks, you will have to use this marriage as leverage; should the referendum reap rotten fruits — and if you ever want to make sure the Harkonnens stay off of Sabberon— you must build trust.

Paul might be your only bridge towards redemption if the arraignment crumbles.

And so it is with these thoughts that you slink next to him, toes gracing along the floor, an ancient beat in your pulse.

Paul’s gaze catches through the corner of his eyes before returning to the disinfectant in his hands, running it along the side of the knife. His offer held out in the glint of a blade is declined softly, with a shake of your head.

“No, thank you,” your hands find the hilt of your blade.

In a chilling instant, his visage turns and his gaze flickers lower; a green sea staring at the glint of your knife at your side. Lips, pressed tight into a polite smile. “Right.”

He wastes no time. In his leave, he brushes your shoulder, brow gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat.

You begin to stretch, ignoring Duncan Idaho’s watchful stare.

It's only a moment before you run your mouth. “He fights like you,” you observe; and if it's instigative, you let it be.

Duncan’s hum is amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The unsheathing of your blade conceals your eye roll as you begin to sharpen its edges — and in the creaking quiet, his stare burns into the side of your uncovered face.

Your patience wears thin after only a minute; and so in the sterile silence, you lift a brow.

“Did you expect me to be bald under the veil?” you snap, tired of the stare burning into your visage.

He hardly blinks before you turned to him, some resent nestling familiar in your chest. “I lived there long enough, didn't I?”

Duncan twists the blade in his grasp, eyes softening in that way that makes your heart race, an unknown urge to fight or to run. His voice comes out far too gentle. “You’ve grown up.”

Your eyes sting. You turn away frilly, fighting the rising tightness within your throat; though his words come soft and far too close to your heart.

“You just…” he sighs. “You look like your mother.”

Your stomach drops; you throw your knife onto the table, whirling to face him as the metal clangs. “Don’t.”

His stare is much too patient; your heart tremors in its cage, your vision swimming. A shaky inhale in the empty room. And then, the words spill.

“I was never prepared to be the last Bourbon alive.” Your step comes forward in some vague threat, though your mind is far beyond the sparring mat. “I’m barely a Bourbon at all anymore,” you laugh, a bitter thing that falls flat in the sterile room. Duncan has nothing to say to this, it seems.

“My betrothed had to inform me of my own culture’s traditions,” you spit, glaring sharp at the man standing before you, “Do you know how humiliating that was?”

Your anger is misdirected; This you are well aware, and yet you must resist the urge to strike him at the words ringing in your head. You look like your mother.

It is a bitter laugh once more as you look out to the coastline warbling far beyond Duncan’s shoulder, a jeweled sea tickled by stray rays of sunlight. “My mother ensured long ago that any chance of my house’s traditions being preserved would die alongside with my father,” your jaw clenches, fury quivering in your breast. “So it doesn't really matter, in the end.”

A gull flies far in the distance, circling the sea. “There’s nobody left to witness those traditions being broken but myself.”

Duncan remains; and with a small nod, his voice comes heavy with the burden of bodies hanging above your heads. His words bite when they hit you.

“You don't have to face it all alone.”

The disbelief must reflect on your visage as you let out a short bark of a laugh. “Then where were you?”

His face changes – a subtle shift, in the bright of his eyes, drawn in my a thick line of brow. The silence is suffocating.

Shadows crawl in your mind, a whisper of screams, of ears pressed against heavy locked doors; you suck in a heavy breath. “I was there with them – with him – for four years. Four years!” Your voice cracks through the room, a whip sharp as you lurch in your pain.

Your hand finds the weapons table as you snap. “Not one single fucking check-in, no visit, nothing. Nobody batted an eye when my messages stopped delivering?” Your voice, boiling and nearly splintering, warbles when you look back to Duncan, “When there was never a wedding?”

And, despite your rage, Duncan lets you continue.

It is a spill of the festering thoughts you’ve kept within for years – since that fated day, waving weakly from the window of a ship as your family, five strong, draped in green and swathed in furs, waved back.

“–They had to have known what kind of monsters they’d shipped me off to,” you whisper, “House Bourbon was allies with the Atreides for centuries,” you shake your head bitterly, “We've always known what the Harkonnens are.”

You lift your shoulder, shaking your head. “And yet, they sent me happily to marry the devil.” You glare at Duncan. “To become one.”

You press your hands to your cheeks to soothe the heat; Thankfully, no tears fall. “I don't blame you.” You snap, and the words feel weak even to yourself. "I don't. but..."

You break the stare, gaze dropping to the mat below you. “You’re the only person left to be angry towards.”

His voice is heavy when it comes, and you fight the small instinct clawing at you to pull him into embrace. “I'm sorry for everything you’ve lost. Everything that’s–” he clears his throat, then, and the floor swims with unshed emotion below you. “For everything that happened to you.”

You do not go to him – instead you stand, barren and alone, rooted evergreen in the middle of the floor.

“I should have been there for you.” He takes a step forward, “They should have, too.”

And how ugly is your heart, to force him to say such things when his grief mirrors your own?

His voice comes once more. “It’s okay to still be angry with them – what they did to you – even if you’re mourning them.”

Your throat tightens, exhaustion settles deep; a weariness, carved from years of fear, abandonment, festering anger. It has been far too long you’ve stood alone, always looking over your shoulder, twitching your fingers towards the blade that lives upon your hip.

His eyes are too warm for what you deserve.

“I shouldn't have treated you so coldly,” you admit with a sting of humility. “I…” your mind crawls to the message that sits in your chambers from the castle at Ginaz. Your throat tightens, your voice wavers weakly, and you curse yourself. “You're the closest family I have here.”

And Duncan remains patient as the Pine. “There is nothing for you to apologize for, Little Bourbon.”

The name settles deep; your mind finds the melancholic memories of chilled cheeks, plumed breaths, flakes catching on blades. A youthful laugh bubbling through the buzzing anger in your heart – and despite yourself, your lips twitch. A ghost of a smile, from the ghost of a girl.

He knows better than to dwell; and so you catch the blade he tosses to you gratefully.

But just as you roll your shoulders, the sound of footsteps disrupts you. A soldier walks through the room; though to your shock, he addresses you and not your master.

“Lady Bourbon,” he nods, “the Lady Jessica wishes to speak with you over lunch in her quarters now, if you have a moment.”

Something within you deflates. A glance shot to Duncan, whose gaze is already set upon your visage with a mild interest that does very little to soothe your upticked nerves.

Whispers flood your mind as you blink numbly – a syrupy dizziness that finds you so often when you consider the Sisterhood, whenever you catch Lady Jessica's stark eyes. You cannot deny how unsettled you are by the thought of being alone in her presence right now.

But you know better than to refuse the lady of the house’s wishes.

“And spoil my fun here?” You muse, sharing a wry glance with Duncan.

You follow the soldier anyways.

If there is one thing you can certainly appreciate, it is that Lady Jessica burdens neither of you with the pretense of smalltalk.

In fact, lunch is hardly picked at before she brings it up.

“You were once on the path of the Bene Gesserit,” she starts over the soft clinking of silver and china. Your gaze remains steady, your spine uncurling as if awakened by an ancient memory.

You nod stiffly.

She continues – penetrating and warm, her eyes take in the curve of your shoulders, the pride of your spine. Her voice carries all the calm melody that your mother never possessed.

“Circumstances may have led you away, but your training has not been forgotten,” she sips the cup of tea before her. This change in subject comes as no surprise to you; in fact, since the very moment you stepped out into the rainy morning of Caladan that first day, you’ve been waiting for it to return, to curl in from the shadows. Somewhere in the murky ruminations of your mind, voices whisper. You blink them away.

“Yes, my lady,” you set your own fork down and offer her a tight-lipped attempt at a smile. “I studied the Ways when I was younger.”

She nods. “Have you considered continuing this path?” She tilts her head, and an icicle slides into the soft flesh of your stomach. “Honing your skills once more— to strengthen your voice, your intuition, your presence?”

To you, the Sisterhood is an unforgettable chasm; memories flooding the fur-floored halls of your mind. Your mother's stern visage, relentless training regimens; elixirs, smoking incense, warm spice behind heavy doors. Knives flicking from sleeves, robes wrapped around you and your sisters, swishing as your hands found the soft skin of each other’s weakest spots.

Women veiled, with eyes that slithered; boxes which screamed, needles which threatened, words which controlled. A heavy past.

And though it is skepticism that tugs at your mind at her words, there is still a part of you that can't help the twinge of curiosity; Such an ancient order – such power, the only kind possible to have as a woman in a cruel world such as your own. And then, there is that looming thing; for your mind trembles at the impending shadow of the upcoming arraignment. The thought of protection is a glamorous one.

But you know better.

You saw that very mistrust sewed in your own house; The crack between your father and his court, of the looming shadow of your mother and the sisterhood through the halls of Castle Bourbon, of the loss of thousands of years of tradition.

You have been struck with a bout of dread, and your throat has dried. “I’m…” you purse your lips, “I haven't, my lady.”

Her voice is earnest as she leans closer. “I understand your hesitations,” her eyes flicker to the empty doorway and back, “but given the current circumstances, it may be wise to strengthen all of your skills. Including those you learned with the Bene Gesserit.”

The dread swirls in like the tide, and you swallow thickly. “Circumstances?” You parrot, tilting your head. You know what she's implying; it doesn't ease the suspicion that rises, the feeling that the strings which tie themselves to Lady Jessica are being pulled from much higher above your head; somewhere unreachable, unattainable.

“It's imperative to ere on the side of caution,” she murmurs; though you feel no such assurance at her message. You are unsettled as she takes in your posture, at your fingers, curled in your palm.

“Tell me,” she starts then, stirring the tea in front of her, “Even after your time with the sisterhood, did you ever experience visions?” Her eyes penetrate, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up at her next words.

“Dreams that stayed with you long after you woke?”

Your throat dries so quick you almost choke. A chill finds you when your eyes lock with hers.

So it was a look she shared with Paul at the strategy council yesterday. It seems Lady Jessica has been keeping close tabs on you, after all.

Heat licks around your neck, creeping over your chest – you hope she cannot read your mind thoroughly, for she would likely not enjoy the more intimate parts of your dreams.

The dread has surfaced; your hair still prickled, you level your visage to hers, calm. Your voice is chill in the warm sunbeams of midday.

“You seem to already know my answer.”

Lady Jessica's lips press together. “Indeed,” she affirms; gentle, yet probing. She nods nearly imperceptively, “but I need to hear it from you.”

You pause, grappling with the memories that surge forth at Lady Jessica's inquiry; The dreams, the visions— they haunt you, asleep and awake – and despite your reluctance to acknowledge them, they have persisted; lingered, a shadow waning in the corners of your vision. There is a thin sheen of sweat growing across your breast, in the insistent thump of your heart.

And then your voice comes.

“Yes,” your voice, barely above a whisper.

She is a master in her own craft, and any attempt to analyze the twitch in her gaze would reap futile.

“I suspected as much,” her eyes swim, gleaming in the warm sunlight. A clink as you raise the tea to your lips, obscuring the tremor threatening to jolt your composure.

“I must advise you, my dear," she nods. "Dreams are often the key to understanding the path that lies before you.”

Cool dread rises to your lips, pressing wordless screams to your lips. You do not let them leak.

Her words hang, exasperatingly cryptic; And you are, in your silence, forced to acknowledge for the first time that these dreams, torturous and haunting as they are, are still a calling, a beckoning towards something that you cannot ignore. A whisper comes in the back of your mind, a forgotten mantra, though you do not know what it means: The Shortening of the Way.

Your jaw has begun to ache; you force yourself to release the tension, setting your saucer down gently. It clinks in the empty silence of the room.

Lady Jessica speaks your name once more. “I urge you to consider resuming your training with the Bene Gesserit,” she suggests, and your fingers twitch subtly. “Not out of obligation, but out of necessity. In times of uncertainty, it is essential to be prepared.”

Prepared.

You meet Lady Jessica's gaze; and despite your reservations, despite the ghosts of the past, you cannot deny that which you have always known. Power comes to those who seek it - and it is a dangerous thing to wield a blade when its other edge is hidden.

Your mother’s voice finds your mind, a haunting ghost of a life lost to time and pursuit of power: To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater.

You are overcome with the overwhelming sense that you are far over your head – and with a squared shoulder, you nod curtly. You are not safe.

“I hope you will understand my wish to reflect, my lady," you respond, willing your heart to remain untampered by your unease. “And I thank you for your guidance."

Lady Jessica offers you a reassuring smile, though it does little to quell the raging in your stomach.

And then, at her final words, your stomach drops.

“Consider it, my dear,” she nods, gaze unceasing, penetrating. “To wield raw power is to bare yourself to forces far greater.”

That night, Paul exits his mother’s quarters as the moon kisses the coast.

An exhausted drag of feet over the stoned flooring, Paul yawns against his palm, thinking quite fondly of his bed and pillow.

In the empty corridor, his stomach groans; a normally ravenous appetite eluded in the wake of the Reverend Mother’s early morning visit today has left Paul on the edge of shaking hands and a racing, unsettled heart.

An evening sparring his mother on knife skills would, on an average night, be nothing of consequence to Paul; though the last few hours were tense, laced in the budding and unusual mistrust that has sprouted in the dawn of the day. Any such attempts to pry the truth from behind closed doors this morning had resulted in gentle stern looks and tight words from his mother. This sentiment, naturally, only serves to worry him further; and lost in the puddle of unidentifiable dread, Paul quickens his pace.

Absent footfalls come and go as he passes towards his quarters; in the drooping tangle of his curled lashes, a shadow flickers.

Of course, he realizes much too late that the shadow comes with a body.

A careening impact, one that sends both you and Paul into a sharp inhale as you both rear back in shock; two does caught in the crosshairs of a hidden scope.

He meets your eyes, and in them there is that particular glint; a cold thing in nature, but warming in his gut as he takes in your startled figure.

You, draped in warmth and soft clothes, with gently parted lips and wide eyes; you, so unlike yourself in the daylight.

“I'm s-" he shakes his head faintly. "Apologies,” he stutters intelligently, inclining his head in a respectful effort to valiantly hide his suddenly warm cheeks.

Your lips twitch, and he watches the curve of gloss in the faint glow of moonlight. Your tormented stare follows his own almost reluctantly down the hall you both seemed to have been headed towards; and though the thought of accompanying you to your chambers when his mind is on the brink of exhaustion is less than favorable, it is highly outshined by the stroke of unease through Paul’s heart at the sight of the knife upon your hip.

Not unlike your blade, your hair glints in the light, sliding against the skin peeking from your collar. Paul feels a tickle upon his neck.

“No harm done, my lord,” you nod with that same guarded visage.

There is that unsettled, ashamed tug in his chest when your gleaming eyes find his own once again – and though it has been a day, he’s still starkly arrested by your bare countenance.

You don't have to look away, you know. I'm still the same beast as before.

His cheeks are warm. With a quiet cough, he gestures down the hall. “I was just heading–”

“–So was I,” you interject with a surprisingly endearing lurch upon your toes.

Paul’s lips press together, plagued by visions of glinting blades and dribbling crimson; though still you fall into stride together, shadows slinking over the halls quietly.

It is odd; perhaps in an ordinary world, Paul might feel giddy to walk his prospective wife to her quarters after a long day. But this world is not ordinary, and neither are you.

There is a large casement on the eastern cast of the wing; the window kisses a silvery breath over your figure - so soft in the forgiving nature of evening - before hushing you back into the shadows again. An eclipse in his blinks, and he wonders vaguely what the moons are like on Sabberon.

If there is one forgiving thing about the misfortune you’ve both happened upon in this late hall, it is that neither of you seem keen to speak – and Paul is more than pleased with this, knowing not what to say nor how to respond should you say anything first.

But indeed, the twisting of your fingers, the sly glances up towards his visage, and the silence do not last; soon your lips part, and from them spill words that nearly stop him in his tracks.

“I had lunch with your mother today.”

Your eyes are sharp; and he does not hide his consternation. Your gaze is intense – and if he were any less wary, perhaps he’d find it in him to flush under the sheer weight of your attention.

“What did she tell you?” His accusatory tone is poorly concealed, and he once again chastises himself for letting you wheedle through the small cracks in his tenacity.

You, with sharpened teeth and a gaze hungry for the scent of fresh blood; a brow lifts over your blinking eyes and Paul slows his pace.

“Why do you assume she had things to tell?” You lilt.

And damn you.

A weary sigh from his worried lips must encourage the loosening of your own, for your jaw sets but still your voice floats, dreamy and melodic and wholly troubling all the same.

But you do not play this song and dance further – for that he is grateful – until you tell him. “She suggested I take up Bene Gesserit studies again.”

Your stare drinks in his tightened jaw, the hardly perceptible shift in his breathing; and though his unease has spread to each stretch of his being, he wills it not to show. Words flicker in his mind, images of women whispering in corridors, of windy planets, of trickling gardens and sharp needles.

Down the right path.

In a breath of unease, he has quickened his pace; and your footfalls stumble only once as your frame turns to keep up, tilting your head up to him.

His words are quiet in the hall, and his gaze is focused upon the doorway far on the left. Whispers curl around the dredges of his mind, a terrible tone that laughs at the thump of his heartbeat.

And though the dread has spread, he urges his heart rate to steady. Paul gives a valiant effort to appear less than affected by this revelation.

“She asked about your dreams?” It is not a true question, for he already knows the answer.

And now it is he who watches for a reaction: Green eyes study, analyze, explore the curve of your cheeks, the swallow of your smooth throat. And in his search lies the answer – a blink of bare and curling lashes, a stuttered inhale.

In that way you do, your spine stiffens; brows furrow over your jeweled gaze, tilting your head as a few stray tresses kiss along the fabric of your top gently. Your lips have parted in a flare of worry.

“My dreams?” Your hand is warm as you grasp his elbow – a sturdy thing, tugging him to stop fully. “How–”

But it seems you’ve wizened to the footsteps of houseworkers in the chamber just to the right of where you and Paul now stand before each other, transfixed in the harmony of stuttering heartbeats and the steady shake of uneasy breaths.

And as the houseworkers fade to the other side of the wing, there grows a horrible bout of silence.

His mother’s guarded visage flickers in his mind when his gaze casts once back towards the hall he came down; your breaths are much too schooled, far too even. Paul knows the flickers of Prana-Bindu, even when they are ingrained deep into veins and concealed within skin thick as stone.

Visions; some sunsoaked melody of Weirding Ways, sharpened blades – of you, standing opposite his mother, raising that very same blade that haunts his dreams.

His gaze returns to the hilt that peeks from the soft drape of your tunic. Along the corridors of his mind comes the harsh lilt of the Reverend Mother this morning: Down the right path.

There is danger there, something whispers to him – and memories of dreams, of lulling whispers, of sharp gasps of pain, soft sighs of ecstasy; the glint of sunset-streaked skies, rustling trees, the flashing of sharp metal – of hands that wander, that grasp, that plunge.

The breeze through the hallway is a sobering one – and soon enough, there comes another echo down the hall.

An inkling of fear creeps along Paul’s nape, and he shakes his head minutely. “We shouldn’t be speaking of this here.”

You blink, and he cannot help but stare – a truly beautiful creature, hardened with subsistence yet so softened in the trickery of night.

You merely nod.

It could be a treacherous thing, he knows. The Bene Gesserit are a force that machinates far above his head – far above his mother’s, for that matter.

And although Paul knows not what silky ties such whispering hands might weave across the Imperium these days, and though spiders might descend wrapped in the trickery of gowns and sharply beautiful smiles, it does not mean he is completely blind to the signs of a webbed trap.

“Come,” he requests; though in the starkly quiet hall, it finds his own ears as more of an order – and though he glances only sparingly at your neckline, his gaze hooks nearly regretfully upon the pendant clasped and catching the light just below your throat.

At the memory, he cannot bring himself to meet your eyes.

You do not try to catch his stare. Instead you merely follow, a silent tempest of resistance and obstination.

He opens the door to his quarters – and your sly glance around to survey for any witnesses brings a slight heat to his neck; still, your frame slips past where he holds the door ajar.

Paul knows how active you’ve been in your time on Caladan so far; And yet here is a place of which you are completely unfamiliar.

Paul’s chambers – where your spine stays rigid and your steps precise, where your eyes snake over each revealing aspect of his personality; tracing over books and figurines and the photo projector across the way.

You repose upon the chair across his room, but he finds himself restless, standing before your expectant gaze.

“Paul,” your voice brings his name in that crisp and yet breathy way, that accent that curls dense and throaty through the air.

It's a startle to his senses, for you to use his given name; and when he snaps his gaze once more to you, he finds you resting upon pointed elbows, a flicker of anxiety lurking beyond your limitless stare.

“If we are to do this together, we must build trust," you murmur.

And you’re right; This – marriage, ruling Caladan, representing the House Atreides – and whatever else is to come. He nods solemnly; your tongue smooths over your bitten lip.

“Why does your mother wish to know about my dreams?” You’re blunt – a thing he quite appreciates. “How did you know she’d ask me of them?”

Answers come to the tip of his tongue and dissolve just as he opens his lips; you watch him, lying in wait, and yet the truth lies in some thick plane of dust, of sand, and Paul cannot stop slipping through it.

“I don’t…” he swallows, shaking his head. Because he does know; and the truth sits heavy upon his shoulders.

His sigh is sharp. “The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam visited this morning.”

And if you are surprised, it only comes in the stiffening of your spine and the flat tone of your voice as it slips, a caress of silk in the low light of his quarters. “She visited Caladan? This morning?”

He blinks at you, nodding once more. “My mother woke me early,” Paul murmurs.

“And... she came for the Duke?” you ask slowly – though Paul is no fool for the pattern of lies upon your tongue, nor the schooling twitch of muscle upon the curve of your cheeks, “...or for Lady Jessica?”

His jaw ticks slowly, lifting his chin. Your own head mimics the motion.

He admits it slowly, watching your stare trace the pattern of the words from his lips.

“She came for me.”

You remain evergreen and cool in the shade of night, silhouetted by the warm glow of lamp shade.

“What did she want with you?”

And though instinct tells him to deflect, he cannot look away from your penetrating gaze. His tongue drips with verity.

“I’ve been having dreams.”

And he sees it in the sharp inhale, the way your gaze breaks from his eyes to somewhere near his stomach, just for a split moment. It is miniscule, a farce; but to so sharp a refined mind as his own, it is enough. You are scared.

“You’ve had dreams?” Your voice is sharp.

His own mimics yours. “About Sabberon.”

And he’s firm, ignoring the foreboding tendrils of apprehension that lurk within his heart. He continues. “In those dreams, I feel like…” a stray curl comes loose in his vision, though he does not tame it. “...Like I have to go there. Like I’m... meant to.”

Your skin has grown ghostly as you nod absently; and in the lapse of your words, Paul fills the silence with all he can admit.

The night turns slowly, minutes folding by in the cadence of his voice. Your expression melts more and more as Paul recounts the Reverend Mother’s words, to his encounter with her previously those years ago. This, it seems, sends you into a state; for your eyes snap to him, unblinking.

“The Gom Jabbar?” You ask suddenly. Paul nods, “Yes, it is a kind of test–”

Your head shakes, tresses ablaze with the licks of lamplight, falling in tendrils across the soft fabric of your tunic. “–I know of it,” you interject purposefully, voice melodic and syrupy in that way your people are, “I also received it,” you explain quickly before your brows furrow in that way they sometimes do; shaking your head minutely. “I just do not understand why she might administer it to you.”

In a nervous habit of childhood, Paul’s lip has grown raw from troubling it with his teeth. A pause sits heavy in the room, and the lull of his bed behind him calls quietly; Outside, the coast shines with ripples of lazy moonlight.

Paul debates in his mind, glancing over the sharp turn of nose, the hook of your jaw – the curve of your lips.

Knowledge – a weapon, a burden.

His breath falls short, and he whispers your name as calmly as he can. “My mother has trained me in the ways of the Bene Gesserit too.”

Your visage morphs; a momentary lapse in control, some flame burns bright in your gaze, a fury he knows not.

It is gone in a moment, though it is ingrained into his retinas.

It is only within a blink that you remain muzzled by this revelation – and after a breath, you return to his stare; it hits him at once, that shift. Your eyes are cold, sharp.

Perhaps the dread he feels is not unrequited.

Though there are larger beasts lurking in the depths of these waters; and you lean back upon palms, shoulders broad and head tilted to take in his standing frame.

“She warned me, at lunch.” You speak bluntly, “That resuming to practice the ways of the Bene Gesserit is not out of obligation, but necessity. She told me…” and then your eyes flicker to the very same spot upon his stomach as before. “She told me something odd. That dreams are keys. To understanding the path before you.”

Paul’s stomach drops.

Down the right path.

A crone, that Reverend Mother; playing you, his mother, and Paul; all of you, puppets strung high above the dark chasm of the Imperium, that shadowy something that lurks in the dark corners of each House’s history books.

And dredges of childhood memories, of harsh whispers and trials-in-twos and of ears pressed to closed doors: Paul swallows thickly, heart pounding in his chest.

“My mother spoke to my father once of a tale,” he rushes, biting his lip. “A tale, or– a prophecy. I was young, eavesdropping through the closed doors,” Paul has to shake off the sudden flare of amusement, some odd hidden recognition in your gaze at this; heat creeps round his neck, though he continues. “I didn’t hear most of it, but I did hear… parts.”

The tale comes choppy, haphazard – a stream of uneasy consciousness spilled to the only person who might be of any help deciphering it.

“She said something about... dual contenders. About me being tested one day,” he mutters, hand swiping over the bridge of his nose. “And years later – the day the Reverend Mother administered the Gom Jabbar– she told my mother there would be two candidates for something.” Paul’s brow furrows, “Today…” his throat is tight, stomach pitted. “She spoke to me of my dreams. Said nearly the same thing my mother did to you.”

You do not speak, and a lurch of nerves urges Paul to mutter: “I just..." he shakes his head absently, mind far away, "I find it troubling.”

A heavy beat. Your lashes tangle when you blink up at him – and then comes a stark, shocking noise; a laugh, tumbling sharp from your lips. “You find it troubling,” you nod with a wry grin, “do you, Paul?”

And he realizes quickly how much of an understatement it'd been; and despite the tug of indignation in his chest, his lips press together, biting back a boyish grin of his own.

Your laugh bubbles away with his own breathy chuckle, and in an ungraceful surrender, Paul finds himself plopped upon the chaise lounge beside you.

Your fingers are adorned with bands; jeweled and draped with the bleeding hearts of your homeplanet’s jeweled mountain caverns, your fingers tap against the bland fabric of your trousers in an unwilling rhythm. They glint, jaded, emerald, even rubied; and in the night’s light, they seem to sing.

Your words come just when Paul feels the deep pull of exhaustion drag at his eyelids.

“I dream of it too.”

His stomach forms a pit of ice as he stares.

“Sabberon,” you supplement; though it is not needed, for he feels the pang of dizziness at the implications. It is never a good thing, no matter who you are, to share dreams.

You continue, your hair falling in loose strands over your haunting visage. The lamplight melts the cool stab of your stare and he finds himself lulled in by the gentle rhythm of your accent.

“My planet,” your brows furrow in that way Paul has come to recognize in your past day free of the veil, “we have a sacred Pine. It's symbolic of our Harvest.”

And though Paul knows this from the very book that lies across the room, he merely nods.

You bite your lip, “It has grown for thousands of years, upon a mountain beyond the Castle Bourbon. I’ve never actually been.” You shrug your shoulder, eyes glinting in veiled unease. “At least, not lucidly.”

And you start again, pressing your fingers to your palms. “When I dream of it, I’m…” your gaze snakes over his posture, following the lines of his shoulders, up his neck, tracing the warmth as it spreads to his cheeks. Paul wills it away with a quick breath.

You clear your own throat, a heat creeping along your cheeks that Paul staunchly ignores as his own memories of dreams come to mind. Your voice is sharp, though quiet. “I’m always there with you.”

There is a special sharpness to your stare; Fear, Paul’s mind whispers. A similar feeling slithers over his heart, clutching it in ice.

Despite himself, still he feels it: Another soul, trapped in this web of visions, and politics, and power; it is a dizzying thought in of itself, to sympathize so rawly with you – though he cannot deny that the gleam of worry in your stare is surely mimicked in his own.

His lips part easily. “You're there. In my dreams, too.”

Minutes pass after his admittance. It is punctuated by the harmony of rising breaths and schooled exhales, of tapping metal and restless knees.

Paul, slumped with consternation – and you, rigid with anxiety. He can feel it ebbing from you in waves, can feel the pulse of your heartbeat within his own. The silence has just grown comfortable with the resignation of fate when you speak once more.

“Do you trust her?”

Your voice is quiet, and it strikes fear deep in his chest: for it is a foolish thing to ask one of one’s mother – but it is just as telling that Paul hesitates, that he chooses his words with painstaking analysis.

That his words are not a true answer.

“The Sisterhood instructed her to have a daughter,” Paul starts, “and yet instead, for my father, she bore a son.”

He needs not explain to you how the Reverend Mother is still unhappy about his mother’s choice. It seems his words answer your question in a way; for your inhale is deep.

Paul tugs at a spare thread that pokes from the chaise lounge below him. “I was dismissed this morning,” he murmurs, “but I stayed outside. Pressed my ear to the door.” And this truth brings some flicker to your gaze – a quirk, again, of amusement – that familiarity glinting in your eyes as if remembering some long past memory.

“You seem to keep a habit of this,” you murmur dryly. Heat creeps along his cheeks at the curl of your voice.

His laugh is quiet, shy – hardly audible. He pushes on, ignoring the glossy tresses that fall over your shoulder and bring a soft scent of citrus and forest.

And the grin melts from his face as he recalls what he’d heard, the dread settling once more. “The Reverend Mother said something to my mother about–” he clears his throat, “the boy. And... the girl. Going down the right path.”

You peer at him from beneath evergreen lashes. “And then, your mother offered, quite abruptly, to tutor me in the ways of the Sisterhood once more,” you piece it together with pursed lips.

There is a small figurine of a bull that sits upon the table before you; Paul’s gaze traces over the carved horns, studying it with an absent worry budding in his stomach.

“It’s about us,” he murmurs, watching as your shoed toe drags along the pattern of his rug softly, brushing curves and pressing gently. “Whatever this is. But... it’s not about us.”

Two candidates.

You nod in his peripheral; a glinting of a pendant upon your chest, the tinkling of jewelry draped over your hands.

“Will it ever be?”

Paul solemnly shakes his head towards the bull, unable to look you in the eyes.

I shall wear it like a dog.

Your face is solemn – a permanent thing, one Paul has quickly grown used to. Admiring of, in a way, though it draws forth heavy visions, swirling fabrications of screams, of years spent in shackles – of families falling to the ground, of blood staining gowns.

You tilt your head to him, hair catching the light from behind his own frame. “It is a heavy burden to bear,” you say softly when it becomes apparent that Paul cannot speak. Your voice echoes the exact sentiments that roam in Paul’s mind; Heavy, yes. And Paul knows you are used to burdens.

He leans back in his seat, blowing away a strand curl from his vision in exhaustion; and though your eyes flick to him in his peripheral, he does not notice the way your eyes track the action and flick away almost shyly.

The quiet is cold.

“If only I’d had a sister,” Paul sighs.

You snort softly from your nose, and it is an endearing noise – his eyes rove over the quirk in your lips, the faraway gaze in your eyes.

“I had three,” you murmur quietly, “They were a handful.”

It is the first time you’ve spoken of your family to Paul; his interest piqued, he hums gently – for he can nearly picture it for a moment. You, ten years smaller, just a young teen – traipsing and wrestling in a snowy field with three sisters, a little boy stumbling after you. Screams from nearby onlookers as the youngest sister jumps into a half-frozen and emerald lake – the dampened silence of white fields and evergreens forests slumbering in the distance, broken by cracking ice and sharp gasps of frigid thrill.

Laughter – sharp and bubbling, smooth and melodic as you run and plunge, dress and furs, into the icy depths, pulling your sisters with you. Scolding nursemaids and soldiers in wolf armor running to fish you out. Attendants rushing to bundle and protect your young brother's frail, weak skin. Shivering, blistered cold – and then, hands cupping tea, toothy grins bit back, ruddy cheeks warmed before a grand hearth.

“What was it like?” Paul wonders.

You shift in your seat, your own gaze now tracing the curve of the bull’s horns before you. “Complicated,” you breathe out – Paul watches as your spine relaxes just slightly, arms wrapping around yourself. “We were close in many ways, though…distant in others.” You bite your lip, eyes hooked upon the wood carving. “There was competition. Always. Even when we were young, especially between me and my sisters. My mother was in the Sisterhood. Very strict.” Your voice has grown terse; he sees the flicker of fury in your gaze as you stare down the bull. “My elder sister died in childbirth after she married. She left Sabberon just before my twelfth nameday. I never saw her again.”

Your boots are foreign against the rug on his bed chamber floor as you drag the tip across its swirled pattern. “They were my only friends,” you murmur – a lilt in your tone that makes Paul uncomfortable – a rawness that you are trying hard not to let through. “They made me laugh like no other.”

And when you look back towards the bull figurine, your gaze is far away. “I loved them very much.”

It hits Paul with a rush of guilt: He's studied so much about Sabberon, learned about your House's old customs and traditions – but yet, he realizes how little he truly knows about you. And still, now - in the warm lit din of his room, you remain rooted in that chilly, resiliently ethereal way. The chill of your stare, the curl of your lips as frost bites the corners of windows in a winter morning. Your heart beats strong below your breast.

How foolish he’d been to think of you as any bit Harkonnen.

Paul’s chest is tight; a pang as he swallows thickly.

“I don’t have siblings.” He clears his throat, “But I’ve always wished to be a brother.”

And to this, you turn to him. Paul is shocked to see your kind smile; glacial, small – his neck heats. “You'd be a good one,” you murmur.

Paul has to look away – and in a glance to your hands once more, he notices the small blemish lying in your palm. With a small nod, he gestures to where there had been a large irritation just yesterday. “It looks better.”

You smile once more, a sheepish thing – and it brightens the room as you huff a small laugh, clearly relieved to be done with such heavy topics. “I thought you were trying to trick me,” you admit, “trying to make me look foolish.”

He hums at this, tilting his head with a small grin of his own, “I assumed you'd thought I was trying to poison you.”

Your voice is serious when you respond. “The possibility did cross my mind.”

Paul has to hide his grin in his shoulder; You seem unaware of his reaction, though there grows a faint flush across the apples of your cheeks.

Your eyes have wandered – and after a moment, you suddenly rise onto your feet.

Paul watches as you pad over towards his bedside, tilting your head to run your finger over the spine of the book that lies upon his bedside table. The Noble Lineage: Exploring the Customs and Cultures of the Houses Major of Landsraad: House Bourbon.

“Is this yours?” You wonder, hair splayed in the air as you lean. Paul’s cheeks are hot with embarrassment at your discovery, but he nods, soothing his palms along his thighs. “If you’d like to read it, help yourself.”

You crane your neck back to catch his gaze. “Is it interesting at all?”

For a moment, Paul flounders – but it dawns on him that you’re teasing; and with a small grin, he laughs, still quite unused to the privilege of your trust, no matter how small it might be now.

“I haven’t decided,” he quips back. Your lips twitch before turning back to the book, your eyes tracing its spine. “Maybe I’ll borrow it, then,” you hum, “I’ve been sleeping very poorly. Perhaps this will finally be the thing to put me to sleep.”

He cannot hide the huff of amusement that falls from his nose – nor the odd, melting sensation in his chest as he watches you. It is not until he sees your eyes blink rather slowly that he remembers himself and his manners. That despite the worry and the foreboding sense that has crawled into the back of your minds, you are still his guest – his betrothed.

When he stands to meet you, he is struck by how your neck cranes to meet his eyes. “You should get some rest then,” he murmurs, “we’ve got the Strategy Council in the morning.”

You blink, and soon your face is that cool slate once more. “Yes– apologies,” you clear your throat, “It’s been a long day.”

Paul escorts you quietly to the main hall – where you insist with quick words and a small nod that he need not walk you all the way to your quarters.

He watches the fabric of your tunic catch the corner of the hall as you walk away.

The warmth that had enveloped you at such a late hour wears off quite quick when you return to your chambers.

The shadows climb here; whispers, worries – promises of galactic war, of the haunting wraith of the Harkonnens – of the Bene Gesserit and their webs; of petroleum reserves and trade routes, of Sabberon and her insurgent factions. Of Castle Bourbon, standing alone and empty before the Pine.

And those dreams – Paul, sharing them? Your cheeks heat at the mere thought; though your mind strays, an attempt to ignore the fear twisting in your gut.

Paul's room had been very warm – and his eyes quite jeweled; he keeps his chambers neater than you’d thought, clustered only by books on planets, flora and fauna, biology, culture.

And you must admit; Though the subject left you on edge, it is terribly reassuring to have someone who not only you could speak freely with about your dreams and the Bene Gesserit, but who seems to hold similar consternations as you.

There remains upon your clothing a faint scent of his bedroom, and your neck heats as you catch yourself pulling your tunic tighter, biting back against the warm spread onto your cheeks.

You are exhausted; but as your eyes catch upon your bureau, upon the daunting metal that stares at you gleaming from across the room, you resign yourself.

The message remains on your desk, where it's been since being delivered a few days ago. You'd read it already, yes – read it, avoided it – but now, you suppose, it is time to respond.

And in due time, it's finished.

My Dearest Aunt Ginaz,

Your letter arrived at a very uncertain time for me and for that, I am profoundly grateful. I apologize for the delayed responses – my keepers on Giedi Prime preferred I did not receive or send messages.

For my betrothal to Paul Atreides, your kind words of congratulations reassure me; Truthfully, the prospect of marrying into such a noble family is daunting, yet they have been quick to ensure that I have felt welcomed.

The loss of my family continues to weigh heavily upon my heart, and there are days when the pain feels unbearable. But there are things here that help. I spend my days tutoring, training your old friend Duncan Idaho. I have begun to sit in on the Duke's Strategy Councils.

I believe I will live well here.

Though I am assisted by the Atreides', each day that the arraignment nears, I grow in my unease. I wonder, will you be in attendance?

I look forward to visiting you and the family. In the meantime, know that I am safe and well, and that I carry your love and affection with me always.

With all my gratitude,

Your loving Niece

There are lies trickled through the entire letter – though you feel no such need to burden your mother's bastarded sister, a woman you’ve admired your whole life, with petty things such as your betrothal.

Your Aunt Ginaz; who succeeded your mother's parents when they died, who inherited the noble last name as one of her father's dying wishes. They’d had several daughters – all married off to other houses, like your mother; and your aunt had been reared to run the Swordmaster School. She now rules over their house with her husband, who took the name Ginaz.

In an exhausted haze, your mind wanders too freely. Paul Bourbon.

Your huff is less of amusement and more of shock, shaking your head to wipe yourself of such odd, childish thoughts. For it is late, and the ghosts of your dreams wait impatiently at your windows.

You’ll have Hestia send the message out in the morning; you sink into the mattress, and your eyes are closed as soon as your head hits the pillow.

You know you’re dreaming this time.

Sounds are muted, blurred – and your head is heavy, numb. The hands that are on you are Paul’s – you know this. But you're not embracing, no – there is no pleasure.

No. His hands are slippery against your flesh; you're gasping in pain, gasping for breath. You are bleeding.

Or, is that his gasp – his blood?

The ground is a muddy landscape of slush and crimson; and the hilt of your nameday blade glints in the sun, blood dripping from the tip.

Horror courses through you, heavy as the confusion pulsing through your veins. Who wields it?

Paul leans against you, his weight heavy; the air is heavy with snow.

Your brows furrow as a flake lands upon your lashes – but no, it is not snow; ash.

Ash, that rains from the sky in flurries as the earth tremors below you, smoke gathering in thick clouds somewhere in the near distance. Your throat is thick with fear.

Another flash of your knife, this time in a grasp.

Gasping, your hand comes away from your own abdomen, tainted black – black as the sun you once lived under.

“Hello?”

A fuzzy voice, laced with pain; warbled in this state, though you could pick it out of millions.

You look into his eyes and see green; shining stones, glistening lakes, rustling needles, waving fields. Paul’s hands cup your cheeks, staining handprints over your trembling cheeks. An explosion somewhere in the distance–

“Paul,” you breathe, fear lacing every fiber of you.

But then, his face changes.

A sickeningly lucid recognition flickers over his features when you speak, and something shifts as his gaze pierces, brows furrowing. Your lashes flutter in some muted pain. There is something wrong.

And then Paul says your name as if he's surprised to see you; and it is wrong – as if you are in the wrong place.

Paul’s groan of pain draws your horror – a wound, bloodied and black with expiring life; right upon his stomach.

Your cry of his name is silent to the whipping winds.

He looks down, as if expecting to see something between the two of you; some memory of a bejeweled hand, draped with bands and jewels of green and gold, plunging a blade; but you gasp in horror.

Because with his head tilted down, you squint, just barely making out the glint of another figure across the clearing.

Glowing skin, sickeningly pale. A creeping, black smile.

There is someone behind him, and he is holding your nameday knife.

It has the blood of your husband on it.

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