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sixeyesonathiel · 11 days ago

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a treatise on inconvenient attraction

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot divided into two parts, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, mutual pining, medical drama, imperial intrigue, disguised royalty, forbidden affection, reader is so done, satoru is so annoying, suguru is tired, palace hijinks, touch-starved idiots, eventual smut, masturbation, possibly inaccurate court etiquette & other cultural inaccuracies, i tried my best please be kind ^^

wc — 29k | gen. masterlist | part two | read on ao3?

a/n: yes this was meant to be a oneshot but tumblr said no to my 46k draft so i split it into two parts. part two will be up tonight or tomorrow!! i also added A LOT while editing because i have no self-control. huge thanks to power thesaurus for enabling the vocabulary overdose. sorry for the long wait and i hope you enjoy <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the inner court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe.

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess.

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor. “this was no mere ornament, my lady. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a gold-threaded handkerchief. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant. with satoru, both were plausible.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek.

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like dew on a lotus petal.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces.

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts.

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves brushed the corridor’s tiles with deliberate drag; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner, catching latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, gesturing with the fan. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from heavens that had long since stopped answering.

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replies, his wink a fleeting spark in the afternoon light, the sapphire stud in his earlobe catching a glint as he tilts his head. “besides, would you rather i act like a stuffy prince?”

the irony isn’t lost on him—he is a stuffy prince, or will be someday, when his father, whose breath rattles like dry leaves in his chest, finally yields the crown still heavy with the ghost of tragedy.

the late empress’s assassination, when satoru was barely old enough to stumble through palace corridors, had carved a brutal lesson into the imperial family: visibility invites blades. better to cloak the heir in silk and paint him with harmless whimsy than risk another dagger finding its mark.

only five souls in the sprawling palace know the truth: his father, whose sunken eyes track satoru with fading sharpness; the imperial chancellor, whose pinched lips birthed this charade; the minister of justice, whose tribunal and ledgers guard the succession’s fragile legality; suguru, whose shadow clings to satoru with the weight of unspoken oaths; and satoru himself, whose laughter sometimes blurs the line between performance and truth.

the inner court, bereft of an empress dowager, pulses with the consorts’ ruthless ambition, their silk robes whispering of power sharper than any sword. though the emperor weakens daily, these women wage silent wars for his favor, each dreaming of a son to crown her empress should the hidden prince perish.

they know such a prince exists, veiled for safety, but none suspect he flits among them, orchestrating their rivalries with a peacock’s strut and a courtesan’s smile.

the ladies adore their ornamental peacock—his flair for theatrics, his mastery of rouge and kohl, his gossip that slices like a hairpin’s edge. they sigh theatrically in his presence, their voices dripping with the practiced melancholy of lives honed by ambition and cushioned by luxury.

“what a waste,” the third imperial consort murmurs behind her fan, its ivory slats trembling faintly as her jade-green eyes trace the elegant curve of satoru’s throat, where a single pearl pendant rests against pale skin. “if only heaven had been more generous with your... wholeness.”

satoru’s smile blooms, honed over years—a charm that invites secrets, a distance that keeps them safe. his fingers, glittering with rings that snare the light pouring through latticed screens, adjust a fold in his azure robe, the silk whispering like a conspirator. “perhaps heaven knew i’d be too dangerous otherwise, my lady. imagine the chaos if i possessed both beauty and... capability.”

the women titter, their fans fluttering like startled sparrows, their laughter a delicate chime of scandalized delight. he navigates their tempests with a diplomat’s grace, though the irony of wielding statecraft to soothe cosmetic squabbles stings faintly.

lady xiao, her skin glowing like moonlight on snow from some costly powder, leans forward, her gold hairpin swaying as she adopts a conspiratorial whisper. “you simply must settle our debate, master satoru. lady chen insists crushed pearls in face powder yield the most ethereal glow, but i maintain powdered moonstone is far superior.”

“both have their merits,” satoru replies, his tone grave as a scholar’s, though his eyes flicker with amusement only suguru, leaning against a pillar, would catch. he lifts a strand of lady chen’s hair, its ebony sheen catching the light as he studies it with exaggerated focus, his silver bracelet glinting.

“with your warm undertones, crushed pearls would complement beautifully.” he turns to lady xiao, close enough that her breath hitches, her kohl-lined eyes wide. “but for your cooler complexion, moonstone would weave that otherworldly glow you chase.”

the verdict sparks preening—lady chen’s fingers smooth her hair, lady xiao’s fan snaps shut with a triumphant click. satoru sinks back into his cushioned seat, silk rustling like a secret unveiled, accepting their praise with the ease of a man crowned in their vanities.

“though,” he adds, mischief curling his lips as his lashes cast delicate shadows, “true radiance comes from within. perhaps you should consult the palace physicians about inner harmony before fussing over external charms.”

the suggestion, cloaked in earnestness, lands like a jest. laughter erupts, bright and sharp, the women reveling in his knack for dressing insults as wisdom, their painted nails gleaming as they clutch fans tighter.

suguru watches from the garden’s edge, his black robes stark against the pavilion’s vermilion pillars, his face a mask of weary endurance. a stray breeze tugs a dark strand loose from his neat bun, brushing his cheek as his eyes track satoru’s performance with the resignation of a man tethered to chaos.

“master satoru,” lady qiao ventures, her voice honeyed, her lips glistening with rose-tinted gloss as she tilts her head, a jade comb glinting in her upswept hair. “surely you have preferences regarding feminine beauty? purely from an aesthetic standpoint, of course.”

the question is a silk-wrapped trap. satoru’s smile holds, but his eyes sharpen, a flash of the mind destined for thornier battles. his fingers, tracing the carved armrest, pause briefly, the gold ring on his thumb catching a stray sunbeam.

“beauty,” he muses, “is like fine poetry. exquisite verses reveal new depths with each reading. surface prettiness fades, but intelligence, wit, character...” his gaze sweeps their faces, lingering just long enough to flatter, “those transform mere charm into transcendence.”

the answer sates their hunger for praise while baring nothing, a masterstroke they mistake for depth. their fans resume their dance, silk rustling like whispers of approval.

hours might pass thus—satoru weaving through cosmetic crises with finesse—but today, peace shatters like porcelain on marble.

the trouble begins with a silk scarf.

lady yun sweeps into the pavilion, azure silk draped to accent her porcelain skin, the emperor’s favored hue shimmering with intent. her hairpin, a silver crane, gleams as she moves, her eyes cool with triumph. lady mei, in pale lavender, stiffens, her fan halting mid-flutter, her lips tightening beneath their coral stain.

“how... bold,” lady xiang purrs, her smile sharp as frost, her fingers tightening around a jade bangle that clinks faintly. “to wear his majesty’s signature color so prominently. one might think you’re presuming your position.”

satoru’s fingers pause on his teacup, its porcelain cool against his palm, sensing the venom brewing. suguru edges closer, his hand brushing the hilt of a hidden blade, his jaw set.

“presumptions?” lady yun’s laugh chimes, her sleeve rippling as she gestures, revealing a bracelet of sapphire beads. “i wear what his majesty gifted me. perhaps if you spent less time whispering with servants and more earning his favor, you’d grasp the difference.”

the barb cuts deep. lady xiang’s face flushes beneath her powder, her eyes flashing like struck flint. satoru counts three seconds before chaos erupts.

“ladies,” he interjects, rising with a honeyed command, his robe catching the light in a cascade of azure folds, his silver hairpin glinting. “surely we can resolve this without—”

“stay out of this, master satoru,” lady xiang snaps, her voice cracking, her fan trembling in her grip. the dismissal bites, though satoru cloaks his flinch in feigned concern.

lady yun pounces, her nails tracing her sleeve with studied nonchalance. “how refreshing to see your true colors,” she says, her voice silk over steel. “his majesty noted your... common mannerisms lately. perhaps the strain of clinging to relevance frays your breeding.”

lady xiang’s palm meets lady yun’s cheek with a crack that silences the pavilion, her bangle clinking sharply. gasps ripple through the consorts, their fans freezing mid-air, eyes wide with shock. lady yun’s cheek blooms red, her crane hairpin trembling as she touches the mark with delicate fingers, her gaze hardening into something lethal.

“you dare strike me?” she whispers, her voice low, her sapphire beads catching the light like tears. “a daughter of the northern provinces, educated in the capital, marked by heaven with this beauty?”

“beauty fades,” lady xiang hisses, advancing, her lavender silk swaying like a predator’s tail, her hairpin glinting. “but vulgarity is eternal. his majesty will tire of your pretensions soon enough.”

“his majesty,” lady yun counters, her smile venomous, her fan snapping open with a flick, “has tired of your seduction attempts. why else cancel tonight’s private audience? other matters, he said, demand his attention.”

the blow lands. lady xiang falters, her breath catching, her coral lips parting as the truth sinks in—her meticulously planned evening with the emperor, her chance to secure favor, stolen. her bangle clinks again as her hand trembles.

“you scheming witch,” she breathes, lunging with murder in her eyes, her hairpin slipping slightly in her hair.

satoru moves, swift and fluid, his robe whispering as he steps between them, his fan snapping shut with a crack. “my dear ladies,” he says, voice laced with subtle command, “surely such passion belongs in more... productive pursuits?”

his tone halts them, though their glares burn like embers. satoru’s mind races, cataloging lady yun’s intelligence network, lady xiang’s desperation, the shifting sands of favor. his pearl pendant sways as he tilts his head, feigning concern.

“perhaps,” he ventures, his voice smooth as jade, “lady xiang, you wished to discuss that complexion treatment? and lady yun, your poetry recitation tomorrow deserves preparation.”

the suggestion, edged with condescension, reins them in. lady yun smooths her silk, her sapphire beads clinking faintly, her rage cooling into a mask of poise. lady xiang’s smile sharpens, but she nods, her hairpin now askew, betraying her frayed composure.

satoru claps, the sound sharp, his rings flashing. “how marvelous! such spirited discourse invigorates the afternoon. shall we revisit pearl powder versus moonstone? we were on the cusp of brilliance.”

the redirect forces civility, though tension crackles. satoru sinks into his cushions, his silk settling like a sigh, his mind dissecting the consorts’ moves—lady yun’s spies, lady xiang’s fragility, the court’s delicate balance.

as evening shadows stretch across the marble, satoru rises, his movements liquid, his hairpin catching the fading light. “duty calls, my ladies. the third consort awaits my counsel for her evening attire.”

their disappointment flickers, but they turn to tomorrow’s schemes. satoru bows, precise yet playful, his robe trailing like a comet’s tail. suguru falls into step as they leave, silent until the pavilion’s whispers fade.

“exhausting performance, your highness,” suguru murmurs, his dark sleeve brushing a pillar, his bun loosening slightly.

“getting easier,” satoru replies, shedding his theatrics, his posture sharpening, his fan tucked into his sash. “though my future subjects will despair when their emperor knows more about catfights than regiments.”

“your father would say palace politics and battlefields demand the same cunning,” suguru notes, his voice dry, a faint crease at his brow.

satoru’s laugh carries mirth and shadow, his earrings glinting as he strides forward. tomorrow brings more cosmetic crises, more veiled barbs, more lessons in power disguised as powder disputes. the crown prince will hide behind silk and sighs, studying his subjects’ souls one shallow secret at a time.

after all, the best disguises become second nature. and sometimes, the sharpest power lies in pretending you hold none at all.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone's-talking-and-no-one's-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both.

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor's favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru's ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female hysteria,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who'd never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just summer heat affecting her delicate temperament.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn't. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he drawled, voice lazy yet laced with a spark of intent, like a cat batting at a moth it fully intended to devour.

suguru didn’t lift his eyes from the scroll he feigned reading, arms crossed over dark robes that seemed to absorb the light, their folds creasing like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking. his hair, bound with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted glow, as if even it resented being tethered to satoru’s orbit. “the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed a patience fraying like a worn thread.

“that’s the charm of playing eunuch,” satoru replied, rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every gaze followed him. his robes—silver threaded with sapphire embroidery, ostentatiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight rippling across a still pond, the hem whispering against the polished floor like a lover’s sigh. “every door yields if you smile just so and dazzle them with a touch of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound heavy with a thousand unspoken curses, each one honed by years of trailing satoru’s chaos. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing’s beneath my station when i’m cloaked as a eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a sesame-crusted rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace, as if daring the world to challenge him. “it’s half the thrill. haven’t i earned a bit of fun after wrangling the inner court’s tantrums?”

and with that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and the promise of impending upheaval. suguru muttered a curse—something about peacocks strutting toward their inevitable fall—and followed, because someone had to tether the fool before he plunged headlong into ruin.

what they found at lady hua's quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor.

court physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their elaborate sleeves flapping like indignant birds, silk badges of rank glinting on their chests as they gestured wildly at treatment scrolls. someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of bitter medicinal herbs, sharp and acrid, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria.

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly's wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan's hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk's beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you knelt in the corner like a shadow given form. not beside lady hua—that privilege belonged to the proper court physicians with their silk badges and centuries of inherited authority—but close enough to see, to listen, to absorb every frustrated gesture and dismissive wave of their sleeves.

you weren't dressed like anyone of importance. your outer court servant robes were simple, practical cotton dyed the color of weathered stone, sleeves rolled past your elbows in a way that would scandalize the inner court but served you well in the servants' quarters where actual work got done. your hair was pinned back with a plain wooden stick, not jade or silver, and your hands bore the telltale stains of someone who ground herbs by moonlight when the day's official duties were done.

but oh, how you watched. your eyes tracked every movement of the physicians' hands, cataloged each herb they selected, noted the precise angle of lady hua's breathing.

when one physician mixed powdered deer antler with ginseng, your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. when another declared her pulse “flighty as a sparrow,” your fingers twitched against your thigh—once, twice, three times, as if counting beats they couldn't feel from across the room.

satoru straightened, the motion so slight it might’ve escaped anyone but suguru, who stood at his side like a storm cloud tethered to a comet. his fan slowed, silk shivering in the pause, as if the air itself held its breath. “who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, curling like incense smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a cascade of moonlight.

suguru had already marked you, his arms crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the strain. “outer court servant. kitchen work, mostly. cleans the medicine rooms.” each word clipped, as if to dismiss you before satoru’s curiosity took root.

“hmm,” satoru hummed, but his eyes never left you, sharp and gleaming with the delight of a puzzle half-solved. “and yet she’s not scrubbing pots.”

you shifted, angling your body to better observe the lead physician’s fumbling needlework, seeking a pressure point to ease lady hua’s pain. the movement was subtle, practiced—a dancer’s adjustment, born of months spent watching, learning, memorizing from the shadows. your lips moved again, silent but deliberate, and satoru caught the glint of something fierce in your expression, like a blade catching lamplight.

this wasn’t idle curiosity. this was hunger, raw and disciplined, the kind that drove scholars to madness or mastery.

the physician botched his needle placement, and you winced, fingers curling into fists, your silent corrections now a faint whisper of frustration. satoru watched, enthralled, as your hands mimicked the motions—precise, fluid, as if you could thread the needle through her meridians from across the room.

“she knows,” he whispered, more to himself than suguru, his voice alight with discovery.

“knows what?” suguru asked, though his tone suggested he’d already glimpsed the answer and dreaded its consequences.

“that they’re doing it wrong.” satoru’s smile was slow, delighted, like a child uncovering a forbidden game. “look at her hands.”

your fingers danced against your thigh, tracing the exact patterns of needle insertion, herb grinding, pulse-taking—muscle memory honed through countless unseen hours, knowledge that shouldn’t belong to a servant who spent her days scouring medicine bowls. each movement was a silent rebuke to the physicians’ arrogance, a testament to a mind that refused to be confined by her station.

one physician stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief, his voice heavy with pompous resignation. “the lady’s condition defies our current wisdom,” he declared, more concerned with preserving his dignity than her life. “we’ve exhausted all known remedies.”

that’s when you moved.

not with boldness—that would’ve been suicide. instead, you rose from your corner with the fluid grace of a crane taking flight, approached the lead physician with eyes appropriately downcast, and spoke in the deferential tones expected of your rank.

“honored physician,” you said, voice clear yet soft, cutting through the room’s chaos like a bell in a storm, “this humble servant has seen similar symptoms in the outer courts. if it would not offend your wisdom… a kitchen maid last month suffered likewise.”

the physician barely spared you a glance, already dismissing whatever peasant cure you might dare suggest. “female hysteria is commonplace. hardly comparable to lady hua’s refined constitution.”

“of course, honored sir,” you murmured, eyes still lowered, but satoru caught the steel beneath your silk-smooth tone. “yet the maid’s symptoms mirrored these—the headaches, the pallor, the precise pattern of lesions. she recovered fully after a decoction of chrysanthemum, mint, and processed rehmannia root.”

his attention snagged, though he masked it with scholarly disdain. “absurd. such simple herbs could never address a condition of this intricacy.”

you held your ground, voice humble yet unyielding, like bamboo bending in a gale. “your expertise far surpasses my crude observations, naturally. but the maid did recover, and her symptoms aligned so precisely…” you trailed off, the perfect portrait of respectful hesitation, your fingers twitching as if itching to demonstrate.

the physician’s pride warred with his desperation. lady hua’s breathing grew shallower, her skin taking on a waxen pallor that would soon spell ruin for everyone in the room. “these herbs,” he said at last, feigning casual curiosity, “you saw their preparation?”

“this servant cleans the preparation rooms,” you replied, a careful lie wrapped in just enough truth to pass muster. “sometimes the physician’s assistants share their methods while i work.”

satoru watched the performance with rapt fascination, his fan now still, its silk frozen mid-flutter. you weren’t merely suggesting a cure—you were orchestrating the entire scene, playing the physician’s ego like a koto’s strings, submissive enough to avoid offense, knowledgeable enough to be indispensable, desperate enough to seem harmless.

yet your eyes, when they flicked upward for the briefest moment, held secrets sharp enough to cut glass, a mind that danced circles around the men who dismissed you.

within the hour, lady hua sat upright, color blooming in her cheeks like dawn over a lotus pond, the mysterious lesions fading like mist under morning sun. the lead physician accepted congratulations with magnanimous grace, claiming credit for “consulting palace staff to compile comprehensive symptom reports,” his chest puffing like a rooster at dawn.

you had already melted back into the shadows, your work done, but not before satoru caught the satisfied curve of your lips—fleeting, triumphant, gone in a breath.

“fascinating,” he murmured, eyes lingering on the corner where you’d vanished, as if the air still held traces of your presence.

suguru’s expression remained a study in neutrality, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his resignation. “a lucky coincidence. simple remedies sometimes outshine complex ones.”

“hmm.” satoru’s smile lingered, bright and sharp as a freshly drawn blade. “tell me, suguru—what do we know of kitchen maids who memorize advanced medical techniques? who position themselves flawlessly to study court physicians? who move like they’re accustomed to being heeded, not ignored?”

“we know,” suguru said dryly, his voice heavy with the weight of impending trouble, “that you’re about to make this our headache.”

“not our headache,” satoru corrected with a grin. “my amusement.”

because lady hua’s recovery might’ve dazzled the court, but you—you were a riddle cloaked in servant’s robes, wielding knowledge that could heal or harm, navigating the palace with the lethal precision of someone who knew their own danger.

and satoru gojo, crown prince masquerading as eunuch, had just stumbled upon a game far more captivating than court whispers, one he intended to play to its end.

the emperor’s study always smelled faintly of old power—that particular blend of sun-warmed parchment, cedar polish, and something faintly metallic. blood, maybe, or the memory of it. it was the kind of room where even the air seemed to walk softly.

satoru sat across from the emperor with the calm of a man desperately trying not to tap his fingers. he adjusted the fold of his sleeve, eyes flicking toward the desk where his father’s brush moved in careful strokes. his posture was perfect, intentionally so—chin tilted, one knee loosely crossed, silver hair tied back but predictably disobedient with a few strands curling just beside his cheek. his robe, navy lined in restrained gold, sat sharp against the sun streaming through the lattice window. he looked every inch the noble son. all very deliberate.

“father,” he began, and the word felt heavier than it should have. maybe because he hadn’t used it in a while. maybe because he still wasn’t sure which version of the emperor he was talking to today.

no reply. the brush continued its whispered dance across parchment—a list of names, most likely. or death warrants. same difference in the imperial court.

“i’ve been thinking about the medical needs of the inner court.”

still no reaction, just the soft scrape of ink and paper. satoru swallowed the urge to fill the silence with more words and waited instead, watching for the telltale signs of his father’s attention.

then—a twitch of a brow. not much, but it meant he was listening. unfortunately.

“the women,” satoru continued, his voice smooth but softer now. “they’re suffering. quietly, of course. as they always do. they’re afraid to speak about their ailments, or worse, they’ve learned not to bother trying.”

the emperor’s brush paused for just a heartbeat before continuing its careful work.

“because they can’t be examined properly by male physicians, their symptoms are dismissed. attributed to nerves, to wombs, to feminine hysteria.” satoru kept his tone clinical, professional. “real suffering gets reduced to mood swings.”

“and you’ve discovered this how?”

the trap was expected, so satoru smiled—just a little, mostly to himself. “the third consort mentioned it during a conversation about hair ornaments. she gets migraines, told me she stopped letting the court physicians treat her after one tried to give her a mercury concoction and advised her to avoid loud colors.”

he left out the part where he’d actually laughed at the absurdity. she’d joined him. misery loves company, after all.

“she said a servant helped her instead. a woman from the outer court.” satoru watched his father’s face carefully. “i saw her treat the consort myself. her technique was impressive—precise, not palace-trained, but more effective because of it.”

what he didn’t say: you hadn’t spared him a glance during the treatment. your fingers had moved with unbothered certainty, tucking the consort’s hair behind her ear while applying pressure to specific points with your other hand. your eyes had flicked toward him only once, and the look had been unimpressed, functional, dismissive.

it had lit something unfortunate in him.

“you seem very well-informed about this woman.”

satoru inclined his head, letting one finger trail along the edge of the lacquered desk. “i asked around. standard diligence—you know how thorough i can be when something catches my interest.”

“i do,” his father murmured, finally setting the brush down with deliberate care.

satoru let the moment stretch, just enough to suggest sincerity without overselling it.

“she has no political affiliations, no family ties, no suspicious history. she’s been in the outer court six months and caused no disruptions. the only people who mention her are the ones she’s treated, and they talk about her like she’s something they dreamed during a fever—there but not quite real.”

he didn’t mention the late nights he’d spent tracing palace gossip until it led to your name, or how no one seemed to agree on what you looked like, only that you were quiet, clean, and dangerous in the way truly intelligent women often were.

“she’s better than most of our court physicians,” he said simply. “more hygienic too. she washes her hands, makes her patients do the same. revolutionary concept, apparently.”

the emperor gave him a look—hard to read, as always, but with an edge of something that might have been amusement.

“a woman like that, appearing out of nowhere with such skills.”

“suspicious, yes,” satoru agreed readily. “but also exactly what this court needs. what the women deserve. and...” he paused, letting the weight of unspoken words settle between them. “what you need.”

the temperature in the room seemed to shift, though neither man moved.

“you want to bring her into the inner court.”

“i want to give her an official appointment. court apothecary with proper access, recognition, protection.” satoru leaned forward slightly, and the afternoon light caught the edge of his silver hair, framing his face in something almost holy. “she’s worth the risk.”

he waited, watching his father’s expression for any sign of rejection. when none came, he pressed on.

“and there’s another reason.” his voice dropped, becoming something more vulnerable. “your condition hasn’t improved despite everything the court physicians have tried. she might see what they’ve missed, notice something they’re too set in their ways to consider.”

his voice didn’t shake, but it was closer than he wanted. closer than was comfortable.

his father said nothing for a long moment, fingers drumming against the desk in that familiar thinking rhythm satoru remembered from childhood.

“if there’s even a chance she could help...”

“then we should take it.” the emperor’s decision came swift and final. “appoint her. she’ll report directly to you—you brought her to my attention, you can manage her integration into court life.”

relief flooded through satoru like a tide, and he stood quickly, trying not to look as shaken as he felt. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet,” the emperor said, and there it was—that familiar edge of knowing amusement. “handling a woman of exceptional skill and mysterious background won’t be simple. especially when there’s personal investment involved.”

satoru hesitated, then offered what he hoped was a convincing lie. “my interest is purely professional.”

his father’s look could have cut glass. “you’ve described her capabilities in detail but haven’t once mentioned her appearance. either she’s remarkably plain, or you’re working very hard not to think about how she looks.”

“i hadn’t noticed.”

“mm.” it wasn’t quite a sound, more like a judgment rendered and filed away for future reference.

“inform the steward of her appointment,” the emperor added, returning his attention to the documents spread across his desk. “and do it properly. if you’re going to gamble on someone, don’t play your hand halfway.”

satoru bowed again, quick and precise, then left the room feeling like he’d been carefully dissected and sewn back together.

the hallway outside hummed with the usual quiet motion of palace life—servants gliding past with tea trays, scribes shuffling along with scrolls tucked into their sleeves, the distant sound of a flute meandering through some half-finished melody. normal sounds, normal sights, but everything felt different now.

you’d be staying. elevated to a position where your skills could be properly utilized, where he could watch you work and maybe, eventually, understand what drove someone with your abilities to hide among the servants.

he tried not to smile as he headed toward the inner court to deliver news that would change everything. tried and failed completely.

the first thing satoru noticed was the crack in your expression—not a chasm, just a flicker, like a lantern’s flame caught in a draft. he was always watching for it, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s, trained to catch the smallest tells in a court where lies were currency and truths were contraband.

that blink-and-you-miss-it smile—the quiet, cautious pride that bloomed when the summons reached you—vanished the instant your gaze landed on him in the receiving hall.

you went still, not with fear but with the kind of disappointment that stings like a paper cut, laced with offense, as if someone had promised you a jade pendant and handed you a wriggling rat instead.

he found it utterly delightful.

“you,” you said, the word a curse wrapped in velvet, sharp enough to draw blood.

“me,” satoru replied, spreading his arms just enough to invite applause, his grin a crescent of pure mischief. his robes today were pale violet, embroidered with butterflies that shimmered like moonlight on water, each thread catching the lantern glow with ostentatious grace.

his hair was twisted into a gold pin, too ornate for a eunuch but perfectly satoru, perched in the grey space where rules bent to his whims. a fine line of kohl rimmed his lashes, accentuating eyes that sparkled with dramatic intent—because if he had to endure the stifling heat and court nonsense, he’d damn well look like a painting while doing it.

the head steward droned on, his voice a monotonous hum about imperial favor and sacred duty, a speech satoru could’ve recited in his sleep.

he didn’t bother pretending to listen.

he was too busy cataloging your betrayals: the faint hitch in your breath, like a zither string plucked too hard; the way your hands folded, knuckles whitening as if gripping an invisible blade; the defiant tilt of your chin, a silent challenge to the world. you were furious, a bonfire masquerading as a lantern, and oh, how you tried to cloak it in courtly composure. but satoru saw the embers, and they thrilled him.

he caught the moment realization struck you, sharp as a needle: this wasn’t just a promotion. this was proximity. to him.

“the inner court welcomes you,” the steward concluded, his voice fading into the hall’s polished silence.

“i’m sure it does,” you said, your tone sugared with venom, each syllable a dart aimed at satoru’s smug face.

once the others dispersed, satoru glided forward, arms tucked within his sleeves, his voice dropping into that soft, insincere purr he saved for spooking cats and bureaucrats. “congratulations,” he said, leaning just close enough to make you bristle. “you’ve ascended. fresh linens, finer herbs, a view of the lotus pond. and, of course, me.”

you blinked at him, slow and deliberate, like a cat deciding whether to swipe or ignore. “is it too late to crawl back to scrubbing pans?” you asked, your deadpan so perfect it deserved its own pavilion.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he said, his grin widening, sharp as a crescent moon. “you’ll still scrub—just not linen. now it’s egos and temperaments, lotus tea for headaches, petals for petty heartbreaks. all the flowers of the inner court, lovingly pruned by your hand.”

“thrilling,” you muttered, the word dripping with disdain, as if you’d rather mop the emperor’s stables. “a promotion and a leash.”

“not a leash,” satoru said, pressing a hand to his chest with a mock gasp. “companionship—unsolicited, exquisitely dressed, and utterly unavoidable.”

and there it was—the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth, not a smile but a threat, like a blade half-drawn from its sheath. he liked it. no, he adored it, the way it promised trouble as much as it deflected his own.

he lingered a beat too long, eyes glinting like polished jade, before turning and strolling off, his robes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, as if the world spun on his axis. and maybe, just maybe, it did.

later that evening, purely by coincidence (his words, not truth’s), he found himself drifting past your new quarters. entirely by accident (again, his words). three times, his steps echoing softly on the stone path, each pass a little slower, a little bolder. the fourth time, he stopped.

he waited until the courtyard shadows stretched long, pooling like ink beneath the flickering lanterns that cast gold over the tiles. then, with the humility of a man who’d never known the word, satoru leaned against your doorframe, one hand toying with the edge of a scroll, its wax seal glinting like a conspirator’s wink.

“what,” you said, not turning from the table where you sorted herbs, your voice flat as a blade’s edge.

“i brought a gift,” he said brightly, his tone all sunshine and mischief, as if he’d just unearthed a treasure.

“is it my resignation?” you asked, still not looking, your fingers pausing over a vial of crushed ginseng.

“better. a medical mystery.” he stepped inside, uninvited, and held out the scroll, its parchment crinkling faintly. you didn’t take it, of course. you just stared, expression as unyielding as the palace walls, as if calculating whether a pestle could double as a club.

finally, you snatched it, your movements sharp, and scanned the text with a flick of your eyes. “these symptoms contradict each other,” you said, voice clipped, like you were scolding a particularly dense apprentice.

“i know,” satoru said, leaning against a lacquered cabinet, his sleeve brushing a jar that wobbled but didn’t fall.

“this is fabricated,” you added, your glare pinning him like a butterfly to a board.

“only the illness,” he said, undeterred, his smile a spark in the dim room. “the need for your attention? painfully real.”

you sighed, loud and theatrical, a performance worthy of the imperial stage. satoru mentally awarded it a nine out of ten—solid, but you could’ve thrown in a hair toss for flair.

you unrolled the scroll again, your lips twitching in a scowl as you muttered, “ridiculous.” the word was a dart, but satoru caught it like a prize.

“you’re a parasite in silk,” you said, louder now, tossing the scroll onto the table with a flick of your wrist. “the most useless eunuch in three dynasties, and that’s saying something.”

“flattery will get you everywhere,” he replied, utterly unfazed, his fingers brushing the edge of a clay bowl as he wandered your space like he owned it. “keep going, i’m taking notes.”

“i wasn’t flattering you,” you snapped, finally turning to face him, your eyes blazing like a forge.

“that’s what makes it so charming,” he said, his grin widening, as if your ire was a rare vintage he couldn’t resist savoring.

you shot him a look that could’ve curdled goat milk, then turned back to your work, your fingers moving with the precision of a calligrapher, sorting herbs into neat piles. but you kept the scroll, its corner peeking from beneath a stack of notes, and your muttering continued—snatches of “insufferable peacock” and “why is this my life” drifting like smoke.

satoru prowled your quarters, ignoring the way your gaze tracked his hands, as if you were mentally mapping every pressure point from wrist to neck.

he brushed his fingers over jars, their labels curling at the edges, and peeked into a box of tools, its contents gleaming faintly in the lantern light. he didn’t speak, just watched—the furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the deliberate flick of your wrist as you ground yanhusuo, the rhythm of your work like a silent song.

he didn’t know why he stayed.

or rather, he did, but admitting it felt like stepping into a trap of his own making. you were a puzzle with edges that cut, a contradiction that hooked him deeper with every barb. the faint scent of crushed herbs clung to the room, mingling with the wisp of incense curling from a burner, and it anchored him there, tethered to the moment.

when he finally slipped out, you didn’t look up, hunched over your desk, scribbling notes like you were waging war on the scroll’s nonsense. but as he passed the water basin by the door, its surface caught your reflection—a glare aimed at his retreating back, sharp and searing, like a blade thrown in silence.

it made his whole damn day.

he found suguru by the koi pond, pacing the stone path, hands clasped behind his back like a tutor bracing for a lecture on broken vases. the moonlight glinted off the water, the fish darting like silver needles beneath the surface.

“don’t say it,” satoru said, cutting him off before a word could escape.

“you like her,” suguru said anyway, his voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs, each syllable a judgment.

“i said don’t say it,” satoru shot back, tossing his hair with a flourish, the gold pin catching the light like a star.

“and yet, here we are,” suguru said, his gaze flicking to satoru’s face, reading the spark there with the ease of a man who’d seen this play before.

satoru sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, tilting his head to the moon as if it might explain why his heart thrummed like a war drum. “i’m just monitoring a potential threat,” he said, the lie so flimsy it barely held together.

“sure,” suguru said, his lips twitching, not quite a smile. “because that gleam in your eyes screams caution.”

“i’m delightful,” satoru corrected, spinning on his heel, his robes flaring like a dancer’s.

suguru groaned, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand future apologies. “you’re doomed.”

and he was probably right. but gods, what a glorious disaster to waltz into, with you at its heart—sharp-tongued, untamed, a flame that burned brighter than satoru’s own, and twice as dangerous.

satoru had never been a creature of habit.

routines were for bureaucrats, monks, and men with lives too dull to warrant a second glance. he craved spontaneity, thrived in chaos, relished derailing the meticulously stacked schedules of others like a fox scattering a henhouse.

unpredictability was his dance, disruption his song. so the fact that he now drifted down the same shaded corridor every morning—at roughly the same hour, with the same lazy gait and the same infuriating glint in his eye—was a confession he’d never voice aloud.

not that he’d admit it, even to himself.

his excuses shifted like the seasons. delivering a scroll to a scribe who didn’t exist. inspecting inner court security for threats that never materialized. dodging paperwork that multiplied like roaches in the archives. conducting a surprise audit of herbal stores. critiquing the palace tea for “quality control.” evading a minister whose droning voice on strategy briefings could bore a statue to tears.

each alibi flimsier than the last, but satoru wielded them with the confidence of a man who knew the world would bend to his whims.

really, it was one thing. one person.

you.

he found you as always—elbow-deep in some concoction, sleeves knotted tightly past your elbows, hair pinned in a haphazard bun that threatened to unravel with every movement.

a faint smudge of green—licorice root, perhaps—stained your cheekbone, a badge of your battle against the chaos you wove and tamed.

you were a paradox: a whirlwind of spilled herbs and scattered parchment, yet sharper, more focused than any silk-clad noble posturing in the emperor’s court. you looked like a battlefield medic with a grudge against decorum and a vendetta against wasted time, and it never failed to spark both amusement and distraction in satoru’s usually restless mind.

“you again,” you said, voice dry as crushed ginger, not bothering to lift your eyes from the mortar where you pulverized a root with grim determination.

“you sound shocked,” satoru replied, stepping over the threshold with a roll of his shoulder, his robes—deep cream silk embroidered with winding cranes that shimmered with each step—swaying like mist over a dawn lake.

today’s ensemble was absurdly extravagant for a glorified supply closet, the fabric catching the lantern light in soft ripples. his hair, loosely tied at the nape, let silver strands frame his face, and a delicate trace of plum-red pigment accented the corners of his eyes, a flourish that screamed performance. he was too much, and that was precisely the point.

“i thought we’d settled into a rhythm,” he said, leaning against your worktable, perilously close to your neatly bundled herbs and stacked parchment. “me, you, the tang of crushed roots, and that slow-simmering resentment you wear so well.”

you didn’t answer. instead, you ground the pestle with a force that suggested the root had slandered your ancestors, the bowl rattling faintly under your wrath.

he tilted his head, silver hair catching the warm glow like threads of starlight, his rings—three today, each etched with faint sigils—clicking softly against the table’s edge.

“no one else to pester?” you muttered, jaw tight, your fingers flexing around the pestle as if it might double as a weapon. “no decrees to ignore? no ministers to torment?”

“oh, plenty,” he said, his grin slow and sharp, like a blade unsheathed for show. “but none of them look half as charming when they’re plotting my demise.”

your hand stilled, the pestle clicking sharply against the bowl, a punctuation of pure exasperation. he nearly clapped, delighted by the precision of your irritation.

because it wasn’t just that you disliked him—plenty did, and he wore their scorn like a badge. you didn’t pretend. no groveling, no fawning, no hollow courtesies offered to his eunuch’s guise. your disdain was raw, unfiltered, a silent roar in every glance.

it was refreshing, like a cold stream after too long in the palace’s stifling opulence, and deeply, wickedly entertaining.

he returned the next day. and the day after. each visit a little bolder, a little longer, as if testing how far he could push before you snapped.

sometimes he brought absurdities disguised as inquiries: a scroll detailing a servant who sprouted hives when he lied, complete with fictional case notes. another time, a cracked jade hairpin, its edges worn smooth, which he claimed induced fevers under a full moon’s gaze.

once, he presented a koi scale in a silk pouch, its iridescence glinting like a stolen star, declaring it a rare cure for heartache—just to see if you’d fling it at him.

you did, with the aim of an archer, the scale skittering across the floor as you muttered something about “idiots in silk.” he gave you a mental ovation.

he started noticing things—more than he meant to, more than was wise. you drank your tea standing, spine rigid, eyes flicking to the window like you expected a rope ladder to unfurl. you reused parchment, scribbling notes in the margins of torn festival flyers or crumpled ceremonial edicts, your script tight and precise.

your tools gleamed, arranged like a general’s arsenal, each blade and vial in its place, but your hair perpetually slipped its pins, curling defiantly against your neck until you shoved it back with an impatient hand.

you hummed when you thought no one heard—a fleeting melody, half-forgotten, like a song from a village far from the palace’s red walls. your brows twitched, a subtle dance, when you puzzled over a formula. your lips curled, just so, a heartbeat before you unleashed an insult, as if savoring the barb.

and despite every barbed word, every glare sharp enough to draw blood, you never truly banished him. not really.

“you know,” he said one afternoon, sprawled in the corner of your workspace, one leg tucked beneath him like a cat claiming a sunbeam, his sleeves pooling like spilled cream, “you haven’t thanked me.”

“for what?” you asked, voice muffled as you rummaged behind a bamboo curtain, the clink of vials punctuating your words. “wrecking my mornings like a plague in peacock feathers?”

“for ushering you into the inner court,” he said, tipping his head back against the wall, silver hair cascading over his shoulder like moonlight spilling across snow. the motion was deliberate, a painter’s stroke, and he knew it.

a beat. then the sharp scrape of wood as you slammed a drawer shut, the sound a silent curse. you emerged, clutching a bundle of dried leaves, your glare sour enough to wilt the lotuses in the courtyard.

“right,” you said, each word a blade honed to kill. “my deepest thanks for the promotion i wanted and the permanent shadow it dragged in.”

“shouldn’t you be grateful?” he teased, propping his chin in his hand, rings glinting as he traced the edge of a nearby jar. “i handed you the emperor’s court—prestige, resources, a front-row seat to my radiance.”

you turned to him, slow and deliberate, like a swordmaster sizing up a foolhardy opponent. “and i curse it every dawn,” you said, your voice low, each syllable a spark. “if i’d known you came tethered like a leech, i’d have begged to stay in the outer court, scrubbing pans in peace.”

he clutched his chest, a theatrical gasp, his eyes sparkling with mock agony. “you wound me, truly.”

“not yet,” you muttered, turning back to your leaves, your fingers ripping a stalk with unnecessary force. “but i’m practicing.”

his grin widened, sharp as a crescent moon, and he settled deeper into his perch, as if your scorn were an invitation to stay.

and you let him. not with words, never with warmth, but with the absence of a broom or a thrown pestle. and he kept returning, drawn by the rhythm you’d carved between you—insult, retort, silence. a glance, then another, lingering like a brush of silk. proximity that stretched longer than it should, close enough to feel the heat of your irritation, the weight of your presence.

it wasn’t peace—gods, never peace—but something like understanding, a pattern etched in barbed words and stolen moments. a hum beneath the surface, unnamed, unacknowledged, but growing louder with each visit.

then came the laugh—sharp, unexpected, a single burst when he presented a “case” about a noble who sneezed only during poetry recitals. your eyes crinkled, head tilting back for a heartbeat, the sound bright and unguarded before you smothered it, your face twisting into a scowl as if you’d betrayed yourself. you looked like you wanted to burn the room down to erase it.

satoru stared, too long, too openly, catching the way your cheeks flushed, the way you ducked your head to hide it. he saw you glance at him, then away, quick as a startled bird, and something in his chest tugged—sharp, stupid, undeniable.

he left that day with a thought that prickled like a splinter: he was in deeper trouble than he’d planned, and it was entirely, gloriously your fault.

today’s morning puzzle was more unhinged than usual.

“man experiences nosebleeds only in the presence of caged birds,” you read aloud, your tone so flat it could’ve scraped the lacquer off the palace floors. “and when exposed to lacquerware.”

satoru, sprawled in his usual corner of your workspace like a sculpture no one ordered, blinked with the kind of innocence that fooled no one, least of all you. his robe—warm ivory threaded with golden phoenix feathers—caught the dawn’s light, casting fleeting sparks against the wall like a firecracker’s afterglow. his hair, braided with a defiant thread of red silk (he knew you loathed it), spilled over one shoulder with the precision of a stage cue.

he was every inch the frivolous, silk-draped menace he aimed to be, his rings—two today, etched with coiling dragons—glinting as he propped an elbow on a crate of dried herbs.

“don’t you think there’s a tragedy woven in that?” he asked, voice too chipper for the hour, like a bird chirping before the world had rubbed sleep from its eyes.

“you’re banned from tragedy,” you snapped, shutting the scroll with a crack that made a passing maid jump, her tray of tea wobbling. you tossed it onto the table, narrowly missing a jar of powdered rhubarb, its clay surface dusted with your fingerprints.

this wasn’t his first medical case, nor even the twentieth. he’d stopped counting around the time he concocted a patient who sneezed whenever lies were spoken nearby.

what began as a game—probing your diagnostic skill with obscure, half-invented symptoms—had spiraled into a ritual as absurd as it was unshakable. yet you read every one. scrawled notes in their margins. laced them with insults sharp enough to draw blood. returned them smudged with ink and bristling with barely restrained fury.

he hoarded them like relics.

“you should’ve seen the drafts,” he said, as if that salvaged anything. “the first version had goose feathers and wine fumes. i spared you.”

“if this is your plot to bury me in professional shame,” you said, wrenching open a jar of salves with a force that suggested personal vendetta, “you’re nearly there.”

he tilted his head, a single silver strand slipping free, brushing the curve of his ear like a painter’s afterthought. he watched you move—always with purpose, always taut as a bowstring. you no longer flinched at his presence, but you never softened either. you wielded words like scalpels, keeping him at bay with precision cuts.

he liked sharp things. always had.

at first, the game was straightforward: deliver impossible cases, watch you unravel them, maybe coax a laugh if the stars aligned.

they never did.

you didn’t laugh. but you scowled, rolled your eyes, muttered poetic venom into your mortar as you ground herbs to dust. you called him names with the accuracy of a physician lancing a wound—“peacock,” “nuisance,” “silk-clad calamity”—each one a tiny victory he tucked away like a magpie with trinkets.

“this isn’t a diagnosis,” you muttered now, flipping the scroll open to scrawl furious notes, your brush slashing the parchment like a blade. “this is a poem having a tantrum.”

“you wound me,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest as if your words could be stitched into his ribs. “you’re the only one who’s ever called me poetic.”

“you’re the only fool in this empire whose puzzles come with a musical accompaniment,” you shot back, your brush pausing mid-stroke, ink pooling at the tip.

he grinned, quick and wicked. “you noticed?”

“you brought a flautist last week,” you said, voice flat as a blade’s edge. “he tripped on your sash.”

“he needed the practice,” satoru said, smooth as polished jade, his fingers tracing the rim of a nearby vial, its glass cool under his touch.

you didn’t bother responding, just turned back to your work, sharpening a bundle of dried ginger with a knife that gleamed like a silent threat. the blade’s rhythm was steady, each slice a rebuke to his existence.

he watched it all. the way your hands danced, precise yet restless, as if they could never quite settle. the way your lips pressed thin when you read something particularly absurd, a silent curse forming before you spoke. how your hair, always slipping its pins, curled defiantly at your nape, streaked with ink from fingers too busy to care. how you muttered in a cadence just off-kilter from the palace’s polished formalities, a dialect of frustration and focus.

you were chaos cloaked in competence, a storm bound by will, and he couldn’t look away.

every day, he brought another case. a man who laughed himself into fainting fits during banquets. a servant girl who sleepwalked into the kitchen’s rice stores, waking with flour in her hair. an aristocrat’s daughter who swore her vision flipped upside down every other hour, blaming it on cursed earrings.

he scribbled them late at night, brush half-dry, on balconies between court sessions, once even during a poetry recital where he feigned sleep, his sleeve hiding the ink stains. each case a thread, a tether, an excuse to linger in your orbit.

because you read them. frowned. sighed. looked at him.

and the looking—gods, that was everything. he didn’t need your laughter. he craved what came after: the pause after the sigh, the flicker after the eye-roll, that fleeting moment where you seemed to forget you loathed him, where your gaze held something softer, unguarded, before you rebuilt your walls.

“i should report you,” you said now, your brush scratching the parchment with deliberate force, each stroke a small rebellion.

“for what?” he asked, shifting to prop his chin on one hand, leaning forward like a cat too stubborn to abandon its perch. “creative medicine?”

“for impersonating someone with a shred of sense,” you said, your voice low, each word a dart aimed at his ego.

he made a wounded noise, theatrical and bright, but his smile stretched wider. “i have sense. i just keep it locked away, like a heirloom too fine for daily use.”

you gave him a look, long and withering, that could’ve soured wine. it only made his grin sharpen, his rings catching the light as he tapped the table’s edge, a rhythm to match your knife’s steady cuts.

“you treat patients like mildew treats silk,” you said, tossing the ginger aside and reaching for a vial, your fingers brushing a stray leaf that clung to your sleeve like a conspirator.

he laughed—not the polished chuckle he offered concubines or ministers, but a real one, sharp and sudden, echoing in the cramped quarters like a misfired firework.

your eyes snapped to him, and for a heartbeat, you weren’t just annoyed. not entirely. there was something else, a flicker of surprise, maybe curiosity, gone before he could name it. but it tightened his chest, a knot he couldn’t untie.

he kept bringing puzzles—not for their cleverness, not for their humor, but because they carved a space for him in your shadow. they let him listen to your muttered curses, watch your hands move like a weaver’s, feel the weight of your presence. they let him be noticed, even if only as a thorn in your side.

and maybe they let him be wanted there, if only for the span of a scowl.

“why are you like this?” you asked one morning, your brush stilling mid-stroke, the question dangerously soft, like a blade hidden in silk.

he had a dozen quips ready—flippant, charming, deflecting. but he leaned forward, caught the way a loose strand of hair curled near your temple, ink-smudged and defiant, and said, soft and unguarded, “you look alive when you’re annoyed.”

you froze, your brush hovering, a drop of ink trembling at its tip. then, slowly, you looked up. met his eyes, their blue sharp and unguarded, like a sky before a storm.

he smiled—not mocking, not entirely, just a curve of lips that felt too honest for the game you played.

you threw the scroll at his head. it sailed wide, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird.

he ducked, barely, laughter spilling from him as he retreated, the sound trailing behind like a comet’s tail. your glare followed, searing, but he caught the faintest twitch at your mouth, a ghost of something that wasn’t quite hate.

later, he sat beneath the south pavilion’s shade, one leg tucked beneath him, the other dangling off the edge like a boy too restless for propriety.

a breeze tugged at the red sash cinched at his waist, lifting it like a lazy flag, as if even the wind knew he was procrastinating. beside him, scrolls—court reports, diplomatic briefs, a poetry contest invitation he’d already singed at the edges—sat ignored, their wax seals glinting like accusations.

he thought of your scowl, your voice, the way your gaze landed on him like a blade seeking a target. everyone else in the court tiptoed around him, offering flattery or fear.

you never did.

and maybe that was why, every day, without fail, he drifted back to your door, armed with another impossible case, another absurd tale. each one a thread to bind him to you, a reason to linger, to disrupt, to be seen.

because the worst part of his morning was the hour before he saw you—empty, quiet, a void where his thoughts echoed too loudly.

and the best part? watching you glare like you wanted him gone, yet never quite forcing him out, your silence a grudging invitation to return.

the scrolls were getting longer.

not just longer—denser, labyrinthine, absurdly ornate. satoru had upgraded to calligraphy brushes dipped in perfumed ink—rosewater one day, sandalwood the next, a faint whiff of osmanthus lingering on the parchment like a taunt.

he was testing how long it’d take before you snapped and hurled something profane, maybe the inkstone itself. the symptoms wove intricate webs, the logic knotted like a courtier’s braid, the footnotes teetering on operatic.

he cited phantom case studies, fictitious physicians from provinces that didn’t exist, and once, with brazen pride, slipped in a forged imperial seal that nearly landed him in front of a magistrate. nearly. that one, he’d written in couplets, each line a smug little bow.

“you’re wasting my time with this drivel,” you snapped, brandishing the scroll like it carried a plague. “don’t you have feathers to preen or mirrors to seduce?”

he was perched, as always, on the low bench by your window, posed like a statue some lovesick noble commissioned and regretted. his posture was too perfect for someone who’d spent half an hour picking a robe to irk you most—storm blue, embroidered with cranes mid-flight, sleeves pooling over his knees like spilled ink, dragging across the floor with every restless shift.

a gold hairpin gleamed in his braid, red silk threaded through it, swaying like a pendulum when he tilted his head in mock fascination. he was a painting overburdened with flourishes, every detail screaming excess.

“your thorns are almost charming,” he said, sipping from a porcelain cup, its rim chipped from a prior visit when he’d “accidentally” knocked it off your table. his boots, still flecked with courtyard mud, left faint smudges on your floor. “like a pufferfish dreaming of cuddles.”

you fixed him with a stare—slow, lethal, the kind that could sour fresh cream or silence a minister mid-rant. the breeze from the open lattice tugged at the scroll’s edge, rattling the ash tray, but you didn’t blink, your fingers tightening until the parchment crinkled.

he beamed, as if you’d serenaded him.

you muttered something under your breath—likely a curse involving his tea turning to sludge, his bones melting to tallow, and a cholera revival tour.

he showed up again the next day. and the day after. and again, undeterred, even after you told the guards to “misplace his map.” they never did, swayed by his bribes of candied lotus and whispered gossip, plus a promise to rank their uniforms’ aesthetics—a scale he invented on the spot, complete with commentary on tassel placement.

each scroll outdid the last. a plague afflicting only left-handed nobles, their sneezes synchronized with lunar phases. a woman who could digest only white foods, weeping hysterically at the sight of lotus root, claiming it sang to her in minor keys. a child coughing poetry—verses from a romantic epic banned by the late empress, each stanza more scandalous than the last. one footnote, scrawled sideways in gold ink, taunted, “solve this with that temper you wield like a blade.”

you unraveled them all, dissecting each with surgical precision. your annotations bled red, sometimes purple for peak offenses, your brushstrokes sharp as a duelist’s thrust.

but somewhere between the sarcastic jabs and hissed curses, your critiques softened—not in tone, never in tone, but in focus. you asked questions, prodded his logic with a gentler hand, your frowns less like thunderclouds, more like passing shadows.

you lingered over his absurdities, as if they were puzzles worth solving.

not that he noticed. of course not.

suguru did.

“twelve visits this week,” he said, voice dry as a desert wind, eyes fixed on the go board where satoru was losing spectacularly for forty-five minutes. “shall i carve you a plaque for her door? engrave it with ‘satoru’s folly’?”

satoru flipped a game piece, then flicked it at suguru’s shoulder, where it bounced off his black robes like a pebble off a cliff. “i’m running an experiment.”

“on what?” suguru glanced up, one brow arched like a drawn bow.

“the effects of sustained hostility and ground herbs on royal composure,” satoru said, his grin a crescent of pure mischief.

suguru’s stare was withering. “findings?”

“unexpectedly delightful,” satoru said, leaning back, his braid swaying like a metronome.

court sessions were crumbling. satoru, once the deity of theatrical boredom—master of mock gasps, swoons timed to derail debates, and insults so sharp they left officials blushing—was drifting.

he missed the minister of rites’ botched couplet, a travesty he’d have roasted for weeks. he forgot to deliver a memorandum to the archives—twice—its wax seal cracking from neglect. tax discussions passed in a haze, his fan unopened, his quips dormant. his eyes wandered, tracing patterns in the ceiling’s carved dragons, as if they held answers he didn’t dare seek.

suguru kept a tally in his meeting notes’ margins: missed snide remarks: five. disinterest level: catastrophic.

the inner court ladies noticed, their eyes sharp as jade pins, their tongues sharper.

they tracked satoru like hawks circling a wayward sparrow, cataloging his absences with gleeful precision. first, he vanished from their mid-morning gossip salons, leaving their tea untouched and their scandals half-shared. then came his bizarre fixation on medical theory, of all things, muttering about rare fungi and diagnostic riddles like a scholar possessed.

“we’ve scarcely seen you,” one lady said during a stroll through the peony courtyard, her fan snapping open like a dagger’s unsheathing, its silk painted with vipers. “has the emperor’s health grown so dire?”

“oh,” satoru said, voice slow and honeyed, “the apothecary’s got a fungus collection that’s positively riveting. almost as captivating as her glare when i nudge her vials out of order.”

giggles scattered like dropped pearls, sharp and knowing. he offered no further explanation, his smile a closed gate.

that afternoon, he swept into your quarters, scroll in hand, bound with red thread, inked in violet on paper too fine for his nonsense—proof it was his worst yet. his hair was half-loose, wisps clinging to his cheek where he’d skipped pinning it, a faint ink smear on his thumb from a late-night drafting frenzy. the scroll bore your name, penned at the top in a flourish that dared you to burn it.

you opened it, scanned the first lines, and your expression could’ve shattered a tea bowl. “this better not rhyme,” you said, voice low, each word a warning shot.

he smiled, too soft at the edges, less smug than something unguarded, like a seam in his silk had frayed. his fingers brushed the bench’s edge, lingering as if to anchor himself, and he watched you read, his gaze catching the way your brow twitched, the way your lips pressed thin.

somewhere beneath the posture, the perfume, the performance, his heart stuttered—a single, traitorous skip.

it was enough to whisper: this was no longer just a game.

he sent a courier three provinces south for a flower that didn’t even bloom this season.

“you dispatched a royal courier to the southern mountains for a sprig of winter jasmine?” suguru asked, voice taut with disbelief, arms folded so tightly it seemed he was trying to cage a migraine. his shadow loomed across the veranda’s polished wood, sharp against the dappled sunlight filtering through the wisteria.

satoru, reclining in the east veranda’s shade, swirled his teacup with a lazy flick of his wrist, the liquid long gone cold and forgotten. “it’s for a case,” he said, shrugging, stretching one leg until his silken robes spilled over the floor like ivory ink, catching flecks of light.

his fan lay discarded beside him, its painted cranes motionless, but his posture screamed decadence: languid limbs, robe slipping to bare the gleam of his collarbone, silver hair a cascade tucked behind one ear, a blue cord woven through for no reason but to catch the eye.

“it’s a seasonal ornamental,” suguru snapped, his boots clicking as he took a half-step forward, resisting the urge to pace. “not medicine. not even symbolic medicine. it’s for perfume, satoru. perfume.”

“depends on the metaphor,” satoru replied, grinning without looking, his gaze drifting past suguru’s scowl to the corridor snaking toward the inner court. his rings—two, etched with lotus vines—glinted as he tilted the cup, letting it catch the light like a conspirator’s signal.

suguru dragged a hand down his face, his sigh heavy enough to stir the wisteria petals scattered nearby. “i’m going to strangle you with that sash.”

“you’d have to catch me first,” satoru said, raising the cup in a mock toast, his grin sharp as a blade’s edge.

he had no intention of explaining. not the three couriers he’d sent in secret, their horses kicking dust across provinces. not the velvet-wrapped parcel one returned, petals still dewed from mountain mist, their fragrance curling like a secret. and definitely not the way your brow furrowed—half suspicion, half awe—when he set the sprig on your worktable, its silk wrapping unfurling like a bribe from a poet.

“this is fresh,” you said, nose wrinkling, holding the jasmine between two fingers like it might bite. “this isn’t local. not even close.”

“i know,” he said, voice bright as festival lanterns, chin propped on one hand as he watched you with the shameless glee of a man too pleased with his own audacity. “gorgeous, isn’t it?”

your glare could’ve sterilized a scalpel. “you’re unbearable.”

“and yet, here i linger,” he said, his sleeve brushing a vial as he leaned closer, just enough to make you stiffen.

“tragically,” you muttered, tossing the sprig onto a parchment, where it landed like a fallen star.

he stayed longer that day—far longer, until the shadows slanted sharp and the afternoon’s warmth bled into dusk’s cool edge. your tea sat untouched, its steam long gone. your sighs grew louder, each one a performance, yet you never shoved him out. he watched you work: arms bare to the elbow, sleeves knotted loosely, hands stained with pigment and resin, moving like the shelves and tables were extensions of your will.

you always faced the window when handling volatile herbs, not for light, he’d learned, but for the breeze, its faint stir cutting the fumes and teasing loose strands of your hair.

he cataloged it all. the way you hummed when focused—fractured, tuneless, like a half-remembered lullaby from a village beyond the palace’s reach.

it wasn’t daily, but frequent enough that he timed his arrivals to catch its fading notes. the way you sorted jars by scent—camphor to the left, ginseng to the right—ignoring strength or tradition. how you cracked your knuckles before mixing tinctures, a sharp pop like a soldier before battle. the pause before you spoke to him, as if weighing which barb would cut deepest.

it was intoxicating, like chasing the edge of a storm.

he crafted excuses to linger: forged dosage errors scrawled on stolen parchment, misfiled records he “discovered” in dusty archives, fake prescriptions only he knew were nonsense. once, he claimed mint sensitivity just to spar with you over its diagnostic merit. he lost, spectacularly, your rebuttal so sharp it left him grinning for hours.

“i’m starting to think you’re a fixture here,” you said one afternoon, not looking up as he sauntered in, uninvited. your hands were buried in a jar of powdered ginseng, your hair falling into your face, dusted with chalk like a scribe’s error.

“don’t be absurd,” he said, claiming the spare cushion by your shelves with the ease of a man who’d never heard the word no. his robe—cobalt blue, stitched with black cranes and storm clouds—pooled around him, dramatic and excessive, its hem brushing a stray leaf you’d missed. “i have other haunts. they’re just less… stabby.”

“and less likely to throw you out?” you asked, flicking a speck of dust from your sleeve, your tone dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs.

“precisely,” he said, his grin a spark in the dim room.

you didn’t laugh, but you didn’t banish him either. and when your hand grazed his sleeve—a fleeting, accidental brush as you reached for a vial—you didn’t pull back. didn’t flinch. the contact, barely a whisper, burned in his mind like a brand.

he was too comfortable now, not just in your space but in your orbit—your rhythms, your silences, the way you tilted your head before a fight, lips pursing when you swallowed a sharper retort. you insulted him with the grace of someone who’d decided he wasn’t worth charming, each barb a masterpiece of disdain.

it was the truest exchange he had all day.

no one else dared. but you? you called him a fungus with delusions of grandeur. you said his robes looked like a peacock mugged by a thunderstorm. you told him his puzzles were “an affront to medicine and common sense.”

and still, he returned. because every insult was a flare, every glance a challenge, every unspoken word a riddle more gripping than any court intrigue.

he told himself it was curiosity. a game. a puzzle to unravel.

but if that were true, why did he measure his day by how long he could linger before you snapped? why did he trace the curl of your handwriting in his mind, the rhythm of your humming, the way you bit your cheek when lost in thought?

and why, when he left, did the world feel a little flatter, the colors muted, like a painting left unfinished?

lately, he wasn’t sure if he was studying you or unraveling himself. each visit chipped away at his excuses, leaving something rawer, riskier, in its place. he caught himself watching not just your hands but the faint scar on your knuckle, the way your eyes softened when you thought no one saw. he noticed how you lingered, too—not in words, but in the way you let him stay, let him disrupt, let him fill the silence with his nonsense.

he was in too deep, and the worst part? he didn’t care.

because every sprig of jasmine, every forged case, every stolen ribbon was a thread pulling him closer to you—and he was too far gone to cut it.

it began with a flower.

well, no. it began with a lie about a flower.

“lunar-affected fever,” satoru said, voice solemn yet dripping with drama, holding a scroll like it was an imperial decree rather than a parchment stuffed with absurdity.

he lounged across your workspace’s threshold, as if the breeze itself had swept him in, robes of slate gray—stitched with pale moons that shimmered faintly—billowing with each subtle shift. his hair, half-tied with a silver pin, caught the filtered sunlight, glinting like spun thread, a few strands curling defiantly against his jaw. “rare as a comet. strikes only under moonlight. fever, dizziness, faint prophetic dreams. possibly contagious.”

you didn’t look up. didn’t pause. just dipped your brush in ink with the precision of a surgeon, your movements steady as stone. “there is no such thing as lunar-affected fever,” you said, voice flat as a pressed leaf, not even indulging him with a sigh.

he tsked, tapping the scroll against his palm like a tutor poised to chide a wayward pupil. “how can you be sure without seeing the flower?”

your head lifted—slow, deliberate, your eyes locking onto his with a glare sharp enough to wither an orchard. your lips pursed, brow twitching, a silent vow of retribution etched in your expression.

satoru’s smile widened, blue eyes sparking with mischief, like a cat who’d just knocked a vase to the floor and called it art.

which is how you found yourself—against logic, reason, and three stern vows to your own sanity—trailing him through the moonlit paths of the imperial gardens, gravel crunching softly under your sandals.

your sleeves were tugged tight around your wrists, knotted to keep them from snagging on stray branches. your hair, pinned in a hasty bun, unraveled in soft curls that clung to your temples, damp from the night’s humidity. you walked in silence, letting the faint whisper of your steps speak for you.

ahead, satoru moved with the effortless grace of someone who owned every pebble, every leaf. the lantern in his hand swayed, its warm glow dancing across the path, painting his silver hair with flecks of gold, like a halo he didn’t deserve.

he glanced back now and then, just to check you were still there. each time, his smirk softened for a heartbeat, a flicker of something unguarded, before he faced forward, humming a tuneless melody under his breath, the sound weaving into the night like a secret.

“you could’ve just asked me to see a flower,” you muttered at his back, your voice low, edged with exasperation.

“and skip the theatrics?” he half-turned, walking backward with infuriating ease, his robes catching the moonlight in ripples. “you wound me.”

the pavilion he led you to crouched in shadow, draped in ivy and curling wisteria, their leaves glistening with dew. moonlight poured through the open beams, silvering the air, catching the faint mist that clung to the ground. the night carried a sharp, green bite of moss, layered with something sweeter, fragile, like a bloom holding its breath.

and there it was: the night-blooming cereus.

its petals unfurled, slow and tentative, as if coaxing itself into existence. the bloom glowed, ethereal, held together by moonlight and whispers, its edges curling like a secret shared in the dark.

“it blooms once a year,” satoru said, voice softer now, stripped of its usual flourish. he stepped beside you, not quite touching, but close enough for the warmth of his presence to brush your skin. “only under a full moon. they call it the queen of the night.”

your lips parted, breath catching, a faint hitch you couldn’t hide. your arms, folded in defiance moments ago, slowly loosened, fingers twitching as if to reach out. your eyes locked on the flower, and for the first time in days, your face shifted—brow easing, mouth softening, the hard edges melting away. you weren’t the court apothecary, nor the wary prisoner of palace games.

you were someone rediscovering wonder, like a child glimpsing a star for the first time.

“beautiful,” you whispered, the word escaping before you could cage it, fragile as the bloom itself.

satoru wasn’t watching the flower.

“yes,” he said, voice barely a murmur, “it is.”

he stared at you, caught in the moonlight’s caress on your cheekbone, the soft curve of your profile. his fingers flexed, not to touch, but to hold the moment—the way your eyes shimmered, the faint flush on your skin, the curl of hair clinging to your temple. he wanted to etch it into memory, to keep it sharper than any painting.

the silence stretched, warm and alive, a fragile bubble of stillness that pulsed with its own rhythm. the night held you both, the cereus glowing between, its petals trembling as if aware of the weight it carried.

then—predictably, perfectly—you shattered it.

“what a waste of my night,” you muttered, spinning away with a dramatic eye-roll, your sleeve swishing like a curtain falling on a play.

but your hands betrayed you.

you reached for the bloom with a reverence that belied your words, cupping it as if it might crumble to dust. when you turned, you cradled it to your chest, fingers curled protectively, like guarding a secret you hadn’t meant to claim.

satoru didn’t tease. didn’t speak. he fell into step beside you, lantern swinging gently, casting slow-dancing shadows that tangled with the gravel path. he stole glances as you walked, catching the way you peeked at the flower—once, twice, like you needed to be sure it was real. your sandals scuffed softly, a counterpoint to his silent steps, and the night seemed to lean in, listening.

he didn’t sleep that night. not properly. he lay beneath his canopy, robes half-discarded, staring at the lattice ceiling as moonlight slanted through, replaying the curve of your lips, the softness in your eyes, the way you’d held the bloom like it was a piece of yourself you’d forgotten. his chest felt tight, restless, like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.

the next morning, he arrived at your chambers as always, leaning in the doorway like he’d been carved for the space, robes of deep indigo shifting with each breath. you didn’t greet him, didn’t look up, your focus buried in a stack of parchment, your hair already slipping its pins, ink smudged on one knuckle.

same sleeves. same scowl. same you.

but when he leaned too close, feigning interest in your notes, his eyes caught it: pressed between the worn pages of your herbarium, nestled beside meticulous entries on sedatives, the cereus. flattened, pale, its glow dimmed but defiant, like a star pinned to earth.

your handwriting, precise and sharp: epiphyllum oxypetalum. blooms once yearly, under full moon. fragile.

he said nothing. didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. but his chest ached, a low, slow throb, tender and mortifying, like a bruise he hadn’t earned.

for the first time in weeks, he forgot to bring a new case. no scroll, no absurd symptoms, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense. he just stood there, watching you scribble, the silence heavier than it should’ve been.

and when you finally glanced up, your eyes narrowing at his stillness, he felt it—a tug, sharp and undeniable, like a thread pulling taut between you.

he didn’t know what to call it. not yet.

but as he left, his steps lighter than they should’ve been, he wondered if you’d noticed the absence of his usual chaos—and if, maybe, you missed it.

it started with kiyohiro, a court eunuch, collapsing in the corridor outside your chambers.

not with flair. not convincingly. just a calculated wobble, a practiced sway, before he sank to the floor with a theatrical sigh, clutching his stomach like the palace kitchens had slipped arsenic into his rice.

“abdominal pain,” he groaned, palm pressed to his navel, eyes fluttering as if scripted. “possibly fatal. i need the court apothecary at once.”

you didn’t flinch. didn’t glance up. the pestle in your hand ground dried peony root against stone, its rhythm steady, unyielding, like a heartbeat ignoring a storm. “eat fewer sweet buns,” you muttered, voice flat as sunbaked clay, handing a tonic to a maid without breaking stride.

it should’ve ended there.

but gossip spreads faster than truth in a palace of whispers. by week’s end, your chambers had become a pilgrimage site for every bored eunuch with a noble title and a flair for drama. a sudden rash? a fluttering pulse? a dizziness that struck only when you entered, your sleeves brushing the air like a challenge?

satoru watched it unfold, his displeasure sharp and simmering. arms crossed, posture a studied nonchalance that screamed irritation, he haunted your doorframe like a specter with a grudge. his robes—too fine for indifference, deep indigo threaded with silver lotuses—shimmered under lantern light, his hair tied with lazy precision, glinting like frost on a winter stream.

“remarkable,” he drawled one afternoon, voice silk laced with venom, as he ushered another swooning eunuch out with a smile that never touched his eyes. “how many eunuchs have fallen mysteriously ill this month?”

you didn’t look up, fingers folding linen cloths with deft flicks. “jealous?”

his gaze snapped to you, blue eyes narrowing. your face was a mask, but your hand paused, just once, on the bowl’s rim, a flicker of defiance. “of what?” he said, voice low, edged. “their fake ailments or their pitiful flirtations?”

“both, it seems,” you said, a smirk tugging your lips, mischief woven into your exasperation. your eyes stayed on your work, but your voice carried that familiar spark, like a blade hidden in a sleeve.

your sleeves were rolled to your elbows, dusted with faint lotus bark, strands of hair slipping from their pins to cling to your jaw, damp with the room’s humid breath. you looked unruffled, impervious to the parade of titled eunuchs feigning ailments to bask in your presence.

satoru, though, was anything but.

not openly. not officially. but he was there—always. every time a noble eunuch swept in with a new complaint, satoru materialized, claiming urgent business nearby. every consultation hosted his lounging form—leaning against a lacquered pillar, fan snapping open with a lazy flick. he never interrupted outright. he just… watched, his comments slicing with surgical precision.

“takamasa, you faint in sunlight?” he asked, voice dripping with mock concern, as the young eunuch clutched a silk handkerchief to his chest.

“yes,” takamasa murmured, voice frail. “it’s terribly inconvenient—”

“curious,” satoru cut in, fan pausing mid-flutter. “weren’t you sprawled in the courtyard yesterday, under midday sun?”

the silence that followed was a masterpiece, heavy and delicious. you didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll, your lips twitching as you ground herbs with renewed vigor.

“you’re absurd,” you told him later, after he’d dismantled enjirou’s complaint of “chronic sighs” with a single arched brow and a quip about fainting goats.

“i’m diligent,” he said, lips curving, his fan tapping his chin. “your time’s too precious for noble fairy tales spun in silk.”

he didn’t say the rest—that he loathed how they looked at you, like your attention was a prize to be won with theatrics, like you were a treasure to be claimed with a well-timed swoon. he hated the way their eyes lingered, as if they could buy your focus with flattery or feigned frailty.

then came the emergency.

a kitchen servant collapsed, breath shallow, sweat beading like dew on his brow. no posturing, no poetry. just raw panic—gasps, shouts, the clatter of a dropped tray. his skin burned under touch, his pulse a frantic stutter.

satoru was already there.

he didn’t knock, didn’t wait. he followed the stretcher into your chambers, sleeves shoved up, hair slipping from its tie, strands catching the sweat on his neck. the usual glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something taut, focused, like a blade drawn and ready.

you were already in motion.

your face was a mask of calm, eyes sharp as you issued orders—clear, clipped, commanding. this wasn’t the you who wielded wit like a dagger; this was you at war, hands swift and sure, voice steady as stone. you didn’t glance at satoru, didn’t need to. he moved with you, seamless, like he’d studied your rhythm for months.

he passed you cloths, their edges fraying from haste. helped lift the servant onto a cot, his grip steady but gentle. ground herbs under your curt instructions, his fingers quick, precise, remembering how you liked the mortar angled for rhubarb root, its bitter tang sharp in the air.

“you actually care about these people,” he said quietly, voice almost lost in the clink of vials, as he handed you a ladle and wiped the servant’s brow with a damp cloth.

“someone has to,” you said, eyes fixed on your work, your fingers deftly measuring a tincture. “most here see servants as props.”

he didn’t reply, didn’t know how. just kept moving beside you, his sleeves brushing yours in the cramped space, the air thick with bile, heat, and crushed leaves.

the night stretched on. two more servants were carried in—one vomiting, one limp as a rag. the room reeked of sickness and herbs, the floor littered with discarded cloths.

your voice frayed at the edges, your hands trembled once—briefly—before you clenched them steady. your braid had come loose, strands sticking to your sweat-damp neck, but you didn’t pause to fix it.

satoru stayed.

when it was over—when the last fever broke, the last pulse steadied—you collapsed into your chair, limbs heavy, breath ragged. your brush slipped, smearing half-written labels across the desk. your eyelids sagged, your head dipping to rest on the crook of your arm, ink smudging your cheek like a child’s mistake.

he approached softly, his outer robe already in hand, its deep indigo folding over your shoulders like a shield. his fingers hovered above your arm, a moment of hesitation, then pulled back, leaving only the faint warmth of the fabric.

your cheek pressed to your arm, breath slow, lips parted in sleep.

he sank into the chair beside you, not touching, not speaking. he tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing, his own exhaustion pulling at him. his feet throbbed, his fingers stained with bark and ink, but he didn’t move.

when you stirred at dawn, throat dry, eyes gritty, he was still there—head back, arms folded, mouth slightly open, a faint crease in his brow, like even sleep couldn’t ease his tension.

your voice cracked, raw from the night. “you stayed.”

his eyes opened, slow, steady, like he’d been waiting for you to speak. “someone had to make sure you didn’t drown in your own brews,” he said, voice hoarse but carrying that familiar lilt, a spark of amusement in the ruin of the night.

you looked at him—really looked—and said nothing more. neither did he.

but the silence between you wasn’t hollow.

it was heavy, alive, woven with something new—something neither of you could name, but both felt, like a pulse beneath the skin.

the summons came at dawn.

no pomp, no ritual—just a folded slip passed in the corridor, stamped with the emperor’s seal, its wax glinting like a quiet threat. satoru read it in silence, his face a mask, brows twitching faintly before he slipped it into his sleeve.

he rose from the window seat where his tea sat cold, the morning light catching the sheen of his indigo robes. his movements were fluid, but a weight clung to him—anticipation, not fatigue, heavy as a stone sinking in still water.

his father didn’t call unless it mattered.

and lately, everything mattered.

the emperor’s chambers were dim, morning sun barely piercing the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across lacquered floors. incense curled in the corners, frankincense and cedar weaving a thick, ancient haze, clinging like a memory too stubborn to fade.

satoru stepped inside quietly, his robes—indigo lined with black, unadorned—swallowing the light. his hair, usually a defiant spill, was pulled into a tight tail, no stray strands, no red cord for flair. he bowed low, spine rigid, fluid as a dancer, but his hands clenched too tightly at his sides, knuckles pale against the silk.

“you’re late,” the emperor murmured, voice thin but steady, a thread stretched taut.

“never late,” satoru said, slipping into the chair by the bed without waiting for leave, his tone light but guarded. “just selectively punctual.”

his father, propped against a mound of cushions, gave a faint huff—half breath, half fond rebuke. his eyes, sharp despite their sunken frame, flickered with a spark of the man beneath the crown. his skeletal hand adjusted the jade charm at his wrist, its edges worn smooth by restless habit.

silence fell, heavy, expectant, like the air before a storm.

“whoever she is,” the emperor said at last, gaze drifting to the far wall where a painted crane seemed to watch, “don’t let her pull you from what matters. your coronation looms closer than we planned.”

satoru stilled, his breath catching, a faint hitch he buried beneath a neutral mask. his lashes flicked, the only sign of the jolt beneath his skin. “it’s strategic,” he said, voice smooth, polished. “she fascinates me for reasons i can’t name. i need to know why.”

the emperor turned slowly, his gaze piercing despite the tremor in his fingers as he smoothed his robe’s folds. “is that why suguru says you linger in her chambers like a moth drunk on lantern light?”

satoru’s eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the mosaic of lotuses and dragons, their curves blurring in the dim glow. suguru, his bodyguard, had seen too much—every visit, every scroll, every stolen glance—and carried it to the emperor’s ear. duty bound him to report, and satoru couldn’t fault him, though the sting lingered.

“very strategic,” the emperor added, voice softening, a faint amusement curling beneath the weariness. “suguru tells me you’ve sent couriers across provinces for her. flowers, of all things.”

satoru’s lips parted, then closed, words dissolving like mist. his fingers tightened on the chair’s edge, the wood cool under his grip.

“she reminds me of your mother,” the emperor said, eyes drifting to the ceiling’s carved phoenixes, their wings frozen mid-flight. “sharp-tongued. unyielding. challenged me every day of our marriage. made me a better ruler. a better man.”

satoru’s throat burned, a dry ache he couldn’t swallow. his gaze stayed on the floor, the weight of his father’s words pressing against his chest, fragile and unnameable. he had no reply, no quip to deflect the truth laid bare.

he left with silence draped over him like a second robe, his steps too quiet, his face too blank. guards bowed as he passed, their armor clinking softly, but he didn’t see them, his mind tangled in the echo of his father’s voice, suguru’s report, and you.

that night, he didn’t bring a scroll. no absurd case, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense to make you sigh. he brought flowers.

dahlias, crimson and bold, tied with an ink-dark ribbon, their petals vivid against the muted light of your chambers. dignified, elegant, deliberate—a choice that spoke louder than his usual theatrics.

he entered with a hesitant confidence, like stepping onto a bridge he wasn’t sure would hold. the air carried the familiar bite of herbs and ink, softened by the faint musk of drying parchment. you glanced up from your worktable, sleeves rolled, fingers stained with licorice root, one brow arching in quiet surprise.

“these are for…” he started, holding the bouquet with a care that belied his usual nonchalance, as if the flowers might wilt under a careless grip.

“another fake ailment?” you cut in, eyes narrowing, though a spark of curiosity flickered beneath the suspicion.

his lips curved, soft, not his usual smirk. “just thought they suited you.”

you paused, breath hitching for a moment, your fingers stilling over a vial. then you reached out, your hand brushing his—a flicker of contact, light as a moth’s wing, warm and gone too soon. it was nothing. it was everything.

neither of you moved, not at first. the air held its breath, charged with the weight of that touch.

then you cleared your throat, turned away, busying yourself with a jar that hadn’t moved in weeks, its label curling at the edges. he smiled at your back, eyes tracing the slant of your shoulders, the faint tilt of your head—always left when you were flustered, a detail he’d memorized like a map.

from then on, he brought meals.

not with fanfare. not every night. just often enough to become a rhythm. evenings blurred with your work, and he’d appear, tray in hand, the food simple but warm—soft rice flecked with sesame, miso delicate as a sigh, sweet egg custards you claimed to dislike but always finished, scraping the bowl when you thought he wasn’t looking.

“you don’t have to keep feeding me,” you said one night, chopsticks hovering, steam curling from the rice like a secret.

“and miss watching you eat while insulting my wit?” he said, settling beside you, his knee brushing the table’s edge. “never.”

some nights, words came softly, worn by exhaustion—snatches of court gossip, old memories, musings on the rain like it held answers. other nights, silence reigned, comfortable, heavy with unspoken things.

your chairs drifted closer.

knees brushed beneath the low table. once. then again. neither of you pulled away. his hand rested a little too close to yours. your gaze lingered a little too long. and the quiet between you stayed warm, charged, not innocent, but not yet dangerous.

still disaster bloomed, as it always does, in the quietest breath of night.

the garden held its breath, a rare stillness cloaking the night. the koi pond shimmered under moonlight, liquid silver rippling with each stray breeze, its surface catching the faint glow of lanterns swaying like conspirators. wisteria hung heavy, its scent weaving with damp earth, sharp and fleeting, the air thick with the promise of something about to break.

you walked side by side, sleeves brushing now and then, deliberate in their graze. the concubine you’d treated earlier slept at last, her fever broken, the air in her chambers no longer taut with dread. yet neither of you moved to part, steps slowing as the garden’s quiet conspired to hold you there.

satoru trailed a half-step behind, hands clasped behind his back, his long robe whispering against the gravel, its pale gray hem catching the lantern glow like mist.

moonlight wove silver through his white hair, sharpened the elegant line of his jaw, made him look like a figure etched from starlight. his eyes, glacial blue, flicked to you every few moments—memorizing the curve of your profile, the way your hair curled against your neck, damp from the humid air.

his silence tonight was heavy, careful, like a man cradling a glass too full to spill. “you really don’t rest,” he murmured, voice low, a thread of concern tucked into his usual drawl, barely louder than the wind’s sigh.

you didn’t slow, sandals scuffing softly. “rest is for those who can afford carelessness.”

he huffed, almost amused, the sound soft as a falling petal. “remind me never to share my medical records with you.”

your lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, gone before it could settle.

silence returned, thrumming now, alive with something unspoken—full, heavy with possibility, like a storm gathering just out of sight.

then you stopped.

he nearly bumped into you, catching himself with a soft inhale. you turned, gaze locking onto his, clear and unreadable, a spark of something sharp and startled flickering in your eyes. his breath hitched, chest tightening with a feeling he didn’t dare name.

no script existed for this. no smirking quip, no practiced tease. just a slow, swelling pause, the world narrowing to the space between you.

he leaned in—not a game, not a performance—raw, unguarded, his heart a traitor beating too loud.

his hand lifted, trembling faintly, hovering near your cheek as if afraid to shatter the moment. his eyes searched yours, seeking permission, a sign, anything to stop him.

you gave none.

so he kissed you.

softly at first, reverent, lips brushing yours with the care of someone handling porcelain. his mouth was warm, unsure but honest, and your breath caught—a soft hitch he felt and paused for. his eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes long and pale, his silver hair swaying slightly as he leaned in further.

your lips parted, startled but not retreating, your fingers curling tight at your sides. his hand found your jaw, slow and sure, thumb grazing your cheekbone like he’d memorized it. he tilted his head slightly, shadows shifting along his high cheekbones, his breath mixing with yours. your heart thudded, loud in your throat.

you tilted up, just enough, your mouth moving under his—tentative, then firmer, a quiet answer. the moment bloomed between you, the stillness of the air broken only by the soft brush of silk against silk, the distant sound of wind chimes trembling in the garden. satoru forgot how to think. his mind emptied, breath stolen. the world dissolved into the warmth of your breath, the taste of crushed herbs on your lips, and something sweeter beneath that made his chest ache.

he kissed you again—deeper this time, less cautious, more aching. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there like a secret. his other hand, trembling, hovered at your waist before pulling you in by the small of your back. his lips parted, tongue brushing yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, reverent, like he was afraid to break you.

and you kissed him back.

not immediately, but when you did—it was real. your mouth opened to him, breath shaky, spine stiff but yielding. you leaned forward, just slightly, your hands still curled but not pushing. he tasted you like a prayer, like something sacred, like maybe if he kissed you long enough you’d stay.

then he pulled back, eyes dark and wide, pupils blown, lips red from the kiss. he looked at you as if he couldn’t believe it had happened, as if the world had turned inside out and there you were, still in his arms.

“you—” he breathed, voice hoarse, gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes, dazed, lost, drunk on something he never thought he could have.

and then he kissed you again.

this time, hungry. this time, like a man stepping into fire knowing full well he’d burn. your lips met his with a gasp, and you let him take you for one heartbeat too long. one second too many.

your fingers twitched. your knees wavered. you wanted to hate him for how good it felt.

and then—you shoved him.

hard.

he stumbled backward, arms flailing like a heron skidding across ice, nearly tripping over the embroidered hem of his robe. he caught himself on a stone lantern with a grunt, robes fluttering around his ankles. his eyes were wide, lips still parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“have you lost your mind?” you snapped, voice like a blade. your cheeks blazed, your chest heaved, and your glare—gods, your glare could level dynasties.

he blinked, then grinned despite himself. crooked and boyish, maddeningly unrepentant.

“possibly,” he said, breathless.

“i’m not wasting my genes on a eunuch,” you spat, your voice sharp as shattered jade. “no matter how pretty his face.”

satoru froze.

then blinked.

then let out a laugh. not one of those dramatic, hand-over-mouth princely chuckles he liked to use when causing a scene. no, this one was quiet, startled—undignified, even. a breath of disbelief that hiccuped past his lips and got swallowed by the wisteria.

“you think i’m a eunuch,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

you didn’t dignify him with an answer. nor did you stay to argue. didn’t pause for a cutting remark or a dramatic glance over your shoulder. no, the moment he stilled, the moment that too-long silence fell between you like a dropped fan, you turned. spun on your heel and stormed off with the kind of pace that said if you didn’t leave now, you might do something you’d regret—like kiss him again. or worse: ask if he meant it.

which, of course, he did.

still, you muttered as you walked away. low and furious, under your breath, like the words were bubbling out whether you wanted them to or not. he caught fragments. something about hormones. about silk-robed maniacs with too many rings. about eunuchs, eggplants, and the gods forsaking your common sense.

the silence sank teeth into his shoulders. the night air folded around him like silk dipped in ice. his thumb grazed the edge of his bottom lip, slow, like he could rewind the last few seconds through touch alone.

he had forgotten.

forgotten what he was pretending to be. forgotten the rings, the incense, the mask he’d sewn into his skin over the years. he had kissed you like a man—not a prince, not a eunuch, not a myth wrapped in silk and riddles. just a man.

and you had kissed him back.

but the moment shattered before it could be named. your words had carved right through it. not cruelly, not intentionally. that was the worst part. you didn’t know what you’d done. you hadn’t even seen him.

you kissed the lie.

he pressed his hand to his mouth, jaw clenched. it was almost funny. it should have been funny. and maybe in the morning, it would be.

but right now?

right now, he was half-sick with the sweetness of it. with how close he’d come to believing that moment was real. with how much he still wanted it to be. the ache wasn’t sharp, but it was deep—a bruise blooming slow beneath the ribs.

he should have laughed it off. he should have returned to his quarters, poured wine, told suguru something smug and unrepeatable. instead, he just stood there, dumb and dazed and smiling like an idiot.

“she thinks i’m a eunuch,” he said again, quieter this time. and still—still—he wanted you to kiss him again. not because you didn’t know who he was.

but because, somehow, impossibly, you might want him anyway.

he didn’t see you for three days.

not for lack of trying. you were a specter, slipping through locked doors, vanishing into sudden meetings, leaving maids shrugging when he pressed for your whereabouts. even the gossiping servants, usually eager to spill, offered nothing but vague apologies.

in court, he was a shadow of himself. during a trade council, he sat rigid, staring through a minister droning about tariffs, his fingers tracing the same spot on his lips where your kiss had burned.

the room’s incense choked him, too sweet, and when a scribe dropped a brush, the clatter made him flinch, his thoughts snapping back to your startled shove. he nodded at the right moments, but his voice, usually sharp with quips, was dull, his eyes drifting to the window where moonlight might’ve been.

concubines noticed. one wept over a broken hairpin, its jade splintered like her heart, and satoru could only muster a tired, “it’s just a pin.” another sulked over a petty slight—someone had worn her shade of crimson—and he waved her off, words flat: “wear blue instead.” their pouts deepened, but he had no energy for their dramas.

suguru found him sprawled on the pavilion roof, one arm flung across his eyes, the other tossing dried plums at passing sparrows, each throw more despondent than the last. “so,” suguru said, tossing him a rice cracker with no pity, “she hit you with reality?”

“no,” satoru muttered, snapping the cracker in half with the mournful air of a man betrayed by fate. “she pushed me. emotionally.”

suguru’s pause, mid-bite, was louder than words, his raised brow a silent judgment.

the worst part? satoru couldn’t stop replaying it. the shape of your mouth against his, warm and yielding. the sharp twist of your face when you pulled back, eyes blazing with fury and something softer, unguarded.

a week passed. he performed—attended court, smiled on cue, offered wry commentary in meetings, even penned a birthday poem for the favored concubine’s pet nightingale, all wit and charm. but it was hollow.

in a session on border disputes, he doodled your name in the margin of a scroll, then scratched it out, ink smearing like his resolve. a concubine wailed about a lost fan, and he stared through her, muttering, “buy another,” his voice a ghost of its usual spark.

every night, when the palace quieted, his steps led him back to the garden, to the spot where you’d stopped, where he’d leaned in, where the line between strategy and sincerity had dissolved. the wisteria was fading now, petals curling brown, and he stood there, moonlight pooling around him, hand drifting to his lips, still tingling.

the ache wasn’t intrigue. wasn’t curiosity.

it was want—raw, relentless, refusing to fade.

and as he lingered, the irony gnawed deeper: he’d disguised himself as a eunuch to protect his life, only to lose his heart to a woman who thought he had none to give.

the problem began with a scream.

not yours.

hers.

lady mei, daughter of the insufferable minister of war, unleashed a shriek that could’ve cracked the palace jade, scattering birds from the rafters and jolting the court from their jasmine-laced tea. it ripped through the corridors like a war horn, shrill and self-important, drawing eyes and whispers like blood draws flies. by the time satoru caught the rumor, it had spread like ink in water—ravenous, unstoppable, vicious.

poison. hair falling in clumps.

dark magic, they hissed. foreign plots. a witch.

and you—gods, you—stood accused before the tribunal, chin high, jaw forged in iron, wrists bound in red silk that chafed raw welts into your skin. your robe sagged, one sleeve torn where a guard’s grip had twisted too hard, but you didn’t flinch. your lips were a tight slash, face a mask, yet your eyes blazed—defiant, untamed, a storm caged in flesh.

satoru overheard it by chance. or fate. call it what you will.

he’d been pacing the eastern promenade, robe loose at the throat, hair tied with reckless grace, his posture a thin veneer of boredom. two servants lingered by the reflecting pool, their whispers sharp, gleeful, cutting through the spring air. “she cursed lady mei’s beauty cream,” one breathed, eyes wide as lotus blooms.

“no,” the other hissed, leaning in, “a tonic. thins the blood. deadly in excess.”

satoru’s world snapped. his ears roared, a high, searing hum drowning all else. the garden’s lattice blurred, its patterns bleeding like smeared ink. the koi pond burned too bright, the air choking despite the breeze.

his hands clenched, nails carving crescents into his palms, silk twisting in his fists. he spun, robes flaring like a tempest, the blue fabric cracking with each furious stride. court eunuchs scattered as he stormed past, their bows faltering, stunned by the raw fury radiating from him. the usual glint in his eyes was dead, replaced by something glacial, murderous.

suguru caught him at the tribunal wing’s threshold, breathless, hair tied back, sleeves rolled as if he’d sprinted from his post. “your highness,” he hissed, seizing satoru’s arm in a grip that could bruise, “you cannot barge in. your position. your disguise.”

satoru’s head turned, slow, deliberate, like a blade aligning for a strike. rage poured from him, white-hot, unyielding as a forge. “they’re going to execute her over lies,” he snarled, voice low, jagged, each word a shard of flint. “i won’t stand by.”

his body trembled, not with fear but with violence barely contained, his jaw locked so tight the muscle twitched near his ear. his eyes burned beneath his white hair, colder than a winter’s edge, promising devastation.

“think strategically,” suguru urged, stepping in front, voice firm but pleading. “this screams more than justice. it screams you.”

satoru’s breath caught, a sharp stutter. his lips parted, then clamped shut. a beat. another. he exhaled through his teeth, a hiss like a blade drawn from its sheath. “fine,” he bit out. “strategy. but if they touch one hair on her head—”

“they won’t,” suguru said, softer, his gaze tracing satoru’s face, seeing the fractures in his mask. “they won’t.”

satoru didn’t nod, didn’t thank him. he turned, vanishing like a storm unleashed, not to brood but to burn.

he tore through the palace like a wraith on fire. scrolls ripped from shelves, bamboo frames splintering under his grip. records cracked open, pages scattering like ash. his movements were sharp, relentless, stripped of the lazy grace he once wore like a second skin.

servants stammered, spilling secrets under his stare, their voices quaking. he bribed, coerced, lied, threatened—one steward nearly fainted when satoru leaned in, his smile all teeth, voice a silken blade: “care to clarify?”

by midnight, his sleeves were rolled, white linen smudged with ink and soot, his hair fraying from countless rakes of his fingers, strands clinging to his sweat-slick neck. scrolls and witness names littered the lacquered table like battlefield wreckage, his voice raw from demanding testimony. lady mei’s handmaidens trembled under his questions, eyes darting like sparrows before a hawk.

her perfumer tried to flee, only to find satoru waiting by the storage room, leaning casually against the doorframe, voice like frost: “running somewhere?”

he summoned an outer court physician under a false name, tearing through ledgers with brutal precision—red stamps, supplier lists, ingredient logs—until he found it.

mercury.

tucked in an imported skin tonic’s recipe, a whisper of silver in the fine print. enough to shed hair, to bleach skin, to kill in time. he held the vial to the candlelight, its liquid shifting like molten guilt, thick and treacherous. his reflection twisted in the glass—pale, wild-eyed, lips a grim slash, the boy who’d kissed you burned away by rage.

the fury in him cooled, hardened, became something sharper—certainty, cold and unyielding.

he didn’t smile at first.

then he did. not the charming mask, not the courtier’s grin. this was jagged, raw, all teeth and shadow, a predator’s bared edge.

because he had it—the proof, the truth, the blade to cut you free. because no one—not a spoiled heiress, not a scheming courtier, not a whisper cloaked in silk—would touch you.

not while he still drew breath.

his rage didn’t falter, didn’t soften. it fueled him, a fire in his veins as he prepared to storm the tribunal with evidence in hand, the irony of his eunuch disguise a bitter sting. he’d hidden to save his life, only to find his life now hinged on saving yours.

the vial still sat in his palm when the sun began to rise.

dawn crept in, golden and soft, a cruel jest against the storm in his chest—tight, raw, ready to split at the seams. light spilled like syrup across the chaos of scrolls and vials strewn around him, glinting off ink-stained bamboo and glass, but nothing could dull the acid churning in his gut. he hadn’t slept, hadn’t sat, the night consumed by evidence and fury, leaving only the mercury’s cold gleam and the certainty that if he didn’t act, they’d rip you from him.

he didn’t change, just yanked his robe tighter, the pale silk creased from hours of pacing. his hair, tugged back with a frayed black ribbon, was crooked, strands escaping to cling to his sweat-damp neck. his movements were sharp, stripped of flourish, the mask of poise shattered by sleepless resolve.

he strode through the palace corridors with lethal purpose—not the slouch of a court eunuch, not the drawl of the royal fool they took him for. he moved as who he was: crown prince, predator, a blade honed and aimed. his steps struck the tiled floor like war drums, each echo a challenge.

no bowed head, no softened gaze—his outer robe flared with every stride, stark against the morning’s glow seeping through latticed windows. officials turned, startled, as he stormed into the tribunal, a figure cloaked in silk and wrath, moonlit hair twisted high, eyes like shattered ice.

suguru trailed three paces behind, silent, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. he moved like a shadow, hand resting on his sword’s hilt—not for defense, but as if ready to drag satoru out if this went too far. his disapproval burned like a brand between them, unspoken but searing.

you were there.

kneeling, silent, spine rigid as jade. your robes were plain, hair hastily knotted, strands fraying against your neck. your wrists, unbound now, rested stiffly in your lap, fingers knotted white. your lips were a taut line, jaw locked, and your eyes—gods, your eyes—had shifted. still clear, still fierce, but now laced with something new: calculation, suspicion, a blade-sharp wariness that hadn’t been there before.

because you’d seen him enter—not as a servant, not as the eunuch you’d assumed, but as a man with too much power in his stride, too much steel in his voice, too much weight in how the court stilled. something didn’t add up, and your gaze cut through him like a scalpel.

satoru’s eyes locked on yours. unwavering, unyielding.

for the first time, in all your barbed exchanges, he couldn’t read you.

“lord satoru,” the minister of justice intoned, voice brittle as dried reeds, “you were not summoned.”

“i rarely am,” satoru replied, smooth but icy, his smile a blade that didn’t reach his eyes. “yet i arrive when it matters.”

he stepped forward, robes hissing across the floor like a drawn sword, and drew a lacquer box—black, polished, lethal—from his sleeve. “i trust the tribunal still cares for truth?”

he didn’t wait for permission, didn’t bow, didn’t blink. his fingers, steady as stone, snapped the lid open.

inside: the vial, sealed, labeled, venomous.

“lady mei has been slathering mercury on her skin,” he said, voice clipped, cold as a winter’s edge. “an imported cream to bleach her complexion. overuse brings tremors, fatigue, hair loss.” he let the last word hang, sharp as a guillotine. “symptoms unrelated to the apothecary’s work.”

he turned to the panel, gaze unblinking, deliberate. “it wasn’t her tincture that poisoned mei. it was mei’s own vanity.”

whispers erupted, spreading like mold. fans snapped shut, silk rustled, discomfort coiling through the court. ministers exchanged glances, some avoiding your eyes, others squirming under satoru’s stare.

“your source?” the minister of justice asked, voice thinner now, authority fraying.

“her handmaidens. her perfumer. her personal effects.” satoru tilted his head, expression a mask of frost. “shall i list the ingredients by name or rank them by toxicity?”

suguru’s glare bored into his back, a silent warning, his tension a pulse in the air. satoru felt it, ignored it.

because the room shifted. your name slid off the pyre.

“the tribunal finds no fault in the apothecary’s conduct,” the minister of justice said, voice tight, reluctant. “charges dismissed.”

you exhaled, a soft release, like you’d held your breath since the scream. your fingers flexed, chin lifted, but your gaze didn’t soften—not for him.

satoru’s shoulders eased, just a fraction, the knot in his chest loosening. but relief was fleeting.

“how convenient,” the minister of justice said, eyes narrowing, voice dripping with suspicion, “that you know so much about a servant’s case. one might think you have a personal stake in this apothecary.”

satoru smiled, slow, calculated, a jagged edge of teeth. “knowledge is my trade.”

“very well, your hi—”

the slip was a whisper, barely there. the silence that followed was a chasm. satoru’s gaze didn’t flinch. suguru’s jaw ticked, a muscle jumping under his skin.

—“master satoru.”

and that was that.

the matter closed.

satoru turned, robes flaring like a storm’s wake, the lacquer box gripped tight, its edges biting his palm. no triumph warmed his chest—only dread, heavy as iron, settling in his bones because he’d stormed in with fire in his veins and too much truth on his tongue.

suguru followed, wordless, his silence blistering, storm-browed and heavy. they didn’t speak as they left the hall, didn’t need to—suguru’s disapproval was a blade at satoru’s back.

but just before satoru crossed the threshold, he turned.

just once.

just long enough to see you, still kneeling, still watching. your eyes weren’t grateful. they were narrow, probing, a scalpel slicing through his facade.

and in that fleeting second, he breathed—not relief, not victory, but the hollow ache of knowing he’d saved you and damned himself.

you wouldn’t thank him. you’d ask questions—the kind that could unravel his lie, his title, his heart.

and gods help him, he’d still do it again.

contrary to what he was expecting, you gave him nothing—that’s the thing about silence—satoru feels it like a blade to the throat.

especially when it’s yours.

it hits him hard—not metaphorical, but literal, a sharp slap to the back of his head from his father the morning after the tribunal, in the locked imperial study where guards stood sentinel and the air reeked of bitter incense and sharper disappointment.

“have you lost your senses?” the emperor snapped, voice a low rumble, the kind that precedes a storm’s break. “you kindized your cover for the court apothecary. do you grasp the risk to everything we’ve built? your coronation looms, and one slip could have the court tearing itself apart with questions.”

satoru stared at the floor, fists clenched, knuckles bone-white, jaw locked until his teeth ached. his ceremonial robe sagged, sash skewed, hair knotted with an ink-stained ribbon, the black fraying at the edges. “i did what was right,” he said, voice steady but tight, each word a stone dropped in defiance.

“you did what was emotional,” his father countered, eyes piercing, seeing too much.

the worst part? he was right. no defense would sound like anything but a confession, so satoru swallowed it, the truth burning like bile.

now, days later, he’s chasing the one he risked it all for, and you won’t even look at him.

your silence is a weapon, surgical, precise. he feels it instantly—the way your shoulders tense when his voice spills into a room, a subtle flinch like you’re bracing for impact. your spine stiffens when he steps too close, a wall rising without a word. your gaze skims over him, light as a stone skipping water, never settling, never sinking. your hands freeze, as if expecting an unwanted touch, your face a perfect mask, blank and unyielding.

it’s not avoidance. it’s retreat—calculated, deliberate, leaving nothing for him to grasp, not even your sharp-tongued barbs.

he first catches it in the herb garden, where you’re crouched among flowering angelica, sleeves rolled, fingers stained green, a smudge of pollen dusting your cheek like gold in the sunlight.

you glance up, startled, then pivot smoothly to the court physician beside you, words clipped, professional, before excusing yourself. you brush dirt from your hands, braid swinging like a snapped cord as you vanish around the corner, leaving the air colder, heavier.

satoru stands frozen, clutching a jar of honeyed lotus he’d meant to give you, its petals already curling, drooping like his hope. he follows—of course he does.

the next day, and the next, he trails you through corridors, across courtyards, into the inner palace’s echoing hush. he memorizes the whisper of your sandals, the way your lips thin when he enters, how you wrap your arms tighter around yourself, even in the summer’s heat, as if shielding something fragile.

you don’t insult him. don’t banter. don’t anything.

your greetings, when they come, are cold, formal, a blade pressed lightly to his throat—polite, practiced, punishing. each one carves deeper than your sharpest quip ever could.

he corners you by the water jars one morning, after mapping your routes like a hunter. his robe is creased from rushing, a loose thread dangling from the sleeve, his hair half-falling from its tie, white tufts framing his temples. he clutches a sprig of purple gentian—regret, he’d learned, hoping you’d read it too.

“hey—” he starts, voice softer than he means.

you look through him, eyes empty, like he’s vapor, insignificant. then you step around, sandals hissing on stone, not rushing, not flinching, gaze fixed ahead, unreadable, distant. you leave him clutching a flower that feels heavier than it should, its petals bruising in his grip.

he staggers, heart lurching, chest hollow with disbelief. not because you’re cold—he’s endured worse. not because you’re sharp—he’s always craved that. but because you’ve erased yourself from the game he loved losing. you’ve left him swinging at shadows, and the absence of your fight is a wound he can’t staunch.

by midday, he slinks into suguru’s quarters, dragging his feet like a scolded child, arms crossed tight as if they could hold his unraveling together. his sash is half-untied, a dark smudge on his collar from spilled ink he didn’t bother to clean. he collapses onto a cushion, graceless as a felled tree, robe tangling at his ankles, a gentian petal stuck to his shoulder, wilted and sad.

“she’s avoiding me,” he declares, voice heavy with the weight of a man mourning a war lost. his hair is a wreck, strands clinging to his neck, the petal fluttering to the floor like a final surrender.

suguru, buried in scrolls, raises a brow, unimpressed. “yes. i noticed.”

satoru flops back, one arm flung across his eyes like a tragic poet. “i’ve been to the medicine hall four times today.”

“i’m sure they loved the interruption.”

“they offered me a foot bath and begged me to leave.”

suguru hums, dry as dust. “reasonable.”

satoru peeks from under his sleeve, the gentian now a crumpled heap beside him. “why?”

suguru sets his brush down, pinching his nose like he’s bracing for a saga. “maybe she’s unnerved by how you stormed the tribunal to save her.”

satoru sits up, indignation flaring. “i couldn’t let them execute her.”

“and that,” suguru says, voice flat, “is why she’s dodging you.”

satoru scowls, raking both hands through his hair, worsening the chaos. “that’s absurd. i saved her. she should be calling me brilliant, handsome, terrifyingly heroic.”

“she should,” suguru says, bland, “but instead, she sees you as a threat.”

“i’m not a threat,” satoru pouts—yes, pouts, lips jutting like a child denied sweets. “i’m charming.”

“you kissed her,” suguru says, blunt as a hammer, “then risked your identity to clear her name. you nearly exposed yourself in the tribunal. if that’s charming, we’re reading different scrolls.”

satoru opens his mouth, then shuts it, the truth landing like a stone. he is dangerous—not to you, never to you, but in the way men are when they want too much, feel too much, when your name in your sharp-tongued cadence has become a rhythm he can’t unhear.

maybe you saw it—the depth of his care, the reckless edge of it. maybe you knew what it could cost in a palace where love is a weakness, where weakness is a death sentence. maybe that’s why you’ve gone silent, because you’ve lived here long enough to know how quickly devotion becomes a noose.

and gods, it hurts.

no one’s ever run from him like this, not with this quiet, cutting precision. he’d rather you scream, call him a peacock, mock his silk robes—anything but this silence, this absence that feels like farewell.

because he’s not ready to let you go—not when your kiss still burns his lips, not when he’d burn the palace down to keep you safe again.

the thing about denial is satoru is incredibly good at it.

he’s practically a master of delusion—an expert in selective optimism, an artisan in pretending everything is fine, especially when it very much isn’t. it’s the first week of your silence, and he’s convinced this is a temporary misstep. a phase. a momentary lapse in your usually impeccable judgment that will surely pass.

surely.

he starts showing up in places he has no business being.

“oh! what a coincidence finding you here… in the herb garden… at dawn… when you always collect morning dew,” he says brightly one morning, attempting nonchalance. he leans far too casually against the wooden trellis, his outer robe slightly askew, strands of silver-white hair glinting with condensation from the early mist.

he even has the audacity to smile like he hasn’t been pacing that path for the last half hour, waiting for you to arrive.

your back is to him. you don’t flinch, but your hand pauses over the mint leaves for a beat too long before moving again. your fingers move with mechanical precision as you snip the stems, pile them into your basket, and keep your gaze locked firmly on the greenery in front of you.

you don’t answer.

he stands awkwardly for another breath, then another, shifting from foot to foot, clearing his throat once—twice—until you finally rise with your basket and brush past him with all the grace of a falling leaf that still manages to cut like a knife. your sleeve doesn’t even brush his. your hair smells faintly of crushed basil and dried chrysanthemum, and the scent follows you as you walk away.

undeterred, satoru escalates.

he appears in the medicinal stores that afternoon, arms folded behind his back like he owns the place. which, in a roundabout way, he technically does. his hair is freshly tied back, his sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow like he might do something useful. he’s even wearing his softer silk robes, the ones he knows don’t intimidate patients.

he produces a small pot from within his robe with the dramatic flourish of a magician mid-performance.

“a rare specimen from the southern provinces,” he announces, eyes sparkling. “white-tipped chrysanthemum. useful for calming fevers, clearing toxins, and healing broken hearts.”

he adds the last bit with a grin that slides a little crooked at the corners. lopsided. hopeful. a little pathetic.

you don’t even look up at first. your hands continue grinding dried rhubarb root into powder, movements efficient, clinical. your brow is furrowed. there’s a streak of ash under your eye from hours near the incense brazier, and your sleeves are dusted with crushed herbs. when you finally glance his way, it’s brief. dispassionate. two seconds of eye contact that make him feel like he’s been dissected and found wanting.

“i have twenty-two of these in the western cabinet,” you say, voice devoid of venom or warmth. “but thank you for the… professional courtesy.”

your bow is precise. and then you’re gone. the hem of your robe whispers against the stone as you turn the corner without a single backward glance.

he stands there in the cool quiet, alone but for the chrysanthemum pot in his hands, which suddenly feels heavier than it should. the silence in the room hums louder now. it presses at the back of his skull. he sets the pot down on the nearest shelf and doesn’t look at it again.

later, he finds himself slouched sideways across suguru’s low table, picking at the edge of a rice cracker he has no intention of eating. his forehead is pressed to the polished wood, arms sprawled out like he’s melting.

“she’s just busy. it’s nothing personal,” he mumbles into the grain of the table.

suguru, who has been dealing with palace politics since before satoru could tie his sash properly, looks at him like he’s watching a fire burn too close to the curtains.

“busy?” suguru echoes, his tone so dry it might as well be powdered bone.

satoru lifts his head a fraction, eyes shadowed under his bangs. “overwhelmed,” he insists, sitting up and tossing the uneaten cracker onto the tray. “the tribunal aftermath, new responsibilities, increased patient load—she’s under a lot of pressure.”

“you stormed a tribunal to save her,” suguru interrupts, setting down his brush with pointed slowness.

“yes, but heroically,” satoru says, arms folding tighter around himself, like he can physically ward off the doubt creeping in. “nobly.”

suguru’s eyebrow rises. high. impossibly high. it might detach from his face and float away like a skeptical spirit.

“look,” satoru mutters, shifting to lie on his back and drape an arm over his eyes like the protagonist of a particularly tragic play, “this is just a bump. a weird, quiet, icy bump. i’ve weathered worse. she’ll come around. she always does. she—she has to.”

he pauses.

“right?”

suguru doesn’t answer. just watches him in silence, eyes narrowing with the kind of older-brother pity that makes satoru want to melt through the floor.

and then he sighs. a long, theatrical sigh that fails to lighten the weight in his chest. because he’s starting to realize this isn’t just a bump.

this is a slow, cold freeze.

and you’re the one pulling the frost line farther back every time he gets close. the air between you grows thinner, colder, until every word he wants to say dies frozen on his tongue before it ever reaches you. and for the first time, he’s afraid that all the warmth in the world might not be enough to melt it.

the thing about desperation is it turns satoru into a mastermind of madness.

week two dawns, and your icy silence is a fortress his charm can’t breach, so he pivots. he schemes. he crafts plans so absurd they’d make court poets weep for their lost dignity. you can’t be mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, a fleeting misstep he’ll charm into oblivion.

his opening gambit? a theatrical ailment, served with flair.

“my pulse races, i can’t eat, and sleep’s a stranger,” he proclaims one morning, materializing at your workstation like a ghost draped in pale silk, robes pristine but hair gleaming as if he spent an hour brushing it to catch the dawn’s glow. he leans over your table, just close enough for his sleeve to graze a vial, voice dripping with mock woe. “also, my palms sweat when i see… certain people—which is definitely not you!”

the apothecary hall hums with early light, golden rays slicing through lattice windows, casting woven shadows across stone. camphor and dried licorice root scent the air, sharp and heavy. junior assistants shuffle behind, sorting valerian and lotus pods, their murmurs a soft drone.

you’re a statue, unmoved, flipping a ledger page, ink brush scratching measurements with ruthless calm. “sounds like a minor imbalance,” you say, voice a blade, clean and cold. “chrysanthemum tea and more sleep.”

satoru gasps—gasps, hand to chest, staggering back like your words are divine judgment. a pestle clatters from an assistant’s grip, a tea bowl teeters on a shelf, wobbling like his pride. “none of that worked,” he insists, eyes wide, tragic. “it’s chronic. possibly terminal. i need daily checkups. twice daily, for… observation.”

you don’t reply, just pluck a jar of calming ointment from a cabinet and set it on the table’s edge with a thud, not sparing him a glance. he snatches it, clutching it like a sacred talisman, bowing with such reverence his hair spills forward, a silver curtain brushing the floor.

that’s the spark.

what follows is a campaign satoru deems elegant, a symphony of strategy. in truth, it’s a farce teetering on lunacy.

he turns sleuth, all subtle inquiries and innocent smiles. he grills kitchen staff on your lunch habits—bitter plum candies, you love them. he corners a laundry maid about your robes—same deep indigo, always pressed. he charms couriers for your midday haunts—west pavilion, near the koi pond. harmless, he swears, just… research. he scribbles notes, tucked in his sleeve, scrawled between council dronings: tools right to left, hums odd rhythms, hates wasted ink.

he’s not stalking. he’s conducting a study, a meticulous survey of your existence.

“reconnaissance,” he mutters one afternoon, crouched behind a decorative screen in the infirmary’s rear hall, wedged between a linen cart and a scroll of spleen meridians, half-unrolled like his dignity.

it’s a ritual now. daily excuses, each more brazen. a fan “dropped” near your herbs, its silk tassel suspiciously pristine. a scroll “forgotten” on your desk, its contents a poem he swears isn’t his. a comb—his personal seal carved deep, definitely not his—left by your inkstone. a pouch of dried dates, “slipped” from his sleeve, suspiciously your favorite.

he times his returns perfectly, catching the flicker of annoyance in your eyes, the slow sigh as you spot his silhouette. your jaw tightens, lips purse, gaze narrows like you’re diagnosing a plague.

“oh, thank the heavens,” he says one afternoon, kneeling by your table, robes pooling like spilled moonlight, embroidery glinting in the sun. “i feared this comb lost forever.”

“that comb is carved with your seal,” you deadpan, stirring crushed kudzu, steam curling around your face. “you’re the only one here who uses that seal as inner palace manager.”

he gasps, hand to heart. “so it is mine. a miracle.”

assistants exchange glances. one chokes back a laugh, sleeve muffling the sound. another’s eyes roll so far they might never return. you just stir, unamused, the bowl’s steam hiding the twitch of your mouth.

suguru finds him later, crouched behind a silk screen in the medicine hall’s corner, half-veiled by pressure-point charts and an abandoned anatomy scroll.

satoru’s staring at you mixing tinctures, gaze soft as if you’re a rare painting or a storm breaking over mountains. your sleeves are rolled, ginger staining your fingers, brow furrowed as you test the liquid’s thickness. a stray hair slips free, brushing your cheek each time you lean, and he tracks it like a comet.

“are you… spying?” suguru asks, voice teetering between worry and exhaustion.

“reconnaissance,” satoru says, eyes never leaving you. “completely different.”

“how?”

“it’s dignified.”

suguru’s sigh could topple empires. he walks away, leaving satoru to his vigil.

he stays, knees aching, drafts chilling his ankles, even as shift bells chime and servants pass with raised brows and whispered gossip. he can’t stop. watching you work—your precise hands, your quiet focus—is the only time the world feels right, the only time you’re close, even if you won’t see him.

your silence can’t be anger, not when he saved you, not when he was your shield. it’s just… a phase. you’ll crack, throw a barb, maybe hurl a vial at his head. he’d take it gladly.

he’ll keep showing up, unavoidable, until your frost thaws or you snap.

because if he’s in your orbit, you’ll have to see him eventually—right? right?

the thing about humiliation is satoru has no sense of it.

or maybe he feels it but buries it beneath stubborn vanity and desperate theatrics, draping it in silks and timed flourishes like a tragedian clutching a tattered script. he’s not wrong—you can’t be mad he saved you—so he barrels forward, undaunted, a peacock in a storm.

week three crashes in like summer monsoons—heavy, unyielding, impossible to ignore. satoru’s antics scale to operatic madness, each act more brazen than the last.

it begins at a court ceremony, the air thick with incense curling like specters around bored officials’ heads. sunlight seeps through high lattice windows, spilling gold across tiled floors, glinting off jade pins and silk fans fluttering like moth wings. courtiers murmur, voices low, while a servant’s dropped tray earns a hissed rebuke that echoes faintly.

you stand beside the inner palace physician, posture rigid, face a mask, eyes fixed forward, your refusal to see him sharper than any blade.

he notices. gods, he notices.

so he “collapses”—clutching his chest, dropping to his knees with a choked gasp mid-chant, silk robes pooling like melted snow. the sacred hymn stumbles, a musician’s brow arches, but the koto strings hum on. “weakness,” he rasps, voice cracking just enough to sell it, hand trembling as he sways. “sudden… overwhelming…”

you glide to him, linen rustling, herbal scent trailing like a faint curse. kneeling, you press two fingers to his wrist, jaw tight as iron. his pulse? steady as a war drum.

“your hands are so healing,” he murmurs, lips parted, lashes low, a saintly look ruined by the smirk tugging his mouth.

you drop his wrist like it’s plague-ridden.

“get up,” you say, voice flat as slate.

he pouts. “but—”

“up.”

he rises, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes, their shimmer catching the light like a winter lake, regal and utterly shameless.

it spirals from there.

next, the rash. “a mysterious affliction,” he whispers one afternoon, leaning in the apothecary doorway like he’s spilling state secrets. his robes are artfully mussed, a few silver hairs astray for effect, his seal as inner palace manager glinting on his belt. “in places too improper to show anyone else.”

you don’t look up from your mortar, grinding ginseng with mechanical precision. “i trust your medical discretion,” he sighs, hand over heart, theatrical as a funeral ode.

you gesture for a eunuch assistant without a blink. satoru dismisses him in five minutes, claiming a “miraculous recovery,” his grin brighter than the noon sun.

then, the hiccups. “three days,” he tells a dubious herbalist, face grave between hiccups so staged they could headline a festival. “unprovoked. incurable.” they flare only when you’re near, vanishing the instant you leave. “hic—lady rin fainted in the greenhouse—hic—scandalous—hic—heat or a lover?—hic—”

you shove a pressure point chart his way and keep walking. he trails you, hiccuping like a deranged waterfowl, robes swishing in your wake.

he takes to hiding behind potted plants—literal, not figurative. you catch the glint of embroidered silk behind a jasmine bush near the treatment wing. it rustles. he sneezes. you don’t pause. the gardeners are less forgiving; one finds a scarf snagged in a fig tree and mutters about cursed spirits with tacky taste.

a palace maid starts a betting pool on a parchment scrap behind the tea station. by midweek, court ladies wager on his next ailment: lunar migraines, aphrodisiac allergies, silence sensitivity. the tally’s pinned to a beam, fluttering like a rebel flag.

suguru finds him one evening, propped against a doorframe outside the record room, squinting at his reflection in a polished bronze tea tray. “what are you doing?” suguru asks, voice flat as a stepped-on reed.

“finding my best angle,” satoru says, tilting his chin, robes catching the lamplight like liquid frost. “this side’s devastating.”

“why?”

“some of us care about aesthetics, suguru.”

suguru stares three heartbeats, then leaves without a word, sandals slapping stone. satoru sighs, adjusts his sleeve, rechecks the tray. the problem isn’t his tactics—clearly, it’s the lighting.

because you can’t be furious. this is just a phase, a fleeting frost he’ll melt with enough flair. he’ll keep performing, unavoidable, until you laugh or snap—either’s a win.

the thing about pretending is the mask eventually cracks.

week four creeps in like a slow fog—dense, suffocating, clinging to satoru’s bones. his schemes, once fueled by giddy denial, turn brittle, their spark snuffed out. you’re not mad he saved you—surely not—but your silence is a void, and his antics no longer draw your gaze. still, he can’t stop, even as the performance bleeds into something raw, something real.

he spends an afternoon perched in a tree outside your window, teetering on a gnarled branch not meant for a man in layered silk. robes bunch under his knees, snagging on rough bark, his personal seal as inner palace manager glinting at his waist. ceremonial hairpins clink with each shift, the branch groaning under his weight.

petals drift into his lap, mingling with dust and a bold beetle that crawls up his sleeve. he swats it, muttering, as sap drips onto his shoulder, staining the silk. birds mock him from above; a maid below stifles a giggle, scurrying off.

he stays for hours, legs numb, arms clutching the trunk, eyes fixed on the lantern’s warm flicker behind your rice paper screen. a breeze carries distant gossip, the clack of slippers, the faint crash of a dropped mortar from the apothecary wing. he dozes off—chin to chest, cheek mashed against bark, mouth slack, snoring softly, undignified. a sparrow shits on his sleeve and flees.

your window slides open, airing out the stale warmth. he jolts awake, flailing, a squawk escaping as he tumbles—a sprawl of silk and limbs hitting dew-soaked grass with a grunt that echoes through the courtyard. leaves tangle in his hair, a grass stain blooms on his shoulder, a twig juts from his sash. one robe sleeve hangs off, his hairpin crooked.

you stare down.

“i was inspecting landscaping,” he croaks, blinking up, voice raw, throat scraped from days of shouting your name. “root systems. erosion. vital work.”

your eyes narrow. you slide the window shut, the wood’s soft thud louder than any rebuke.

his voice starts failing after that. he calls after you—across training fields, past koi ponds, through garden paths—first hopeful, then frantic, then ragged with need. his throat burns, words slurring, a dry cough haunting quiet moments, like his own body rebels. you never turn, not even when he trips over his sandals, voice cracking on your name.

“you’re overworking yourself,” suguru says one morning, watching satoru prod a congealed pile of rice. the breakfast hall buzzes—teacups clink, servants weave with platters of dumplings and lotus root—but satoru sits still, a ghost in the chaos where he once shone. his robes sag, collar limp, sash half-tied, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. he hasn’t slept, not truly, not in a way that heals.

“i’m fine,” he rasps, voice a brittle whisper, throat raw.

a thread frays from his sleeve, tugged absently for half an hour. a maid swaps his tea for honey water; it sits untouched, steam curling into nothing.

he stops performing—not by choice, but because his body betrays him. the court notices, their amused whispers turning wary. “cursed?” one mutters under the moon-viewing pavilion’s arch. “heartbreak,” an older consort replies, fan slow, knowing, “untreatable by herbs.”

the betting pool withers; no one bets on a man breaking in plain sight.

a young court lady tries teasing him during a scroll signing, giggling about his missing sash. he looks through her, face blank—not cold, just gone. her smile fades, and she retreats, fan drooping.

the emperor summons him. the chamber reeks of aged wood and sandalwood, cicadas shrieking outside, a moth dancing near the lantern.

“your distractions are… obvious,” the emperor says, voice mild over a porcelain cup of spiced tea. “have you sworn to starve?”

satoru blinks slowly, words sinking in late. “i’m capable,” he says, voice fragile, unconvinced.

the emperor sighs, cup clinking softly. “suguru, pinch him when he sighs.”

“gladly,” suguru mutters, already poised by the window.

he pinches satoru at the next council briefing. satoru yelps, startling a western envoy who drops his brush. “sorry,” satoru says, straightening, blinking fast, “muscle spasm. stress. common.”

no one buys it, least of all him.

you pass him in the apothecary hall later, face blank, pace even, tray of powdered herbs in hand, fingers stained with crushed petals. your sleeve brushes his, a fleeting touch that stops his breath, his hand twitching, hoping for your gaze.

you don’t look. not a flicker.

he wonders if he’s fading, if he’s a ghost you never truly saw.

the thing about hitting rock bottom is satoru drags props and a crowd with him.

by week five, even the imperial koi dodge him, one darting away when he slumps over the pond, sighing into its depths like a poet scorned. a servant mutters, “talking to fish again?”

another hisses, “no, monologuing. there’s a difference.” his antics swing from pitiful to deranged, depending on the hour and how close you are before he sneezes. palace staff whisper behind sleeves, watching a tragedy laced with farce unfold in real time.

it starts with rain—a relentless downpour soaking roof tiles, seeping into scroll rooms, turning courtyard stones slick as eel skin. it clings to bones, weighs hair, chills marrow. attendants scurry with parasols, eunuchs huddle under eaves, guards eye the sky, dreaming of indoor shifts. the head gardener slips twice, cursing weather gods with a rake in hand.

satoru lingers outside your quarters.

four hours.

he leans against a wooden post, a drenched statue of damp nobility and sniffles. rain beads on his jaw, dripping onto his robe’s collar, silver hair plastered to his cheekbones like wet silk threads. his soaked outer robe clings, transparent, revealing embroidered underlayers meant for court, not courtyards. his slippers squelch, squishing with each shift. he sneezes every five minutes, loud, pathetic, drawing glances from servants who now reroute entirely.

you open the door—not from pity, but because maids are betting in the side hall, giggling: five minutes more? ten? the cook wagers candied ginger he’ll faint; a laundress bets on a song; the steward swears he saw satoru’s eyelashes blink code.

you sigh, step inside, return with gloves and a cloth mask. your hair’s knotted tight, sleeves pinned, expression sharp enough to carve jade. he coughs, theatrical anguish. “you’re treating me like i’m plague-ridden.”

“you are plague-ridden,” you snap, gloves crackling as you seize his wrist, touch clinical, cold. his skin’s chilled, pulse steady despite his act.

he leans into your grip. you flick his forehead, precise as a dart.

he whines all day, mostly to suguru, who slumps in the physician’s lounge, regretting every choice leading here. an unread scroll lies in his lap, herbal poultice stench thick in the air. outside, birds chirp, mocking the farce within.

“she wore gloves, suguru,” satoru moans, swaddled in three blankets, sipping a garlic-laced brew that reeks of despair. his personal seal as inner palace manager dangles from his sash, glinting dully. “gloves. like i’m a festering toadstool.”

“you’re feverish,” suguru says, eyes on his scroll. “you are a toadstool.”

satoru gasps, rattling a tea set. an attendant flinches, a teacup teeters, caught by a mortified apprentice.

then, self-diagnoses. “nocturnal hemogoblins,” he declares one evening, bursting into your workroom, clutching his side, face pale from sleeplessness and a dusting of tragic powder. “it’s dire.”

you don’t look up from your parchment. “you mean hemoglobinemia.”

he beams. “you spoke to me.”

you freeze, brush hovering, face souring like you bit a rotten plum. you resume writing, silent. he tallies seven words in his head, a victory he celebrates like a war won.

his ploys escalate. rare herbs appear—ones you haven’t seen since southern training, wrapped in silk not from palace stores, their earthy scent lingering in halls. he trails sandalwood one day, golden pollen the next, a perfumed cloud like incense smoke.

“found this lying around,” he says, setting a saffron root sprig on your table, its crimson threads vibrant against wood.

you raise a brow. “saffron root from the western isles… lying around?”

he shrugs, smile strained.

then, disaster. he brings a volatile herb you’ve warned against, cradled in a velvet box like a jewel. within an hour, his face swells—left eye shut, lip ballooned, nose a vivid plum. “i feel… handsome,” he slurs, voice muffled.

you administer antidote with the weary air of someone resigned to fate, humming faintly, maybe to cope. your fingers are deft, grip firm, expression a blank wall. “where’d you get this?” you ask, spreading minty salve with a spatula reeking of despair.

“sources,” he wheezes.

that night, suguru catches him before a mirror tray, rehearsing lines like a doomed actor. a breeze lifts the corridor’s sheer curtain, a moth fluttering past.

“oh! fancy meeting you here, exactly where i knew you’d be!” satoru chirps, smoothing his robe, chin tilted for sincerity—looking haggard instead. “new hairpin? it suits you perfectly!” “your humor theory’s brilliant. also your face. mostly your face.”

suguru sighs, shoulders sagging under satoru’s folly. “gods save us,” he mutters. “he’s full peacock.”

satoru twirls a mugwort sprig, eyes glassy, grinning at his warped reflection. “she’ll talk tomorrow. i feel it.”

suguru doesn’t argue—not when satoru looks like he’s praying to a deaf god.

because rock bottom isn’t the end, not when you haven’t looked at him. he’ll keep performing, props and all, until you see him again.

the thing about spectacle is it spills beyond the stage, especially when you’re satoru—inner palace manager, supposedly useless eunuch, suspiciously well-connected, and now openly consulting marble lions for romance tips.

by week six, palace gossip sheds its humor. giggles behind perfumed fans turn to pity, whispers hushing as he enters, soft glances heavy with concern and secondhand shame. attendants quiet, kitchen staff wince at his approach. he’s no longer the flamboyant eccentric juggling concubine schedules, overseeing embroidery, delivering orchids with a bow. he’s a wilted ribbon snagged on your heel, trailing the apothecary who won’t spare him a glance.

the man who once danced through courtyards now stumbles into furniture, walks into half-shut doors, topples garden lanterns, eyes locked on you. you’re not mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, he tells himself, even as denial frays.

“i think i’ve forgotten how to swallow,” he declares post-midday meal, voice grave, like he’s diagnosing his own doom. honeyed yam lingers in the air, courtiers’ fans rustling faintly outside in the spring heat.

you don’t look up from your scroll, brush scratching ink. “that’s a tragedy,” you say, dry as dust.

“what if it’s muscular or psychological? some stress-induced esophageal issue?”

“chew slowly. drink water.”

“but what if i choke?”

“then i’ll have peace at last.”

he haunts formal events, a mournful specter five steps behind you—always five, counted under his breath like a lifeline. “one, two, three—damn it,” he mutters, crashing into a eunuch with a hairpin tray when you veer past the lotus fountain. the clatter echoes, pins scattering like stars. three attendants scramble to clean it.

you don’t pause.

his hair, once a silver crown, rebels, strands haloing unevenly, a jade pin perpetually crooked. his robes, once pristine, misbutton, sashes unraveling, trailing like a poet’s failed verse. he’s less courtier, more shipwreck, washed ashore after a botched love letter.

in the east garden, he slumps against a mossy lion statue, sighing so loud the gardener pauses, rake hovering, checking for wounds. “should i go for subtle longing or theatrical suffering?” satoru asks the lion, squinting at its weathered snout. “be honest.”

the lion’s silent. a maid stifles a snort, fleeing.

suguru finds him there—again. “are you talking to rocks now?” he asks, arms crossed.

“he listens without judging,” satoru says, solemn.

“he also doesn’t talk back.”

“that’s the appeal.”

satoru’s decline hits new lows. suguru catches him outside your quarters, face blank, as if willing himself into the stonework.

“you’re groveling for scraps of her attention like a starving dog,” suguru says, voice sharp but steady.

satoru’s head snaps up, eyes flashing, lips jutting in a pout that could shame a spoiled child. “groveling? me? the inner palace bends to my every whim! and soon the empire!” he huffs, crossing his arms, personal seal glinting at his waist. “i’m strategizing, suguru. strategizing! she’s just too stubborn to see my brilliance yet.”

he stomps a foot, robe swishing petulantly, then jabs a finger at suguru. “and don’t you dare call it groveling when i’m clearly executing a masterful campaign of devotion!”

suguru raises a brow, unmoved. “a campaign? you spent three hours yesterday faking heart palpitations just so she’d take your pulse. then you begged for a recheck because ‘it might be irregular.’”

“my heart does race when she’s near,” satoru says, chin high, though his voice wavers, petulance cracking. “that’s a medical fact!”

“it’s called infatuation, your highness, not an emergency.”

“and that swallowing thing could happen to anyone,” satoru adds, puffing his chest, but his shoulders slump, the fight leaking out.

suguru’s gaze softens, concern replacing jest. “this isn’t sustainable, satoru. you’re the crown prince. this behavior—it’s beneath you.”

satoru stiffens, petulance fading to a flicker of dread. “i know my place,” he says, but the lie tastes like ash, heavy on his tongue. his shoulders sag, bravado crumbling under the weight of his secret.

the emperor summons him that evening. the chamber glows dim, sandalwood incense crackling, its nostalgic scent thick in the stillness. tea steams untouched in a porcelain cup, its delicate aroma lost.

“you’re not sleeping,” the emperor says, eyeing him over his teacup, voice calm, not accusatory.

“i’m fine,” satoru lies, sitting rigid, eyes shadowed, nails carving crescents into his palms. his sleeve bears an ink blot, smudged from hours hunched over pointless scrolls.

he’s not fine.

“whoever she is,” the emperor says, pausing, gaze unreadable, “she’s left a mark.”

both of them know who is his father referring to.

the thing about spiraling is you run out of masks to hide behind.

week seven slips in like damp air—silent, heavy, inescapable. no corridor theatrics, no feverish wails, no ailments flung at your workspace. the palace corridors echo emptier, as if bracing for a storm. satoru stops performing, and the silence left screams louder than his boldest quip.

no giggling attendants trail him. no court ladies stage stumbles for his glance. he doesn’t lurk by the apothecary hall, conjuring maladies. he watches—from shadowed walkways, courtyards, corners where he can feign a passing errand. his eyes follow you, a silent question too raw to voice.

in court, his voice fades. once a spark in the dull churn of palace bureaucracy, now he speaks only when called, words brief, humor gone. no jabs at garish sashes, no quips to ease tense silences. he lets the quiet fester. when he skips sparring with the southern envoy—a woman who thrives on his banter—heads turn.

suguru notices, arms crossed in the council chamber, head tilted, eyes asking: what’s happening?

the truth lies at your door.

before dawn, satoru leaves heliotrope bouquets at your threshold—small purple blooms, fragile yet vivid, whispering devotion, unspoken love. not native, not in season, their existence defies reason.

he pulls strings—his authority as inner palace manager, his personal seal flashing in shadowed deals with garden masters and secret merchants. delivered under moonlight, wrapped in fine parchment, stems cut sharp, they’re offerings to a shrine only he tends.

he never signs them, never speaks of them. he waits—behind a painted screen, a corridor curtain, close enough to see your fingers brush the petals. his breath catches. your face stays stone, but he sees: the pause, your fingertips lingering, the faint crease in your brow, swallowing a sigh.

each day, the bouquets grow intricate—heliotrope laced with silk one dawn, wrapped in medical gauze the next, paired with a scrawled line from a physician’s text. the message roars, wordless.

palace staff whisper. some say a ghost leaves the flowers—who rises before the fifth bell? others bet on a noble’s secret suit. a concubine swears a fox spirit’s at work. guards step around the blooms, wary, reverent.

satoru says nothing, just watches, always watches.

at night, he haunts the moonlit garden—where you kissed, where he fractured. barefoot, steps silent on stone, pale hair loose, catching moonlight like spun silver. he murmurs to the koi pond, half-hoping for answers. “she doesn’t hate me, does she?” he asks, voice a breath, hoarse.

suguru finds him there, again. “does she hate me, suguru?” satoru asks, raw, fraying.

suguru pauses, arms folded, gazing at the pond’s still surface, a breeze barely stirring it. “it’s not that simple.”

satoru exhales, shaky, slumping, rubbing his palm against his eye, exhaustion carving every line. “what did i do wrong? besides everything.”

he replays your voice, your teasing eye-rolls, how you’d answer his nonsense yet see him, real. now your tone’s cold, courteous as a blade’s edge, eyes never landing. when he nears, your wall rises, unyielding.

in a corridor, maybe chance, maybe not, you nod politely. something breaks. “don’t worry,” he mutters, bitter, sharp, “i won’t keep you. i know you find me repulsive.”

you stop, head turning, confusion and guilt flickering, but he’s gone before you settle.

his mask flakes—slow, not sudden. he skips meals, nights blur sleepless, small slights spark fury. he snaps at a scribe for smudged ink, slams a door, cracking its frame, over a misfiled scroll. his hands shake reading reports you once marked with sharp notes.

“are you well, master satoru?” a junior physician asks, soft during rounds.

he smiles, too bright, too thin. “never better.”

the court whispers—behind screens, fans—about his silence, his temper, his drift. the inner palace manager, once a dazzling oddity, fades. none suspect his crown prince blood—only suguru, the emperor, the chancellor, and chosen ministers know, their secret guarded tight. but they question his focus, his steadiness.

suguru hears it—every murmur, every doubt—and watches his friend, the empire’s sharpest mind, the boy who made consorts laugh, unravel, thread by silver thread.

because spiraling starts quiet, until it’s a scream he can’t voice.

the thing about shame is that it never arrives alone. it drags longing behind it like a train of silk, heavy and unyielding, and satoru’s learning fast that longing is a damn tyrant, bowing to no one, least of all him.

week eight’s been a fever dream of jagged edges, but now, in a corridor outside the emperor’s chambers—vermilion walls lacquered to a bloody sheen, sandalwood choking the air like incense gone sour, scrolls rustling behind paper screens like whispers of the dead, morning light slicing through lattice to scatter dust motes like ash—satoru gojo is a wreck.

his robe’s crooked, one sleeve slipping, silver hair half-loose, sticking to his sweat-slick neck, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. his breath catches, raw, as regret gnaws his ribs, sharper since last week’s bitter words. your silence, your averted eyes, the way you glide past like he’s a plague-riddled corpse you won’t bother to name—it’s worse than your barbs, worse than fury. it’s absence, and it’s killing him.

you appear, a flicker of your silhouette against the screen, steps soft on the worn runner, scrolls clutched to your chest like a shield. your jaw’s clenched, lips a tight slash, gaze fixed above his shoulder like he’s nothing, air. his heart stumbles, forgets how to beat. he moves too fast, too desperate, a man drowning.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, breathless, slouching to fake nonchalance. it’s a lie—his voice shakes, hands twisting in his sleeves, fingers knotting silk to hide the tremor. his eyes, bloodshot, cling to you, raw, pleading.

your face doesn’t shift, cold as stone. “i need to pass,” you say, voice clipped, sharp as a blade’s edge, stepping left.

“not until you tell me what i did wrong,” he says, sliding into your path, shoulders hunching, robe swishing like a broken fan. his tone’s too raw, too sharp, betraying the ache clawing his chest.

“i have patients waiting.” you pivot right, scrolls creaking in your grip, knuckles pale.

“they can wait longer.” the words cut, harder than he meant, and he sees it—a flicker in your eyes, anger or hurt, gone before he can name it. “why are you avoiding me?”

you move left. he mirrors. you shift right. he’s there. his robe flares in dramatic waves, a stage actor mid-meltdown, planting himself with the stubborn desperation of a man who’s got nothing left to lose.

your lips press thinner, a muscle twitching in your jaw. “move,” you say, low, a warning that could draw blood.

“not until you look me in the eyes and say you’re just busy.” he drops his voice, rough, tilting his head to catch your gaze, breath unsteady, carrying a tremor of need.

you scoff, eyes dropping to the runner’s frayed weave, and duck under his arm. “i’m not avoiding you,” you lie, voice snapping like brittle wood. “i’m simply—”

“look me in the eyes and say that again,” he demands, voice low, gravelly, arm bracing against the wall, caging you without touching. his sleeve hovers near you, trembling, silk brushing the air like a ghost’s touch.

you pivot. quick. a step to the side, a swerve meant to slide past him.

he steps with you.

you dart the other way—he’s there too, like a mirror with better posture. you try a feint, then a fake-out, then a spin worthy of palace dancers. every time, he matches you beat for beat, fan flicking, robe swishing, like this was all a pre-choreographed tragedy staged just to annoy you.

“are you—are you blocking me for sport?” you hiss, ducking and weaving like a cat trying to escape a curtain.

“i consider it cardio,” he replies, far too pleased.

“you are not—” you lunge left—blocked. “—a door.” you spin right—blocked. “you are—”

he shifts again, one arm rising to lean against the opposite panel, successfully completing his transformation into the world’s most aggravating, smugly-dressed wall.

“damned peacock,” you mutter under your breath, your patience unraveling like a poorly tied sash.

he grins, all teeth and challenge. “is that panic?”

then—fate, that cruel bastard, plays its hand. in his eagerness to perform one final smug pivot, satoru overcommits. his foot catches the embroidered hem of his robe—once regal, now a treacherous coil of silk. a curse, sharp and scandalized, escapes him as his balance betrays him.

his arms flail like a bird startled mid-preen. he reaches—grabs the only thing in reach—you.

the world lurches.

you’re yanked forward in a graceless blur. scrolls burst from your sleeves like startled pigeons. your sandal skids. silk snaps. the floor rises.

you crash atop him, your knees bracketing his hips, robes tangled, your weight knocking the wind from his lungs. one hand braces on his chest, the other—lands on his thigh, then slips higher, dragged by momentum and misfortune—and then time stops.

your hand rests where no eunuch’s should be, pressing against the hard, pulsing truth of his lie. satoru’s eyes snap open, wide as moons, heart slamming, drowning the corridor’s hum, his pulse a wild drum in his throat.

you freeze, breath hitching, eyes widening in slow horror, pupils dilating until they swallow the light. your lips part, a faint gasp, your gaze locked on his lap, then flicking to his face, shock warring with disbelief. your fingers flex, instinctive, the slight pressure a spark that sets him ablaze, raw, unbearable.

his face ignites, crimson flooding ears to throat, sweat slicking his brow, matting his hair. shame burns like a pyre, but longing—eight weeks of it, festering, unspent—flares hotter, primal, coiling tight in his gut. his cock twitches under your hand, a traitor, throbbing, straining against silk, a humiliating pulse he can’t stop, fed by your touch, your horrified stare.

he tries to speak, mouth opening, closing, a fish gasping on dry land. a sound escapes—half-whimper, half-choke, not human, raw with need and mortification, a plea he can’t shape.

“y-you’re—” you start, voice a trembling whisper, hand jerking back like it’s burned, fingers curling into your palm, scrolls forgotten, scattered across the runner.

“late for a meeting!” he yelps, pitch shattering, a glass-breaking wail. he scrambles up, nearly headbutting you, sleeves flailing in a whirlwind of panic. “as are you! very late! we should go! separately! you first! or me! both!”

he shoves himself upright, stumbles, one sandal half-off, toes catching the runner, and crashes into a lantern stand. it wobbles, brass clanging like a mocking gong; he mutters a frantic, “sorry, sorry,” to the metal, voice high, fraying.

he’s gone, fleeing down the corridor like death’s on his heels, robe flapping, silver hair streaming like a comet’s tail. his footsteps echo, uneven, desperate, fading into the palace’s hum, sandalwood trailing like a curse.

he doesn’t stop until he hits the eastern wing’s darkest storage room, a crypt behind a forgotten pantry. dusty scrolls pile like forgotten sins, edges curling in stale, mildewed air. a broom slumps against a wall, bristles choked with cobwebs, spiderwebs veiling the corners, shimmering faintly in the gray sliver of light from a cracked window. the floor’s cold, gritty, biting his knees as he collapses, back slamming the door shut, sealing himself in.

his breath heaves, lungs raw, face buried in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp, tugging silver strands until his scalp stings, sweat dripping down his neck, pooling at his collarbone. shame scalds, a molten wave, but longing—weeks of your silence, your cold eyes, your absence carving him hollow—chokes him worse.

your touch, accidental, sears like a brand, your horrified gaze a knife twisting in his ribs. his cock’s still hard, painfully so, straining against his robe, a throbbing pulse that won’t relent, fed by every thought of you, every memory of your voice, your fire, your fleeting glance that once saw him whole.

he groans, low, broken, forehead pressed to his arm, cursing himself, you, the gods, the robe, the corridor, the whole damn world. his hand twitches, hovering over his lap, resisting, pleading, but the need’s a tyrant, born of eight weeks’ yearning, your sharp tongue, your gaze that cut him alive, your silence that breaks him now. he surrenders, fingers fumbling, shoving silk layers aside, fabric scraping his fevered skin, cool air hitting the heat of his flesh like a slap.

he frees himself, cock heavy, swollen, tip slick with precum that glistens in the dim light, dripping down his shaft, a shameful bead that pools on the gritty floor. he grips himself, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth, the contact a jolt that makes his hips jerk, his breath catching like a sob, raw and ragged. it’s not lust—it’s longing, raw, bleeding, for your eyes that once saw him, your barbs that cut him alive, your touch that burned through his lies.

he strokes, slow, punishing, hand tight, calluses from a hidden sword scraping sensitive skin, each slide dragging a moan, chest heaving, sweat matting his hair to his flushed cheeks, silver strands plastered across his brow, his throat bared as his head tips back, veins pulsing under sweat-slick skin.

he pictures you—your wide eyes, shocked, lips parting as you fell atop him, robe clinging to your frame, the faint herb scent on your skin, sharp and clean. he imagines your breath on his neck, your fingers deliberate, curling around him, guiding him, your voice whispering his name, not in horror but want, low and rough like it was in his dreams.

his strokes quicken, desperate, slick with precum, the wet sound obscene, echoing off dusty scrolls, bouncing in the stale air. his free hand claws the floor, nails scraping grit, fingers digging into cold stone, seeking an anchor as his body shakes, hips bucking into his fist, rhythm frantic, no control left, only need.

his moans spill, raw, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls, a litany of broken sounds. “fuck,” he gasps, voice shattering, “why you?” it’s your absence, your fire, the way you looked at him once, like he was real, now a ghost he chases.

his hand moves faster, rougher, slick and relentless, each stroke a plea for you to see him, to cut him again with your gaze. “please,” he whispers, to you, to nothing, “just look at me.” his vision blurs, tears or sweat, he can’t tell, heat coiling low, a knot tightening, pulling, until it snaps like a bowstring.

he comes hard, a shudder tearing through him, spine arching, hips jerking as he spills over his hand, thick, hot, splattering the gritty floor, staining his robe’s hem, a shameful mark that burns his eyes. his moan’s a broken cry, half your name, half a curse, echoing in the crypt-like room, jagged, raw, filling the air until it chokes him.

he collapses, sprawled across dusty linens, chest heaving, eyes wide, staring at the cracked ceiling, its fissures mirroring his fractured mind. his hand’s still wrapped around himself, slick, trembling, aftershocks fading into a hollow ache, longing unspent, pooling in his gut like poison, heavy, unyielding.

he lies there, time blurring, mildew’s scent thicker now, mingling with his sweat and release, air suffocating, pressing his chest. his hair’s plastered to his face, silver strands streaking his flushed cheeks, robe a tangled wreck, one sleeve torn, another inside-out, silk clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. he’s gutted, undone by his own hand, your touch a memory he can’t unmake, your horrified eyes a wound he can’t close, bleeding him dry.

later, he emerges, robe barely tied, one sleeve dangling, hair damp at the temples, flushed like he’s wrestled a demon and lost. his steps falter, sandals scuffing stone, smile forced, brittle, not touching his bloodshot eyes, dark crescents bruising beneath, cheekbones sharp from skipped meals, skin pale as moonlight gone wrong.

suguru passes him, dark robe pristine, pausing mid-step. “you look like you fought an assassin,” he says, flat, one brow lifting, eyes scanning satoru’s ruin—flushed skin, trembling fingers, sweat-slick hair matted to his neck.

“calisthenics,” satoru chirps, too bright, voice cracking, a pitch too high. “fantastic for circulation.”

suguru’s eyes narrow, lingering on the rumpled robe, the damp hair, the faint bruise on satoru’s knuckles from clawing the floor. “circulation,” he repeats, slow, heavy with doubt, like he smells the lie and the shame beneath it.

satoru hurries off, pace quick, like he’s fleeing a fire he set. his robe flutters, misaligned, dragon’s tail mocking him with every step. he doesn’t dare picture your face, your hand, your horror—not again.

he’s considering faking his death. or switching identities. exile in a fishing village sounds appealing.

(give him two hours. maybe three.)

a/n: LMAO pls don’t mind part one ending here. as i said this is meant to be a oneshot only 🧍🏻‍♀️

taglist: @n1vi @victoria1676 @rannie-16 @satokitten @fwgojos @sanestsanstan @satorusbabyy @simplymygojo @ch0cocat1207 @fancypeacepersona @yamadramallamaqueen @iamrgo @cuntysaurusrex @blushedcheri @achildofaphrodite @yourgirljasmine5 @mrscarletellaswife @satorupi @dayeeter @lovelyreaderlovesreadingromance @mo0sin @erens-heart @slutlight2ndver @yutazure @luvvcho @eolivy @se-phi-roth @gojowifefrfr @00anymous00 @peachysweet-mwah @heyl820 @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @weewoowongachimichanga @ssetsuka @etsuniiru @ehcilhc @synapsis @michi7w7 @perqbeth @viclike @shocum @saitamaswifey @dizzyyyy0 @c43rr13s @faeiseavv @beereadzzz @jkslaugh97 @wise-fangirl @tu-tusii @applepi405

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kedsandtubesocks · 3 months ago

Text

Chrysalis Heart

Din Djarin x Naboo Queen!Reader

summary: as queen you can handle many things (like the assassination attempts threatening your life) but the alluring mandalorian hired to protect you might be your heart’s biggest threat

word count: 9.2k (i’m sorry)

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY MDNI. post season 3, royal & bodyguard AU, use of gendered language, threats & moments of violence, reader wears makeup/gowns/headpieces but has no physical description, hidden identity, protective!Din, discussions of marriage, forced proximity, the starfighter can fit two people in the cockpit no matter the size (canon can fight me), competency kink, major yearning, spicy themes, good sweet fluff

a/n: this is my entry for the WIRED4YOU challenge [Din + Butterflies by Kacey Mushraves] huge thanks to @chaotic-mystery for hosting & letting me join! This is also a mini love letter to “the phantom menace” & “attack of the clones” because I believe we deserve our queen moment too lol, dividers thanks & credit to the ever talented @saradika-graphics

Assassination attempts on your life are, unfortunately, not new. In this final year of your reign, the threats have recently doubled though, which surprises you.

But finding out a mandalorian is now assigned to your personal guard surprises you even more.

While sitting in the throne room surveying him, you admire the striking warrior. Sleek in his ancestor armor, unwavering in his presence, you stay composed as possible but…

Curiosity blooms fast, already wondering about this new guard.

“Captain Teva highly recommended this bounty hunter.” Your head advisor, Hildegard, explains dutifully.

A bounty hunter? That’s even more interesting.

“We are glad to have you here, mandalorian.” Senator Trystan adds brightly. He starts rambling like the politician he is, and you tune him out, especially as your focus remains on the mandalorian.

“Your majesty,” the timbre of his voice is striking like a steady river. “I vow to keep you safe until the assassin is caught.”

Hiding your voice within the composed steady tone the Queen of Naboo is known for, you thank him.

With a final nod, the warrior departs.

You notice a brown satchel slung at his hip half hidden under his cloak. You swear the minute the mandalorian leaves the room, a small tiny green clawed hand crawls out from the bag.

—

“I bet he’s ugly”

“No, I’m sure he’s handsome.” You and your handmaidens have discussed the new mandalorian guard for weeks now.

He’s a rather elusive figure. Silently moving around the castle, he reminds you of a sleek phantom just out of reach. When the mandalorian does accompany you anywhere, he remains silent. You simply amount it to the warrior doing his job diligently, which you greatly appreciate.

His presence alone seems to deter any more attempts. The tension in the palace already has eased greatly. So much you now roam without any supervision along the grand lakeside today.

The glory of Naboo is one you take pride in, from the illustrious buildings, to the underwater depths of the Gungan city. You savor these moments when you can freely walk among the splendor of your planet.

There’s a secluded, normally untouched, lake villa near this area you enjoy visiting from time to time.

Until you discover it’s no longer abandoned.

The sight stops you frozen in your tracks. By the edge of the lake, under the soft shade of the looming trees, stands the mandalorian. But he is not alone.

A wonderfully tiny and precious green creature waddles around through the grass.

Both of them turn towards you. It feels like you’ve just stumbled upon an ancient secret.

“Handmaiden.” The mandalorian greets you steady, cautious.

For a split moment, you had forgotten you’re in these robes.

“Mandalorian.” You greet back, thankful you don’t have to hide your voice.

Being under the guise of a handmaid offers you this freedom.

“And may I ask, who is this little one?” You smile and kneel down to the height of the small creature staring up with starry curious eyes.

A moment passes.

“He…is my son.” His words hit you like a blaster shot.

“Your son?” The monarch mentality leaks out momentarily as your voice jumps. You never would’ve hired this hunter knowing he has a child who could be put in harm's way.

��Yes.” The mandalorian nods.

“I’ve never seen him around before.” His little hand must have been the one you saw that first day in the throne room.

The mandalorian’s son curiously shuffles to you. You don’t miss his father’s fists clenching tense, hesitant and cautious, worried about this interaction.

“I…was not sure the queen would allow him to accompany me. So I keep him hidden.”

The baby is adorable with shimmering eager eyes. He rests his tiny hands against your robes. You can hear all your advisors screaming at you to consider releasing this hunter from your duty.

But you can’t now. Not when you tickle his son’s chin and the little one giggles sweet like a bell.

“Don’t worry,” you tell the mandalorian confidently. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“And besides,” you add casually. “Between you and me…The Queen won’t mind. She has a soft spot for little ones.”

You smile as the baby, now deeming you worthy, starts climbing onto your knee.

“What’s his name?” You ask.

“…Grogu.” The mandalorian answers.

As if on cue, Grogu chirps hearing his name and you laugh.

“Well it’s nice to meet you Grogu.” You nod then gently poke his tiny nose.

Infectious giggles greet you.

You then officially introduce yourself to the youngling, and in turn his father, freely giving your name.

Again you can almost hear all your advisors' horrified screams. Of all the things sacred and needed to be hidden, your name is the most important.

Even though the crown keeps you protected under an alias, it doesn’t mean your true identity is forever safe.

But you believe you can trust this warrior.

Or you hope so.

The University’s belltower rings off in the distance. You didn’t realize how late it got. You’d need to head back soon.

Grogu chirps confused when you softly place him back on the grass. His bright moon eyes almost make you stay longer.

“It was wonderful meeting you Grogu. I hope I can see you again soon.” You truthfully tell the little one.

Then you glance at his father.

You knew enough about mandalorian culture to understand how precious children are to them and how protective they are of their own.

Grateful for this moment, you thank the mandalorian for allowing you to meet his son.

Without another word, the warrior silently nods.

This strong hunter with the most adorable son plagues your mind the rest of the day. So much that you rearrange your calendar so you’re available to walk along the lake again.

You continue sneaking back to the lake home as much as you can.

The moments here away from the palace, from the politics and headache, are a precious respite. Currently Grogu watches enraptured by the butterflies fluttering in the air.

You glance back at the lake house secluded in the lush countryside and how it perfectly fits a mandalorian.

“Is this where you’re staying?” You ask.

“Yes. Unless I’m needed at the palace.” The mandalorian answers.

“Thankfully it’s been rather quiet again since you’ve arrived. So I’m grateful for that.” You speak as both handmaid and queen.

“I…” the warrior begins then stops, as if realizing he shouldn’t be saying much.

“You can talk freely. Trust me, whatever you say the queen probably already knows.” You almost dryly laugh at your own joke.

The hunter nods.

“I believe the threat is still at large. Simply hiding and waiting for the right time.” He admits strained.

You agree. It’s what everyone close to you believes as well.

There have been whispers, rumors, of a darkness looming among the edges of space. Now it seems to be slithering into your home.

But for now, you simply hold onto these glimmers of peace - like watching Grogu chase after the butterflies among the field.

His little claws reach for the soft colored creatures, and you think of your own childhood days where you chased after them too. You remember the trick your old tutor taught you when you were little.

So holding out your finger, you wait. Patience pays off. A lone butterfly flutters to land on your finger believing it to be a branch.

Grogu instantly notices, makes a noise of surprise, and scurries over.

But his fast movement scares the butterfly, and it rapidly flies away. The sad confused noise Grogu gives breaks your heart.

“It’s alright, they just get frightened easily.” You explain.

So again you hold your finger out, a welcoming rest spot. This time you place it closer to the baby.

Another butterfly thankfully floats down on your finger.

“Bweh!” Grogu shrieks giddy.

Very steadily, you move your finger closer to Grogu trying not to scare the bug.

“Here… can I see your hand, little one?” You softly ask.

The mandalorian helps his son out, raising Grogu’s little claw besides yours.

The butterfly gently wanders from your finger to Grogu’s hand, and the sweet baby giggles in pure joy.

The bug of course doesn’t stay long and flutters away. But it brings enough excitement to Grougu. He’s completely taken over by twinkling giggles the rest of the time, eagerly chasing after more butterflies.

“Are you often away from the queen for this long?” The mandalorian’s sudden curious question takes you by surprise.

“As long as one handmaiden is with the queen, no protocol is broken.” You effortlessly recite the mandate.

“Besides, we all deserve a bit of fresh air and some time alone.” You add.

From the corner of your eye, the mandalorian nods.

Then, the belltower rings signaling your return.

Grogu, now in his fathers arms, waves at you goodbye then yawns.

Wishing the little one good night you, you then bid the same goodbye to his father.

“Take care, mandalorian.”

“…Din...”

The phrase stills you.

“My name is Din.” He reveals. “Seems only fair since you gave me yours.”

Din, it fits him beautifully.

“Until next time, Din.” A grateful glow swirls in you knowing his name.

You vow to keep it sealed safe in your heart. You wouldn’t be able to use his name while wearing the crown anyway. Faintly, it reminds you how in the same way the mandalorian, Din, would never know your true name as queen.

That realization digs a hollow hole into your heart.

—

Peace doesn’t last long.

The assassin fires shots from one of the high towers near the capitol. Chaos erupts wild and dizzying, sending everyone into a panic.

Except the mandalorian, Din.

Effortlessly he jumps in front of you blocking the second blaster shot with his armor, a literal shield before you.

Once you’re secured safely, your eyes widen witnessing Din in action, flying up to the tower.

Even with the distance, you catch glimpses of the mandalorian fighting before you’re escorted away.

And he’s marvelous.

There’s a swift deadly power to him, a legend of myth right before your eyes.

Then he’s by your side again.

“Are you alright?” He immediately asks returning to you breathless.

You want to ask if he’s the one alright, if Grogu is with him. Instead all you can do is nod, earnestly thanking him.

“He’s doing his job, m’lady.” Hildegard jokes.

But it’s true.

You’re getting tangled in a web of emotions over a man who will vanish from your life once the threats are eradicated.

Yet it still doesn’t stop you from visiting him again. It takes more convincing this time to sneak away, but you’re thankful you still can.

Worried you’ll miss seeing Din and his son, you rush to the lakeside. But you forget how hot the handmaiden robes can get, and exhaustion hits.

Your heart drops seeing the field vacant.

Guess you were too late.

Exhausted and annoyed at yourself, you rip back the robe’s hood allowing yourself a relief of air before you dejectedly walk back to the palace.

Someone says your name, your true name.

Din steps out from the villa, a sleek beautiful hunter emerging from the shadows.

Soon he stands frozen, his sleek helmet focused on you. A moment passes, an awkward stand off of you and him simply staring at each other.

Petrified, you suddenly realize you’re facing the mandalorian without any cover or protection of the robe’s hood.

“Sorry, you must be busy.” You blurt, ready to turn around and scurry away.

Din again says your name.

“It’s fine. I was just gathering my things.” He explains.

“Oh?” The confusion in your voice or on your face must be embarrassingly blatant for him to explain.

“I’ll be staying at the palace full time after today.”

Oh… so you’ll be seeing him more.

“You were amazing today.” Admiration flows from you.

He thanks you with a hesitant mumble, vaguely shy.

“Are you alright? Is Grogu okay?” You immediately ask, knowing those questions have been bothering you since this morning.

“We’re both fine. You should be worried about the Queen.” Din replies firm.

“The queen’s fine.” You snort, hoping he doesn’t notice your dryly amused tone.

“There was an amazing mandalorian that made sure everyone was safe after all.” You mean those words.

Din stays quiet keeping his helmet directed on you. A dread sets in, worried if you’ve overstepped or said something you shouldn’t have.

The sun has just set over the horizon casting an illuminating glow on the planet. It paints the mandalorian a shining warrior bathed in golden glory.

You wonder if you’re staring at him too much.

A familiar coo arrives, and soon after Grogu waddles out of the villa. Witnessing this armored warrior move to cradle his son, who snuggles into his father’s arms, unfolds a warm wave in you.

“I’ll let you two get back to your evening,” you smile gentle as Grogu yawns adorably in agreement.

“And I guess I’ll be seeing you around more.” You half joke with Din.

He dryly chuckles, and the sound is a gift.

“If you’re heading back to the palace I can return with you. So that you’re not walking alone.” He offers and your eyes go wide.

You immediately accept his offer.

With a nudge of his helmet you follow him inside the cabin. The layout is similar to all the other lake homes, except a cluster of weapons sit on the table. You’re in awe knowing he knows how to handle so many of these.

Grogu now wiggles fussy in Din’s hold.

“Here, I can take him.” You offer.

Hearing your words immediately Grogu lifts his little arms towards you ready to be carried.

“Kid,” Din dully sighs.

You reassure Din and happily scoop the baby up. Feeling him snuggle against your shoulder is a precious thing

Din goes silent and returns to gathering his belongings.

Now the night sky casts a blanket of midnight blue over the lake.

Out of the villa, a gleam of silver draws your attention. You inhale sharp but try staying quiet with Grogu sleeping peacefully in your arms.

“Is that a N-1 Starfighter?” Your voice, even whispering, jumps shocked. The familiar bright yellow coating has been stripped, but you could recognize that ship anywhere.

Din chuckles beside you.

“You know your ships.” He sounds impressed.

You didn’t. You just know that one.

You remember seeing the starfighters in your history lessons. They looked like beautiful sea creatures soaring among the clouds. You were heartbroken finding out they were retired.

You even tell all of this to Din.

A humorous thought emerges. You wonder if one dramatic last act as Queen could be you reinstating the starfighters.

“How does it fly?” You ask Din curiously.

“Like a dream.” His wistful voice lets your mind soar into a daydream wondering what it would be like to witness the N1.

“Maybe one day you’ll see it fly.” Din offers and you turn to him, grinning.

“Now that would be a dream.” You warmly mirror his phrase.

If you manage to make it through your final days as Queen, maybe you could beg the mandalorian to let you see the ship in action.

The walk to the palace is peaceful among the lake. You treasure Grogu snoring soundly in your arms, and you’re thankful Din allows you to hold his son.

But approaching the palace, you return the baby back to his father to hide him, just in case.

Your instincts are right. At the very edge of the palace steps, all your advisors, along with the senator and his aids, wait anxiously.

You stayed out too late.

Immediately they spot you with the mandalorian, and the reactions are mixed. You’re however more worried when Din reacts.

“Seems you were needed.” He comments.

“I stayed out later than planned, that’s all.” You half lie.

“Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” You joke again, and he nods.

Even though you made the joke, you do end up seeing Din much more.

Except as the Queen of Naboo.

He stays in your personal guard close to the head captain. Even when you return to your private study, you’re surprised Din stays, truly acting as a loyal personal guard.

While overlooking legislation orders, a rustling comes. Off to the side, the mandalorian fidgets with his satchel.

Grogu.

“Mandalorian,” you speak in your composed tone. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” He huffs, trying to sound calm himself.

But it’s too late. One of Grogu’s adorable ears pops out from the satchel. And despite his father’s best attempts to settle him, the baby pokes his entire head out.

Two of your handmaidens gasp excited.

“I apologize.” Din quickly stammers.

You don’t even hide the grin on your face seeing the baby.

“No need to apologize. I’m quite fond of little ones.” You assure Din, remembering what you told him previously.

“Mweh.” Grogu squeaks glancing around at the new room with sparkling curious eyes.

Your handmaidens are already smitten, trying not to rush over to him.

“Is it a pet?” One asks eager.

“No.” Din bluntly answers, and you even feel a bit insulted for him.

Ever the trouble maker, Grogu climbs out of the bag and starts waddling around exploring with ease.

“Kid.” Din sighs, a frustrated parent, and your handmaidens giggle amused.

“It’s fine, mandalorian.” You again reassure him.

Grogu turns to blink curiously up at you. Under the thick ceremonial makeup, wearing your ornate headpiece, you understand how strange you must look to a child.

Instantly he scurries towards you, little clawed hands grabbing the air signaling he wants to be picked up.

Panic seizes your breath.

There’s no way Grogu could recognize you. You rationalize that this is simply him finding your Queen persona interesting.

Din moves to snag Grogu, even saying his name sharp and reprimanding.

But you chuckle swooping down to the little creature first. Your gown today weighs heavier, yet you don’t mind knowing Grogu gets to settle in your arms.

His sweet eyes search your face. You smile politely and gentle. Then his tiny hands press against your cheeks, and a bright smile lights up his face.

And you can’t help it, you smile back.

The curious eyes of your handmaidens burn holes into your face. They whisper like a pack of loth cats plotting their next attack. So diverting their attention you place Grogu back down on the ground letting him roam.

Immediately your handmaids rush kneeling at the baby’s level, completely captivated by the new arrival.

“He seems to enjoy the attention.” You tell Din.

The mandalorian simply hums, an agreeing sound.

You wonder if he’s upset or possibly nervous about all of this.

“Please know he is safe here and free to roam.” You say encouraging, hoping to soothe the tension.

“Thank you…m’lady.” Din replies low, and your heart trips over itself.

It’s the first time he’s ever addressed you by the proper title, and his voice sparks a wildfire.

After this introduction, Grogu happily now enjoys being carried in the arms of your handmaidens or resting openly in Din’s satchel. A little wave of jealousy rises when the baby plays with one of your handmaids during a council meeting. You ache to trade places with her more than ever.

Seeing his son giggle freely unhidden relaxed Din more. He starts walking besides the captain of your guard and chatting with her, the two of them now easy comrades.

Now Din steps in pace right behind you, a beskar coated shadow you think of often.

During a particularly rainy day, you accidentally slip among the sleek stair tiles.

Immediately Din grabs you fast, steadying you from falling. His hand, unwavering and strong, holds you. Your heart thrashes furiously hearing his magnetic voice so close asking if you’re alright.

This unfortunate infatuation towards the mandalorian blooms a wicked weed digging its roots into your heart, and it’s become more unbearable.

Thankfully, your final months as Queen help keep your mind mostly occupied.

After meeting with the current Gungan Boss, you sigh exhausted.

Glancing at the wall, the portraits of monarchs past loom watching you, waiting to see what you do next.

“Many of the queens seem… younger than you.” Din suddenly comments observing the previous rulers.

“Are you calling me old, mandalorian?” You tease as much as your steeled composed tone allows.

“I…” he’s stunned, taken off guard for a minute. It’s adorable. For a split moment you smirk, keeping a laugh firmly locked away.

“I jest.” You recover quickly.

You explain how customarily many of the previous rulers were chosen at a young age, some even children. The belief was that those who possessed a child like wonder and wisdom should rule. Of course, that slowly faded away over time.

“And when the empire arrived?” Din asks.

When the Moff assigned to Naboo arrived, dark days followed. Terror seemed to choke your planet. You quietly tell Din of this.

“I…understand. I’ve seen the damage that can be done because of a Moff’s rule.” An ancient sorrow hangs within his voice.

Your eyes flicker to the shining warrior besides you. Din is striking, incredibly so. A selfish desire grows wishing to know him more, to know the face of the man taking residence in your heart.

Until another asassination attempt reminds you danger persistently lurks ready to steal your peace.

One of the food testers in the kitchen has a dangerous reaction to your meal. Thankfully she is tended to in time and will make it. But these threats grow deadlier.

“This might be … when we should start considering you going into hiding, m’lady.” One of your advisors suggests.

Those words hang over you an ominous storm.

After the recent attempt, you hide in handmaiden robes more.

You shouldn’t be wandering around this late in the night among the hallways, but you can’t sleep.

Turning the corner, you stumble upon Din standing by the hallway’s edge. He focuses on his transmitter, reading a holo message.

Ever a warrior, his keen senses notice someone else is here and he looks up. Not wanting to startle him, you pull back the robe’s hood to reveal yourself.

He exhales your name, and it flutters into your heart.

“It’s been a while.” You sleepily grin.

“Indeed.” He nods, and his voice sounds warmer.

“Been a bit busy around here.” You joke, but a somberness hangs.

“It has.” Even his reply mirrors the underlying tension.

“It’s also been difficult trying to figure out which handmaiden you are.” Din says, as if trying to break the thick tense clouds.

You laugh, and it’s freeing.

“That means it’s working.” You snicker. “No one should know who a handmaid is, much less what they look like.”

Each handmaiden was handpicked because of how similarly they fit your height and vaguely your appearance.

Handmaids are the silent heroes of the crown, quiet protectors ready to step in and surround you any given moment. Guilt festers in you knowing their lives are at risk too.

“And yet… you let me see you.” Din curiously notes, and your chest tightens.

“Well, I trust you.” You tell him simply. And you do, completely and irrevocably.

“Besides, if you decide to do anything suspicious the Queen would be the first to know.” You jest, enjoying the double meaning.

“Never.” He shakes his head earnest.

Under the lowlights of the hallway, Din steps closer. Your fingers itch to touch his beskar, to run the cool armor beneath your touch.

You wonder every night what color his eyes are.

The sound of glass shattering erupts, and suddenly the world blurs. You’re in Din’s arms falling to the floor.

His hand cradles your head from colliding on the hard marble floor. But you don’t have time to process that. Instantly you reach for the small blade hidden in your robes.

“Are you alright?” Din rapidly asks, and you nod stunned.

Someone shot at you through the window.

Someone knows who you are.

—

“You must go into hiding,” Hildegard, ever your most trusted and wise advisor, urges begging now.

Stubborn, feeling raw, exposed, you sit in angered silence. No makeup on, no crown, just a simple soul at the mercy of fate.

“Maybe we should keep the queen here?” Senator Trystan suggests.

“Because…to me, it seems like the Mandalorian isn’t quite living up to the legends told of his people.” He adds dangerously untrusting.

A blazing fury bursts in you.

“I’m alive because of him.” You snap glaring at the senator.

“And he is the only one I’ll trust accompanying me if I must go into hiding.” Your declaration rings absolute, the voice of a ruler.

Yet that night you can’t sleep. Neither can your handmaidens, especially with how curious they are.

“So…are you going to tell us what you were doing with Mando in the hallway?” One of them asks curiously.

Partially lying, you say how you couldn’t sleep and simply ran into him.

“Are you having secret rendezvous meetings with the mandalorian and haven’t been telling us?!” Another handmaiden shrieks giddy, and you rapidly deny.

But it’s hard when the fluttering feelings in your stomach now thrash wanting to fully take flight and escape, revealing your truth.

As playfully pestering as they are, this time with your handmaidens lightens your spirits immensely.

Because you know the looming decision.

The spring equinox here on Naboo will be your official final outing as ruler. That day, you’ll give your final address to the planet, sign your final law into action at the gala, then step down in the eyes of the New Republic.

It will be a momentous day.

For one month until then… you’ll be in hiding.

One moon cycle away from Naboo.

But as declared, you’ll be departing alone with the mandalorian.

A war rages in your heart as you clutch your small pack.

You wish to stay and fight, stand your ground. Yet you understand the danger that will come if you stay.

So walking into the darkness alone, you find a gleaming warrior among it.

A curt nod is how he greets you.

Din has been quiet since your identity was revealed. You wonder if he’s disappointed or angry knowing who you are.

But all the emotions get shoved aside when you see your mode of transportation.

The starfighter gleams glorious under the moonlight.

“Will we fit?” You wonder aloud a bit hesitant.

“Might be a tight squeeze, but we’ll make it. The trip is not too far.” Din answers and his voice again does strange things to your heart.

He wasn’t lying about the tight fit.

You’re practically slotted between his legs in the compact pilot’s seat. His arms reach around you effortlessly readying the systems. Your mind goes over boring litigations and mandates trying not to let it wander into dangerous territory.

Then, the ship bolts to life airborne.

Immediately your gaze flickers back to your home planet watching it drift further away in the night sky.

“Don’t worry,” Din suddenly mutters, comforting. “Everyone will be fine.”

You swallow hard and nod.

The atmosphere dissipates all around until you’re among a sea of stars.

“So…you’re Queen of Naboo.” Din speaks first. It feels like a peace offering.

Your lips twitch back a laugh.

“Apparently.” You joke.

His chuckle lightens the ache trying to consume you.

The trip, as promised, isn’t far.

Nevarro resides in the outer rim. Even though Naboo is considered mid-rim, its bordering location is close to the outer rim, so you know of Nevarro. The planet’s growth and evolution has been admirable to witness.

You find it’s easy to settle in and embrace the planet wholeheartedly.

Or… you embrace Din’s world wholeheartedly.

His home sits peaceful at the edge of the lava flats. You begged him to let you stay at an inn in town so you wouldn’t be a bother. He adamantly shut that option down.

“Being here means I can keep you safe.” He explained.

So now you take the spare room in Din’s abode. The spartan walls, bare minimum furniture, they all strangely perfectly reflect Din. But you enjoy spotting the various stuffed toys littering the floors.

Grogu enjoys being back at home, showing you the pond he loves chasing creatures around.

Suddenly he magically lifts a small frog into the air and you gasp. These abilities…

In secret, you briefly had studied the Jedi, the ways of the force, and knew of the strange abilities that came with it.

“He can use the force?!” You squak, turning to Din.

The mandalorian simply tells you it’s complicated. You don’t press the topic. Yet it makes sense now remembering how Grogu was able to notice you single you out even in your makeup.

He really is a special star. His giggles brighten the home, a joyous little light.

Currently he sleeps peacefully in your arms, belly full from the dinner you cooked.

“A queen who knows how to cook?” Din had joked earlier when went into the market to grab supplies.

“I haven��t always been queen.” You huffed back.

You had a life before your crown, but now you wonder how it will look after.

“What was it like before you were queen?” Sitting besides you outside on the porch, you’re surprised Din is this curious.

This spot here is quickly becoming a favorite of yours. The warm Nevarro air floats thicker than Naboo, yet there’s a gentle comfort to it.

You tell Din of your early university days, secretly holding a dream of abandoning everything to become a rebel spy.

“A spy?” His voice curls amused, and you wish you could see his face.

“I read too many adventure romance tales.” You shrug.

You used to dream of meeting a handsome rebel pilot while fighting for your home planet and then falling in love.

Now your dreams only contain a warrior clad in beskar.

“Were you always a bounty hunter?” You now question Din about his life as much as you can.

You treasure all he gives you, telling you about days hunting bounties across the galaxy until he stumbled upon a certain little green creature.

The mudhorn, the empire hunting Grogu, the days they spent apart from each other… It all led to Din gaining a son. And it’s all because of that single bounty.

“Your job led you to a wonderful gift.” You fondly praise while Grogu snores peacefully against your shoulder.

“Yes...” Din agrees, yet his voice seems to trail off.

“After you step down, what will happen to you?” He softly changes the subject, pressing another question.

One that strikes deep.

“There are two recommended options…” you mutter.

The first choice is to marry a noble and stay within the royal sphere.

The other option is becoming a senator.

For some reason, your heart doesn’t feel compelled thinking of either option.

You aren’t attracted to any of the nobles trying to court you. And the role of a senator is demanding. You already feel frustrated with the state of politics and after being around it for this long…you wish for quieter days.

“What if you don’t want either?” Din sounds somber, yet inquisitive.

You suppose you could simply walk away from everything, slip into the galaxy to become another soul simply passing through.

You’ve never given that option much thought.

“You could stay here.” Din says, and a burst of light crashes into your chest.

Here? With him?

“Nevarro has good housing options. You would always be welcomed here.”

Then his second comment, more formal in tone, becomes a splash of water immediately diminishing any hope wanting to ignite you. You weakly grin.

“You just want me nearby for the free babysitting services.” You joke hoping to quell the heartbreak trying to leak in.

He chuckles amused.

You still earnestly thank him for the offer. But now, the future looms more nebulous than ever.

—

Through secret comlinks and encrypted messages, you discover another assassin tried striking the palace.

“You think it’s a group at work?” You ask Din, sounding more like the concerned ruler you are.

“No, it feels too planned, like the culprit is trying to mislead us or lure you back.” And he sounds like the sharp skilled hunter he is.

“May I ask… why does someone want you dead?” He questions hesitant.

You sigh.

The last law you want to sign into action would undo a final decree the Moff put into order. You want all traces of that evil gone.

“It could be an old sympathizer wanting to stop you.” Din immediately concludes.

That doesn’t narrow down any choices. But you suspect the assassin is connected to someone within your circle since they knew when to attack you even as a handmaid.

Paranoia has you restless, on edge. It’s why you return to your blade.

The familiar self defense moves flow through you. Simple, effective, enough to strike before you can try making an escape.

“Your arms need to move faster.”

You swore Din had been working on the starfighter and with Grogu down for the night, you took the alone time to practice among the fading twilight.

Now he saunters to you eased.

“Your arms have the right motion. They just aren’t steady.” He instructs.

“Well it would be different if someone was attacking me.” You scoff.

“Alright then,” something excited sparks in Din’s voice. “Spar with me.”

You think you misheard him. Then Din pulls out a seasoned, rather deadly looking, vibroblade and stands at the ready.

You stammer out excuses. There’s no way you can fight a mandalorian.

Suddenly he strikes first. Din rushes fast, darting forward and swinging his blade to swipe at you.

It becomes a fast dance, evading and dodging as Din attacks unrelentlessly.

“You haven’t tried striking me.” He doesn’t even sound tired while you’re barely hanging on.

“Because I have a mandalorian after me!” You wheeze frantic, and he chuckles.

Din stops his offensive and places his blade away.

“The way I moved is how you should.”

“I’m not a trained warrior.” You huff catching your breath. Even without seeing his eyes, the way his helmet tilts you know he’s rolling his eyes.

Gently, his gloved hands slide to your arms, and you freeze. Your mind momentarily shutting down. He touches you gingerly, delicate. Then he begins maneuvering you into the same stance he was in.

In a steady patient voice, Din explains every move and guides you through them. The close position, feeling his sturdy build pressing against you, the way his voice oozes with a gentle dominance, it overwhelms you.

Din makes you go through the motions repeatedly, a patient teacher.

“Your stance is good. You were taught well.” He admires, and you shakily thank him.

“Had to be ready as both queen and handmaid just in case.” You say lighthearted trying to battle the raging emotions swirling like a dangerous riptide.

“At first I didn’t understand your guard system or the handmaidens.” Din explains.

“Now I see why you go to great lengths to hide your identity. It reminds me of mandalorian tradition and why we hide our faces.” Din’s voice floats out kind and gentle.

The realization unfurls in you quietly that you almost miss it. You and him have run parallel in different ways, wearing masks to protect yourself and your people.

You’re grateful the force brought you to this man, one you will always hold in your heart even when fate decides to take him away.

You and him practice late into the night. He even lets you spar with his blade. Surprisingly, you take to it well, and Din even notices.

“Keep it.”

You gawk, stunned at his words. Immediately panicking, you tell Din you could never take a weapon from a mandalorian.

“I have another. And trust me, it will be useful if…I’m not around.”

His somber words dig into you, another sharpened knife, one you wish he could take back.

—

Your final week on Nevarro approaches and sorrow tangles itself around you constricting. You’ve grown attached to this planet. You’ve made friends with the floral shop keeper. The merchant who sells your favorite dried fruits now jokes with Din wondering how a grumpy mandalorian snagged someone as lovely as you.

You laugh weakly at the jokes, yet Din stays silent.

The silence has multiplied between you and Din, creating a terrifying canyon separating you from him.

Grogu senses it. Whimpering, he stubbornly tries hanging onto both you and Din more.

You shove away tears at night.

This dream, this carved out home you’ve started settling into…you knew it was going to end eventually. You just became so foolish hoping it wouldn’t.

Slowly, you start packing, childishly dragging your feet as if it will prolong your stay.

A knock arrives at your door, and it slides open.

“Can I show you something?” Din’s voice, hesitant and cautious, snaps your spine straight.

You agree without hesitation.

With Grogu currently enjoying a play date with one of the children in town, it’s just you and Din together for the day.

But you regret your choice of not accompanying the baby when you realize you’ll be jumping back into the starfighter.

Having Din’s arms enclosed around you, his strong chest pressing against your back, all the close proximity heats your skin, a reminder of what you’ll be losing in just a few days.

“You said you wanted to one day see how she flies.” Din says soft.

You technically had seen her fly when Din brought you here. Unfortunately your mind was so foggy you honestly couldn’t savor the journey.

“You didn’t get to see much last time. So…Let’s stretch out her legs.” Din’s voice holds a proud smile.

Your eyes widen. He remembered. Before you can say anything else, you become one with the wind.

Din was right. The N1 soars like a dream. She glides gracefully among the craters and canyons, dipping low among the lava flats and zooming with ease past the town.

But you also realize, Din is an amazing pilot. He effortlessly maneuvers the ship with a fluid flow and striking awareness. As if you couldn’t be anymore attracted to him, knowing he’s not just an amazing warrior but an incredible pilot makes your blood hum.

“You’re amazing.” You tell him earnest and true.

You swear his arms curl around you tighter.

“Ready to see the best part.” He purrs, sounding eager.

“Wait, best part?” You can’t imagine what’s next.

He points to a switch and when he hits it, you fly out of your body reaching a speed you never expected.

And it’s dazzling.

You laugh bright and alive. The weightless sensation overflows into your bones.

The atmosphere melts away as Din pushes the ship to the very edges of the planet.

The stars float just out of your reach, twinkling with knowing eyes.

Suddenly, Din lets the ship drop. The N1 plummets into a free fall that has your stomach jumping into your mouth. You almost scream.

In the descent, Din quickly spins the starfighter swiftly, a dramatic turn that sends it flying fast in a new direction. The move is a trick, one he seems to be showing off proudly.

You laugh breathlessly relieved.

“You know I’m still queen. I can punish you for that!” You wheeze.

“I’d like to see you try, m’lady.” He challenges back amused. You grin wild and greedy hearing the title.

The flight, the exhilaration, it dissipates the tension of this week, almost purifying you. Because now you notice… you’ve fully melted against Din’s chest.

Your head even leans back to rest against his helmet.

Yet Din hasn’t moved you.

The silence thickens as he flies the ship back towards town.

“Thank you for showing me this.” You mutter, barely able to get those words out.

Din’s helmet nods moving against the side of your head. One of his hands leaves the control panel and gently rests against your thigh.

You and him remain this close the rest of the flight.

The next time you’re in the N1 -

You’re flying home to Naboo.

The entire flight is silent.

You sit as furthest away from him as physically possible within the cramped space. Din maneuvers the controls and trying to keep yourself steeled, composed, your eyes focus on his movements.

That’s when you catch it.

His gloves shift and a sliver of his skin is exposed.

Sun kissed and beautiful, you think you just imagined it. Until you notice it again when Din steers the ship out of the atmosphere.

Countless nights you thought about what he looked like under his helmet, wondering how his lips would feel against yours. Now you’re allowed this one small peek at the man beneath the armor, and a dangerous greed immediately slithers in.

Your lips ache to kiss that spot, that glimmer of Din unmasked.

Greed morphs into a deadly lust. You imagine yourself, if you were braver, grabbing his wrist and lifting it to your lips to kiss him, taste him, at least once.

How would he react if you did that? Embrace you? Reprimand you?

Punish you in a way that turns filthy…

You wonder how extra tight this cramped space would be trying to ride him in, to feel the heat between you and him build into a blazing cloud. Even now, if you concentrate hard enough in this terrifyingly quiet flight, you can hear his soft breathing, his gentle exhales modulated through the helmet.

Your mind melts thinking of him whispering deep against your ear as he thrusts up into you-

Instantly your mouth goes dry at the erotic thought and you close your eyes, trying to reset yourself.

When you open your eyes, Naboo approaches fast, a gorgeous gemstone among the stars. Your dreams and lustful wishes shatter like broken titles leaving you feeling empty to pick up the pieces.

—

Your final gown as Queen gleams stitched with a final goodbye. It’s glorious, dripping in grandeur and beauty. Wearing it, clusters of emotions clash with each other. You’ve allowed yourself a minute alone just to compose yourself. Giving one final glance at a mirror, you silently bid farewell to this piece of you.

A knock comes, and one of your handmaid's pops her head into the room.

“Senator Trystan wishes to speak with you.”

Of course you let him in.

The familiar face beams at you proud.

“You look splendid, m’lady.” The senator bows his head, and you thank him.

He updates you on the various monarchs and other planetary senators who have arrived. Your mind unfortunately only thinks of one beskar wearing guest.

Tonight is your last night with Din. Once the grand event finishes and if you remain safe, he would receive his hefty sum. Your paths will seperate.

He hasn’t spoken more than five words to you since you’ve returned. You’ve barely seen Grogu either.

You understand the rush of trying to prepare for everything has kept you busy. But you catch the looks your handmaidens give you of heartbroken understanding as though they can sense the turmoil in you.

Your mind, even now, feels like it could burst holding so many thoughts.

Then footsteps stamped forward.

The senator, blade in hand, lunges at you.

A surprised scream escapes you before you swiftly move, jumping into action.

Pulling out your vibroblade, Din’s blade, you swipe at the traitor.

The moves Din taught, his weapon, they become your saving grace.

You keep the attacker on his toes. But Senator Trystan acts fast stepping on your gown causing you to trip before you can run to the door.

You fall hard onto the floor. Hissing in pain, your eyes close.

Move, a voice in your head sounding intensely like Din, urges you to react.

Then a thundering collision crashes into your chambers, and your eyes snap open.

One moment the senator stands poised above you, blade in hand ready to attack. The next he’s gone.

Scrambling up, you discover Din wrestling Senator Trystan onto the floor.

“The Moff was right!” The traitor screams in anger trying hard to thrash against Din’s hold.

“You’re pathetic!” You snarl back.

“You are ruining our world!” Sentaro Trystan screeches staring you down. “Long live the empire-”

Din aggressively knocks the raging senator unconscious.

Immediately your handmaidens and a few healers rush to your side tending to you, trying to calm you down.

A thick haze swirls in your mind. Senator Trystan was the one behind the assassinations. Why hadn’t you noticed it?

Suddenly a warm gloved hand grabs yours and squeezes. Blinking out of the mental haze, Din now kneels before you. The stark black visor of his helmet stares unwavering.

He whispers your name.

Tiny little hands climb their way up your gown. Glancing down, you find Grogu staring up and whimpering worried. You stroke his soft head and it eases you and him both.

“Are you alright, m’lady?” Din asks cautious, concerned.

You nod still slightly overwhelmed.

“I owe you my life, mandalorian.” You tell him through a shaking voice.

Din doesn't reply, instead squeezes your hand tighter. The exhaustion slowly creeping into your body begs you to lean forward, to rest against Din’s shoulder. But you don’t know how he’ll react.

And even if you did try to lean on him, you noticed your grand headpiece would’ve gotten in the way of you moving closer to Din, a literal barrier reminding you of the truth.

New Republic officers along with the rest of your advisors and guards storm in.

You’re grateful the threat is over, eternally in debt to Din. But the truth settles in cold and bleak. Your time is up. The mandalorian will be leaving you.

“Your reward will be doubled.” Hildegard says grateful through tears patting Din on the shoulder.

“I was just…doing my job.” He nods curt.

A job, that’s all you are.

You eventually hand Grogu to one of your handmaidens. This night will be busy. Din however refuses to leave your side.

“She needs to rest.” Din orders sharp after realizing you’re still attending the gala.

“I can rest once this is all over.” Your monarch's voice, the voice of a queen, slips in.

Din remains silent.

Even though you feel caught in the waves of a turbulent sea, a queen must bottle all those things and store them away.

So wearing your crown proudly, you sign your final law into motion and hold your head high.

The previous queens still alive arrive at your side. You kneel, and their hands lift the weight of a planet from you.

Queen no more.

Among the roar of applause, among the illustrious crowd, your eyes only seek out one guest.

Din leans against a column, hands crossed over his chest sticking out a sore thumb. And he’s beautiful.

“I suppose you want this back.” You hold out his blade waiting for him to take it.

His helmet shakes an adamant no.

“I told you, it’s yours now. Knowing it kept you safe is even more reason for you to keep it.”

A thick sorrow and adoration, the strangest mixture, shred your heart wide open. But under the glimmering lights, along the magnificent marble ballroom, you have to seal everything away tight.

The Gala is a gorgeous celebration, the triumph of Naboo slowly returning to its beauty. The Gungan Boss teases how his nephew would make a fine match now that you’re available for marriage. He isn’t the only one making suggestions.

Many suitors from noble families blatantly make their courting intentions known. You smile with as much grace as you can.

One of the noblemen, a man you vaguely remember from your university days, even gets bold and places a kiss on your hand when he bids you farewell.

“It seems royal marriage is what everyone wants for you.” Din comments stiffly.

You stay quiet, numb.

“What do you want?” He asks.

Your eyes return to him, his glorious helmet, and you wish more than ever to know his eyes.

“What I want doesn’t matter.” You reply just as stiff.

“But it does. You deserve to make that decision.” He argues low, deadly, reminding you of the bounty hunter he is.

“Maybe who I want doesn’t want me back.” Your words strike sharp under your breath.

“Who…who do you want?”

Terror barrels in hearing Din’s question. You didn’t even realize you had said who.

Din’s stare, even without seeing his eyes, is unflinching.

An overwhelming panic overtakes you like a feral rancor.

So you flee, scurrying away fast.

Immediately you tell your advisors and handmaidens you need to be excused, saying how the rush of the night has finally caught up to you.

Understanding, everyone allows you to slip away from the gala’s ballroom towards the palace.

But ever the persistent shadow, Din stays close behind.

“I don’t need your services anymore, mandalorian.” You snap, refusing to turn around to him.

“I’m your guard until the night ends.” He growls back.

“I thought our agreement was fulfilled when the threat was discovered. Besides, my crown is gone. You can leave Din Djarin.” Your voice bounces off the empty hallways like an angered ghost.

Earlier, the new republic officers had scanned his chaincode and when you heard his full name, it felt like a final goodbye.

“Is that what you want? For me to leave?” Din’s tone cuts deadly, stopping you in the middle of the hallway.

You don’t want him to go. You never want to leave him.

Din says your name, pleading.

“It doesn’t matter what I want. Leave.” You robotically order, except your voice cracks, and you regret speaking.

You force yourself to move forward.

He doesn’t follow, and your footsteps echo alone in the hallway.

Arriving at your chambers, your hands shake as you wipe away tears.

Queen no more, now all alone.

A solid knock arrives at your door making you jump out of your skin.

Still worried from earlier, you cautiously open the door, holding Din’s blade at the ready.

Then you slide it open fully and let the weapon drop instantly.

Din stands in the doorway.

“Tell me what you want, who it is you want. And then you will never see me again.” A plea aches in the mandalorian’s voice.

“It’s you, Din…” you sob, unable to hold it in anymore. “I want you, you ridiculously stubborn man-”

His warmth is engulfing. His strong arms wrap around you tight with the promise of never letting go. Beskar presses hard and unyielding, but you welcome it.

Your arms wrap around him just as tight.

“When I thought you were just a handmaid, I searched for you every time and I felt guilty. I knew my loyalty needed to be with the queen, when all I wanted to do was protect you.” His voice whispers soft, tender, soaking into your bones.

“It was only until I realized… I’ve been protecting you this entire time.” He squeezes you tighter.

Gravity shifts. Your orbit now becomes tied to this warrior.

Gently, you lean out of his embrace to stare at him. Placing your hand against his helmet, imagining his cheek below your palm, you reverently stroke the sacred beskar.

“My future is with you, whatever it is. I want it to be with you, Din.” You tell him through watery croaks.

A gloved hand now holds your face. Din exhales your name, delicate and reverent. Then he moves forward.

His helmet leans against your forehead, a holy act that makes your eyes close. The cool beskar against your skin feels like a sealed vow, the promise of a kiss and the hope of many to come.

Now, no crown keeps you from him.

—

Sunlight gently wakes you.

Your mind groggily starts thinking over the things you have to do today. An exasperated sigh escapes you.

The bed is cozy. You don’t want to leave, but you need to. So wearily you wiggle to slip out from the covers.

Until a solid sturdy arm drags you back into the blankets, pulling you against a warm broad bare chest.

“You can’t keep me in bed all day.” You mutter half asleep, half amused.

“We’re on our honeymoon. We’re allowed to stay in bed all day.” Din’s voice, unmodulated and thick with sleep, drips with pure delicious decadence.

Soft kisses pepper your bare shoulder. The soft scrape of his facial hair, the tickle of his mustache, feel glorious.

“We did that yesterday. And the day before that.” You remind him amused.

“Then today should be our final time.” Din smirks, nipping at your shoulder while his hands map out your skin.

“There’s still things I need to do for the coronation.” You try sounding determined, but your voice instead is a dreamy sigh, blissed in pure newlywed reverie.

“A queen’s job is never finished.” He teases letting his lips kiss across your jaw lazyly.

“Not a queen anymore.” You cheekily remind him, and your hand reaches back to run into his soft curls.

You’re a wife now, a title you cherish just as much as Queen.

“Always will be a queen to me… m’lady.” He mutters into your skin.

Immediately his words make you twist in his arms. You take a quick glance at your husband - your incredible husband with the most gorgeous rich soil soulful eyes. Then you lean forward to kiss him fierce.

Din meets your frenzy passion with a steadiness that disarms you. He kisses you slowly, unworried, like he plans to savor every moment, and you become a cloud ready to float into his atmosphere.

Then a small crash comes from the living room. An amused little giggle reveals the culprit.

You and Din now sigh for another reason.

“We should have let your handmaids keep him another day.” Din mumbles.

You laugh swatting at his shoulder.

With a final playful kiss, you grab your robe and slip out of bed.

Grogu squeals excitedly seeing you. Scooping him up into your arms, you kiss his sweet adorable cheeks.

“You adorable little trouble maker.” You snicker ticking his tummy.

You don’t even mind that Grogu knocked over the lovely congratulations bouquet the gungan boss sent. Your son’s giggles are worth it.

The morning sun dances beautifully across the grand Naboo lake. Sitting among the lush grass, you now watch Grogu once again chase after the fluttering butterflies.

Heavy boots crunch approaching. Then Din presses against you. You snuggle closer to lean against his paladin covered shoulder. His arm slides to curl you even closer into his side.

“Always hoped we would get to come back here.” Din admits.

You did too. It’s why when the coronation for the next Queen of Naboo arrived, coincidentally taking place just a month after your wedding, you eagerly convinced Din to take a break from Nevarro to return to this special place.

“Thank you for bringing us back.” You tell him grateful, pressing a kiss to his beskar.

“No, thank you for suggesting this.” You knew Din was kind hearted before. But now, as your husband, he shows you a pure adoration that doesn’t feel real at times.

“They will need you at the palace soon.” Your mandalorian reminds you gently.

He’s right of course. So many events, things to plan, all wait for you.

But for a few more moments, you stay within the golden glow of your little family…simply letting the butterflies dance all around.

#thank you again maddi bb & to anyone who decides to give this a read - thank you so much too!!!#wired4youchallenge #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin fanfiction #pedrostories #Din 🩶

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liliesdiary · 5 months ago

Text

➢ Face Of An Angel

SYNOPSIS → Ghostface develops an extreme obsession with you, the infamous porn star named soft angel who so happens to be his classmate. The face of an angel and the body of a porn star.

TAGS/WARNINGS → pornstar!reader, dubcon, yandere!ghostface, blackmail, power play, porn addict!ghostface, porn mentioned, porn addiction mentioned, obsessive!ghostface, love struck!ghostface, hyperfem!reader, soft angel porn name, obsessive thoughts, horror porno, knife play, violent threats, ownership obsession, possessive!ghostface, yandere themes & a lot of pink for Valentine's day! @taylormarieee

AUTHOR’S NOTE → this story will be split into multiple parts and will be turned into a series. I'm sorry this took so long to write, this won the poll months ago. Thank you angels for your patience! also trying something different with the theme, tell me if you like it! comment if you want to be tagged in the next parts! [ VIEW IN LIGHT MODE FOR BETTER READING EXPERIENCE ]

DIVIDERS BY → @bernardsbendystraws @nicodefresas

♡ㅤ ⎙ㅤ ⌲

🖱️ CLICK TO DISCOVER THE FACE OF AN ANGEL 🖱️

➢ [◉°] LIVE | ꧁ᬊᬁ ᴀɴɢᴇʟᬊ᭄꧂ ANGELSOFTPORN.COM [ ▸ 27.8k LIVE VIEWERS ]

▶ Chat Loading…

▶Press [Start]

You start the stream and the chat floods in, your pink webcam blinking as you expose yourself to your fans. Your body was decorated with pink rope and ribbons, your hair was tied up perfectly in a hairstyle they voted on.

You lay down on your pretty pink bed, kicking your legs as you read the chat, looking like an innocent angel but you were far from innocent. You talk to them sweetly, acting like a saint as you expose your perfect tits for your fans.

The tight pink rope traveled along your chest, making your breasts the center of attention. The center of your chest had a pretty pink heart that showed your infamous tattoo that marked you, ‘soft angel'.

Your face was covered in a pink mask, masking your secret identity. You didn't want anyone to find out who you were, especially anyone who personally knew you.

“Happy early Valentine's day.” You say sweetly, giving the camera a little sweet kiss. You wanted to give them a special live stream today.

LIVE CHAT ▶SLOWED

↬ LOADING CHAT…2.7k incoming messages

╰ Anonymous 51 » happy early valentine's day!

╰ David » cute ribbons. makes me want to pull them.

╰ User251 » pretty lips.

╰ JJ21 » be my valentine please!

You smile at the sweet words of your viewers, making their heart flutter with your angelic smile. You then pull out a realistic dildo, kissing the tip and leaving a lipstick stain. You pose for the camera innocently, kicking your feet as you position the camera, angling it so it could look like you were sucking the viewer's cock.

The chat praises you as you suck on the big dildo, your eyes sultry yet still had a glint of Innocence in them. Your warm tongue traveled along the big dildo, teasing the viewers as you gave them doe eyes.

LIVE CHAT ▶SLOWED

↬LOADING CHAT...

╰ Ethan99 » fuck, the kiss on the tip made me almost cum.

╰ Deranged Ghost » good slut.

╰ Camslut » the best early valentine's gift ever.

You kept sucking for the chat, moaning sweet names of the people who sent donations. Your cunt dripping with arousal, a puddle beneath you forming.

▶Perverted Daddy Has Sent A $20 Donation!

“Thank you, perverted daddy.” You thank one of your loyal donors, moaning his name sweetly as you lick the tip of the dildo, which motivates your chat to give more donations to hear you moan their name.

As the stream is filled with sweet kisses and donations, you received a huge donation from him. your love sick stalker.

▶Lovesick Anonymous Has Sent A $200 Donation!

╰ Lovesick anonymous: sweet angel.

You read his donation, accidentally moaning louder than you should as your heart fluttered. His sweet words always made your cunt throbbed, he always spent so much money on you. You can't help but make a puddle on the floor as you continue sucking on the dildo, closing your eyes and pretending like it was his cock. The first time you pictured yourself sucking off one of your fans.

Your eyes flutter open as you hear the donation ping, he sent another generous donation.

▶ Lovesick Anonymous Has Sent Another $200 Donation!

╰ lovesick anonymous: cum for me, angel.

Your heart fluttered and you immediately obeyed, feeling a wave of ecstasy you've never felt before. Your hole pulsed, the urge to have a cock buried inside you has never felt so strong before.

You continue to flutter your eyes at the camera as cum drips down your inner thighs, the pink rope stained with your filth. You can only imagine who the lovesick anonymous was, what he was doing as he watched you ruin yourself for him.

You felt yourself blushing, closing your eyes as you kept sucking the cock like a good angel. More donations followed yet you didn't open your eyes for them, you only wanted to open your eyes for him.

You start to hear an inbox ping from your laptop behind the webcam, you can see the private messages filling your inbox, unaware that they were from your stalker.

Then you start to get private donations, the ping making your eyes flutter as you read the bone chilling words.

▶ Love sick Anonymous: you're mine, angel. I know where you live, maybe I'll come over and visit, Break your pretty angel wings and keep you forever. doesn't that sound lovely for a dumb pathetic angel like you?

His threat sends you shivers down your spine, your soft body trembling at the thought of him breaking in. You were overwhelmed, your mouth stopping as your eyes were wide and shaking.

You wanted to turn off the stream but he sends another large private donation.

▶Lovesick Anonymous Has Sent Another $200

╰ Lovesick anonymous: don't be scared, angel. keep sucking like a good angel, I'm almost finished.

Your cunt throbbed at his words, ignoring all the other fans as you keep sucking the dildo out of fear. Your body couldn't stop trembling at his threat, your soft moans muffled around the dildo. You were too scared to stop.

You tried your best for him, licking and sucking the dildo as if your life depended on it. And who knows? Maybe it did.

Your heart couldn't stop beating yet you couldn't deny the puddle that was still forming beneath your drenched cunt. Your eyes looked up as you heard another ping, another big donation, the biggest donation anyone has ever sent to you.

▶Lovesick Anonymous Has Sent A $666 Donation!!

╰ Lovesick anonymous: good girl.

His generous donation made your heart flutter. You've never felt your heart actually skip a beat until now. And fuck, that much money?

You couldn't help but feel flustered by the praise from your anonymous fan. The amount of money he sent you made your eyes sparkle.

“Thank you, Lovesick for your generous donation.” You can feel your heart beating in your chest, your trembling eyes staring at the webcam as you wondered who this lovesick anonymous was and if he really did know where you lived.

➢ [◉°] OFFLINE | ꧁ᬊᬁ ᴀɴɢᴇʟᬊ᭄꧂ ANGELSOFTPORN.COM

You had turned off the livestream, still trembling from your stalker’s threat. You opened your laptop and immediately noticed that you had received a Love Mail from Lovesick anonymous.

Open Inbox? 「 YES 」 or 「 YES 」

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divaofmads · 16 days ago

Text

ME and the DEVIL

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Female Reader x Bruce Wayne

Chapter II: Bruises and Lullabies

"This isn’t a moral downfall. It’s a weakness. But in this city, weakness brings death. If I love you, I can’t protect you. If I don’t love you, I’ll lose you. Which one should I choose?"

Warnings: Angst, +18, Taboo Love (Step Daddy Bruce Wayne), Age Gap Romance, Yandere Undertones, Dark Jonathan Crane, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Fear Toxin Effects, Childhood Trauma, Possessive Dynamics, Implied Toxic Relationships, Unreliable Narration (due to drugged/dissociative state)

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @sisterlucifergraphics @cafekitsune photos by Pinterest

A/N: English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

The living room was as silent as the evening itself.

Thick velvet curtains kept out the Gotham night, blocking the gentle melody of the rain tapping against the windows. The only sound in the room was the rustle of papers – like a sentence suppressed, thoughts buried before they could be spoken.

Bruce Wayne had settled into the armchair closest to the window. In his hand was a folded newspaper, the corner bent between his thumb and forefinger, but he didn’t seem to be reading it. He appeared fully focused on the pages. But focus is often an illusion.

You were sitting across from him, your legs tucked under you. You wore a red and white gingham halter top that hugged your figure, and soft pants of the same fabric that ended just below your knees. You had opened the Edward Nygma file you brought from Arkham. You were taking notes in blue ink, sometimes thinking out loud. Bruce was listening. Even when you didn’t know he was.

“Riddler’s connection to riddles isn’t a classic obsession, in my opinion,” you said, not lifting your gaze from the pages. “He’s not lost in the question itself. He wants to dissolve into the answer. It’s a kind of psychological claim. He’s not satisfied by knowing, but by solving.”

Bruce slowly turned a page of the newspaper.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice as soft as velvet, but with a subtle, scrutinizing undertone. “And what about Batman? What do you think of him?”

You raised your head for a moment. Your eyes sparkled with surprise, and a hint of playful mischief.

“Hmm. Personally or professionally?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, tilting his head slightly with a faint smile. “Do you think you can tell the difference?”

You shrugged, but the little defiant girl inside you stepped forward.

“Batman… is someone who has buried his identity. He probably experienced deep trauma. But instead of suppressing it, he recreates it. Every night. With his own hands. He identifies with criminals. Rather than just fighting them, he recreates their fear. That’s why his mask isn’t any different from the ones criminals wear.”

Bruce locked eyes with you for a moment. The corner of his lips curved upward, but it wasn’t satisfaction. It carried a kind of melancholy.

“Wasn’t that a bit harsh? Maybe Batman is just a man trying to bring justice. Maybe he’s not that dark.”

You tilted your head slightly. Whenever he tested you like that, that slight, smug grin always found its way to your lips.

“If a man puts on a cape every night and breaks criminals’ bones, I don’t care how brightly he walks in daylight. He must be doing it from somewhere deep inside. If that place is dark… then I find it even more compelling.”

For a split second, Bruce’s expression froze. Something deep in his heart cracked with a single hammer blow. But he didn’t let it show on his face.

“Compelling, huh?” he asked. There was a touch of sarcasm laced with hidden fragility in his voice.

“What kind of effect is that, exactly?”

You didn’t answer. You turned back to the file, but the words on the page were now blurry. He was watching you. And you could feel it, even without looking.

“If you ask me...” you said at last, glancing at a corner of the file, “Batman isn’t a savior. He’s more like someone familiar. He knows loss. He knows the void. That’s why he affects me.”

Bruce turned his eyes back to the newspaper to stop watching you. But this time, the warmth in his voice was more distinct.

“Your theories are sometimes... quite embellished with imagination.”

You laughed, short and confidently.

“Well, I am Bruce Wayne’s student, after all. If my imagination wasn’t strong, I wouldn’t be interning at Arkham, would I?”

There was a moment of silence after you said that. Bruce lifted his head again, and his gaze fell back on you. There was a glimmer in his eyes you couldn’t quite name. Admiration? Guilt? Fear of something?

"Knowing some things this well... it’s a bit much for your age."

His voice was low, deep, like he was talking to himself. But he wanted you to hear.

And you did. You understood.

You smiled. Squinting slightly, you turned your head.

"You don’t have to keep reminding me of my age. I’m legally an adult now, you know."

That sentence changed the air in the room. Even the crackling of the fireplace seemed to pause for a moment.

Bruce didn’t react. But his gaze stayed on you. Long. Silent. Then, after a moment, he lowered his head and folded the newspaper.

"If you’re going to keep working with Riddler, be careful. While you’re trying to solve him, he’s analyzing you. It’s a dangerous balance."

You sighed.

"The real danger is Batman. I wish I could meet him. I feel like... he’s someone who’d truly see me."

Bruce stayed silent for a while. Then turned his eyes back to you, but his gaze was somewhere else entirely.

As if your presence was the echo of something he once lost. As if you were both his victim and his savior.

"If you had met him..." he said slowly, "maybe you would’ve changed your mind."

You looked directly into his eyes.

"Or maybe... he would’ve affected me even more."

Bruce stood. Slowly. And looked at you.

"Isn’t it past your bedtime?"

The words came in a fatherly tone, but there was another layer beneath. Like a man trying to hold himself back.

You didn’t move.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever... helped someone without being seen? I mean... someone you protected without wanting them to know it was you?"

For a moment, Bruce’s eyes froze on you. He stayed silent for so long it felt like an answer.

Eventually, he looked away and began to walk.

"Everyone has a shadow, Y/N," he said.

"But some learn to see from inside that shadow."

You didn’t say anything for a while. Just watched him. Long and still. Your eyes were slightly narrowed, but there was something swinging between a child’s gaze and a woman’s instinct.

You knew the weariness on his face by heart. How his lips pulled sideways when he tried not to smile, how his shoulder relaxed when you squeezed it...

And at that moment you realized, you had stored all these details in your memory like a file. Just like Nygma’s notes.

Bruce lowered his head. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

You straightened slightly, rose to your feet. "Because sometimes... I want to look with you from inside the shadow you live in," you said, slowly walking toward him.

You leaned on the armrest of the chair he was sitting in and gently touched his knee with your fingertips.

"And that paper-cut serious expression on your face is a bit much. When you frown, you look more like Alfred."

Bruce glanced sideways at you. His lips twitched upwards unwillingly, but he tried to keep a straight face.

"There’s no room for another personality disorder in Wayne Manor," he said. "Especially if someone’s impersonating Alfred, I’ll throw them out the door."

You burst out laughing. "Ooo! So now you’re threatening me, Mr. Wayne?" You tilted your head playfully and winked. "Or are you saving that Batman rage just for me?"

Bruce shook his head. "One day, your mouth is going to get you into trouble, young lady," he said, his voice a mix of fatherly affection and stony patience.

But you had already jumped from behind the chair as if to sit on his leg. Then you backed off like a child hopping in place. Bruce quickly moved and grabbed you by the waist.

"Gotcha," he said in a low voice, both serious and teasing. His arms wrapped around your slender waist, pulling you close enough that you couldn’t escape.

You laughed heartily, nearly falling into Bruce’s lap.

"That’s not fair! You’re so bi..." you began, but his look stopped your breath before you could finish.

You locked eyes.

The joy on your face gave way to brief confusion, then to your signature slyness.

Your lips parted slightly, your breath close enough to touch Bruce’s face. His fingers were still on your waist. Not tight, just there, holding, not letting go.

There were only a few inches between you.

You squinted and whispered.

"You know... I missed this game. This closeness. These little battles. It feels like I’m living inside a poem. One without a poet, but every line echoes in my heart."

Something flickered in Bruce’s eyes as he prepared to respond. He slowly leaned toward your hair, but didn’t kiss you. He just stayed there, waiting.

You rested your head on his shoulder. And neither of you spoke.

As the darkness of Gotham crept in through the windows of the Manor, time slowed a little more for you both.

And the shadows... deepened.

Bruce leaned back. His left hand touched your shoulder. Gracefully, yet with quiet determination. When his fingertips moved slightly, you took a deep breath. The warmth from where he touched you began to spread inward. Even in the darkness, there was that gray haze in his eyes, always thoughtful, always somewhere else, yet somehow always seeing you. You didn’t know which war he was hiding behind, but sometimes you just wanted to believe he was only here, only now, with you.

And that moment—right then—was exactly that. Real.

“You know,” you said, your voice low, warm with a tinge of sorrow. “I missed this... just being close. Without talking. Just... being.”

Bruce locked eyes with you, then glanced at your face, and finally, your lips. His gaze lingered there for a moment. Perhaps it was the moment when whatever he was trying to suppress nearly broke the surface. But of course, he was Bruce Wayne. Master of everything, even the warden of his own feelings.

“I did too,” he said in a hushed voice. “But sometimes... the more you miss something, the further it feels. Like you’re suddenly more aware of what’s slipping through your fingers.”

“I don’t want it to slip,” you said. “I want us to be like we were. Like that morning... remember? The one when Alfred tried to wake you up with coffee, but I was lying on top of you.” You rested your head gently on his shoulder. “You said, ‘Y/N, this is a form of torture.’”

Bruce dipped his head. A faint smile touched his lips. “Because it really was,” he said. “But the good kind.”

You didn’t laugh. You just closed your eyes. As if trying to drink in the silence, you inhaled his scent, his clothes, his skin, the aftershave... and beneath all of it, that hidden, complex, dark, metallic smell. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it was just... the mystery that seemed to cling to him.

Then a thought crossed your mind. A glowing, mischievous, seductive thought.

You suddenly straightened. Before Bruce could react, you moved onto your knees and slipped gracefully into his lap. Your posture was elegant, yet undeniably bold. Your fingers reached toward the buttons of his shirt, not to undo them, just to touch. Tilting your head slightly, you looked at him, a spark in your eyes, a subtle secret on your lips.

“You know, that swimming race last month... wasn’t fair at all. You always bend the rules in your favor.”

With a playful smile, you continued:

“So maybe now... it’s my turn to set the rules.”

Bruce’s body tensed slightly. He didn’t look away, but his smile had faded. In his eyes, the amusement had given way to something else: a mix of desire and guilt.

He shook his head. Like he was trying to gather his thoughts.

“Y/N... No. This—” he said. He paused. Then, in a slower, wearier voice, repeated:

“This can’t happen.”

For a moment, just a moment, the sting of those words didn’t register. But then they settled in your chest. Not gently. Harshly like a crack.

You looked at him. Your lips still carried that playful smirk, but your eyes had stopped smiling.

“It can’t?” you asked. “Why not?”

Bruce’s hand was still at your waist, but now his fingers had loosened. He didn’t speak. Just lowered his head. As if the weight of the world fit into a single answer he couldn’t say aloud. Because to name it, to say it, would be to give up the secret, and push you away.

And then, the heavy oak door creaked open.

Alfred stepped inside. His gaze passed from him to you, but he said nothing. That expression he always wore, as though he’d seen everything, yet nothing at all.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said. His voice was calm but unhurried. “Charlotte Rivers has arrived. She’s waiting for you at the front.”

Silence… then the shadow on Bruce’s face deepened.

You, still in his lap, turned to Alfred.

And Bruce’s next words sank you into an even deeper silence:

“Thank you, Alfred. Let her in.”

Alfred gave a nod, paused a moment more at the door, then quietly withdrew.

You turned your face to Bruce. There was no play left on your lips. That spark had vanished.

And with only a whisper, you asked:

“Charlotte Rivers?”

That night, the wind outside Wayne Manor howled even harder.

But inside... the real storm had begun.

You were standing on the marble floor that gleamed like golden reflections of the warm yellow light beneath the towering crystal chandelier. On your left was Bruce’s familiar calm, and on your right, the approaching footsteps of a storm. Charlotte Rivers.

The sharp, steel-like sound of her heels echoed through the empty hall, and for a moment, you held your breath. When the silhouette of the woman appeared before the grand door, the infuriating entrance scene you had imagined countless times finally took flesh and bone. Absentmindedly, your hand rested on the sleeve of Bruce’s jacket—unknowingly. As your fingers drew near his skin through the fabric, the woman’s smile kept drawing closer.

“Bruce, darling…”

Charlotte smiled with a polished lie on her lips. Without the slightest hesitation, she stepped up to Bruce and pressed a short yet distinct kiss on his lips. Though the kiss was brief, her fingertips lingered on his chest for about two seconds longer than necessary. And you stood there.

You looked on without narrowing your eyes. The red mark of her lipstick may not have stayed on Bruce’s skin, but the spark in your eyes—the instant flame of jealousy—betrayed you. Still, a faint smile played on your lips, as if you were amused. You weren’t revealing the war inside you. Not yet.

When Charlotte turned her head toward you, she said, “Ah… Y/N, isn’t it? How lovely to see you again. You’re still… living in this house?” Her expression was kind, but her voice was coated with sugary poison. She had left such a deliberate pause between the words that you could almost hear the subtext: “Isn’t it a bit strange that Bruce is still with you?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Sometimes people don’t leave a place. They make it theirs.”

Your response was just like her smile: subtle, but equally sharp. Charlotte slightly raised her brows; her face suspended somewhere between surprise and delight. It showed she accepted the challenge. And you, placing your hands behind your back, took a small step back to watch.

Bruce cleared his throat to break the tension. “Charlotte, come. Let’s move to the sitting room. Alfred will bring the drinks shortly.”

But Charlotte hadn’t moved yet. She gently touched Bruce’s arm. “Honestly… I didn’t think I could’ve missed you this much. But maybe it’s the magic of Wayne Manor. Or… your presence.”

Her voice was so composed, you might have mistaken it for genuine. But you could see the calculations behind her eyes. And Bruce… said nothing. He wore that mask you knew—the mask of blankness—and responded to her words with neither denial nor approval.

But that was the moment that hurt you the most. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t defend you. It was that he acted as if you weren’t even there. Charlotte leaned in a little more, lightly touching Bruce’s chest, her fingers tracing the seams of his jacket. These small gestures were a deliberate dance performed in your presence. Every gesture was an insult. Every smile, a provocation. And Bruce hadn’t stopped the dance.

You just watched. With your wrists clasped and your nails digging into your palms, you stood upright. You were smiling, but your teeth were clenched with fury. Your heart was tight, yet your face wore a soft expression. And your eyes… when they found Bruce again, the fragments of admiration still lingering there were now shaded with pain.

At that moment, you noticed Charlotte whispering something to Bruce, ignoring you entirely. He slightly nodded, but there was still no trace of that ghostly smile you once knew so well. That face—it no longer belonged to you. For a fleeting second, it felt like you were watching Bruce’s ghost. And that ghost had found life in someone else’s body.

That night, even the stone walls of Wayne Manor seemed to breathe—bound by a kind of ancient, ominous loyalty that refused to let anything inside or allow anything to escape. The darkness of night had devoured the scenery, and the shadows of the trees in the garden reflected on the window like silhouettes gasping for air. In the dim light of the bedroom, shadows and reality blended into one—just like inside your mind.

Your room was actually your favorite corner in Bruce’s house. The dark navy wallpaper Bruce once gifted you was still there. On the bookshelf, carefully arranged volumes of Freud and Jung stood neighborly beside plush teddy bears. The white lace curtain at the window fluttered gently with the breeze, appearing to be the only thing in motion at that moment. The room was elegant, but still youthful. Just like you.

You were pacing back and forth inside, your feet pressing into the soft texture of the dark carpet, while your heart pounded so hard you feared its sound might shatter the silence. You kept replaying in your mind, again and again in countless variations, what Bruce and Charlotte were doing, where they had gone, and how they could so easily leave you behind.

It was 1:30 a.m. now. Two hours. Two hours, and Bruce hadn’t returned. Charlotte hadn’t left. And you… you were decaying in silence, in your own room, digging your nails into your palms.

Then… that laugh came.

High-pitched, careless, far too relaxed. It was Charlotte’s laugh. Even from a distance, you could see her throwing her head back as she laughed, placing her hands on Bruce’s shirt, narrowing her eyes. That sound had made its way to the upper floors of the house, all the way to your room.

Your body reacted instantly. Your feet carried you to the door without your permission. Your palms pressed against the wood of the door; you turned your head slightly, listening. First, footsteps… then a few murmurs… then Charlotte’s voice again.

“…You’re so tense lately, Bruce. Maybe you should learn to unwind a little. That’s what nights are for, aren’t they?”

The touch within her voice poured into your ears like silky venom. The insinuations, the invitations… they made it hard for you to stay upright. Your heart started pounding again—this time, in your throat. A fist seemed lodged there, and swallowing was impossible.

“Do you remember that night? Champagne, me, you, that famous jacuzzi… I tricked you a little, but you liked it. Why are you being so distant now?”

And Bruce’s reply… never came. Or maybe you couldn’t hear it. Maybe he whispered. Or maybe he didn’t answer at all. But the silence didn’t seem to discourage Charlotte.

“Come upstairs with me. Let’s… refresh old memories.”

That was when a sharp pain hit your gut. Your knees buckled, but you didn’t collapse. Your eyes locked on a single point: the door leading to the dark hallway.

Were they going upstairs? To Bruce’s bedroom?

A moment of silence passed, then a faint click… footsteps… heels echoing on the marble stairs. You recognized them instantly. Charlotte’s walk was always a performance. And Bruce was he following her?

You leaned your back against the door, your head tilting upward with the knot in your throat. The chandelier’s crystals fractured the ceiling light, casting soft shadows on the walls. But that beauty could no longer comfort you. In your mind appeared the image of that foreign woman’s lips touching Bruce’s. You recalled that laugh. That invitation. And Bruce’s silence.

You clenched your teeth. You felt something crack inside, thin and long like a fissure. Slowly growing, pulling you into darkness.

It wasn’t just jealousy. No. It was the foreboding sense of loss, the helplessness of being forced to watch everything you love slip quietly through your fingers. It was watching another woman erase you from his memory in every moment you weren’t by his side. Quietly. Calmly. Wanting to scream, but only being able to swallow it down.

You whispered Bruce’s name. It came out like a plea from between your lips… but no one else was in the room. He didn’t hear you. And even if he did, maybe he wouldn’t turn around anymore.

And that night, for the first time, you were truly alone.

The time had long passed midnight, and the silence of the house was no longer a comfort; it settled over you like a suffocating burial shroud. The thick stone walls of Wayne Manor were woven with a cold, resentful stillness, every crevice filled with history, weight, and secrets. In the dim light of the room, even the echo of your footsteps felt like a betrayal, each step pounding like a heart caught in the act.

You couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t even tried. Your feet forced you into pacing, your hands wrapping around your own wrists as you moved back and forth across the room. The sheer curtains twisted in front of the window against the breeze, the moonlight making the delicate fabric sway as if it wanted to wrap itself around your body.

But the wave inside you was much stronger.

Bruce. Charlotte. That laughter.

That look. That touch.

You were burning from within.

In the middle of the night, you moved like a shadow losing control. Even the tiny click as you opened the door on your tiptoes startled you. The chill in the hallway slithered across your skin like a sneaky intention. Every step, every creak made you feel even lonelier, even more alien in this house. You stopped when you reached the start of the staircase leading to the upper floor. There was something inside you now: jealousy, dressed up as courage.

You didn’t know how your heart could beat so wildly as you approached something you thought belonged to you. But when you stepped into the corridor where Bruce’s bedroom was... something else happened. Your feet stopped. Your breath caught. Because you had heard it.

Those sounds.

A breath echoing. A stifled giggle. The rustle of sheets brushing together.

And Charlotte’s voice, faint, but with a seductively sharp sweetness as it rose:

"Hmm... just like that. I feel like I remember you again now. You know, Bruce… when you look at me like that, I still remember that night. My hands were pressed against the wall in the stairwell..."

Her voice sent a chill to the tips of your hair and a heavy punch right to the center of your stomach. There, right in front of the door, you leaned against the wall. Your legs had gone numb. There was no hand on your chest, but it was there. Another muffled moan came from her. Then Bruce’s low, husky voice, unclear, but the vibration of his words seemed to stroke Charlotte’s hair.

You swallowed. But your throat was dry. Your lips parted, but you had not a single word to say. What was inside you… was like the shattered shards of a mirror. Each piece slicing into a different part of your soul.

Hatred.

Desire.

Disappointment.

Betrayal.

And... mistrust.

And yet, how much had you wanted to be the one next to him. Sitting on that couch, just one more touch and you would’ve belonged to him again. And now, behind that door, Bruce Wayne was slowly unraveling in the hands of another woman. Your dreams were being carved into someone else’s skin by his hands.

Charlotte whispered again:

"You make me feel like I belong to you. You really haven’t forgotten me, have you?"

And Bruce’s response came in the form of silence. But that silence hurt you more than any word ever could.

You trembled. Your back pressed harder against the wall. Your fingers went to your chest, your throat. You could feel the rise of the anger you tried to suppress. And it was no longer just jealousy. This was a claim. Your pride had been crushed, your desires trampled.

And worst of all: Bruce had lied to you. He had looked you in the eyes and lied when he left you alone.

The line of light slipping from under the door touched your ankles. It felt like it was cutting you. You wanted to step closer to the door but couldn’t. Because if you took one more step... you would lose another part of yourself. Irretrievably.

That night, in that dark hallway, you felt completely exposed. And perhaps for the first time, you realized you could never trust Bruce the same way again.

There was still night in the hallway. The morning sun, seeping through the gray velvet curtains, seemed too timid to step inside the house. The walls of Wayne Manor were, as always, silent—but it felt as though everything had already been said.

You were dressed for your morning internship, moving in a simple black shirt with fine white stripes and fitted black slacks… your steps were quiet. Too quiet. You were quiet just so you wouldn't hear him. Just because you felt too broken to deserve any sound.

But life always loved testing you where it hurt the most.

As you were leaving, you saw him. Bruce. Wayne.

He was coming down the stairs, his black t-shirt disheveled, his hair messy, and his gaze heavy from lack of sleep as he looked at you. He was alone. But you knew. Upstairs. Inside. Charlotte Rivers was still in bed.

Only two staircases away from your room.

When your eyes met, time seemed to pull back—like a thread being drawn through the skin while stitching a wound; silent, tense, but amplifying the pain. When your gaze locked on him, he noticed. His lips parted, as if to say something, but he couldn’t. Because you spoke first.

You straightened your shoulders. Tilted your neck slightly. Just as he was about to say “good morning,” your voice sliced through the air: “You looked very tired last night. I hope… you were able to rest.”

Your words were like shards of glass stuck in the neck of a wine bottle; elegant on the surface, but already cutting through beneath. Bruce averted his gaze. But you didn’t. You stayed right there. You kept looking. You waited.

There was silence. And then, he did what he always did: tried to control the guilt.

“Y/N… if I need to explain...”

You raised your hand, slicing the air gently. It was a graceful, almost tender gesture. But not on the inside.

“You don’t need to explain. I already heard everything loud and clear.”

There was no shouting in your voice, no reproach. And that deepened the lines on Bruce’s face even more. Because your tone was patient. And patience was something no one your age should ever have.

He saw that spark in your eyes. You weren’t a little girl anymore. No longer that “sweet” presence who used to fall asleep reading books at his side. There was something in your eyes that the night couldn’t retrieve, and the morning couldn’t mend.

“Y/N… Charlotte is someone from my past. Something began with her.”

You cut him off. Didn’t blink. “Yes, Bruce. It began. Just like what you started to show me. While what we had was a bond far deeper than a physical one… your sense of time is truly something. Seems like you’ve lost track of the difference between hurting someone and seducing them.”

You took a step closer. Your footsteps were velvet-soft, but the storm inside you pounded against your ribs with a roar. There were only inches between you now. You looked into his eyes and whispered: “I was your future. But you chose to stay in your past.”

And right then… his throat moved. He swallowed. But he couldn’t speak. Because your eyes weren’t filled with tears. You hadn’t cried. And that was the most terrifying part: the absence of tears. If no tears were shown, there could be no forgiveness.

You turned toward the door. Just as you were about to leave, a hoarse voice rose behind you: “I still care about you.”

You didn’t stop. Just shrugged your shoulders and replied, “Then why did you share a bed with her?”

As one of the house staff opened the door, the morning sun on your face felt like it was smiling at you. But you didn’t look back. With the weight of no longer belonging to the darkness inside Wayne Manor, you walked down the steps. Your feet no longer moved like a child’s, but like a woman’s.

The corridor didn’t feel like its usual morning chill. There was a thick, scentless, but heavy chemical residue lingering in the air—like the ghost of a spill. Your footsteps made almost no sound. In a building this old and decaying, that alone was unsettling. The rubber soles of your black ballet flats made it feel like you were stepping on the soul of a ghost. The notebook in your hand had started to moisten at the fingertips.

When you reached the office door, it was closed—but someone was inside. Two male voices. One was familiar—sharp and measured, slicing each sentence into pieces. Dr. Crane. The other was older, a little more muffled… and dominant: Dr. Hugo Strange.

But the words… the words were blurry. You could only make out certain key terms in between sentences: “dosage,” “voluntary protocol,” “immunity,” “REM cycle”... and the phrase that struck your ear the most: “only at night.”

Instinctively, you took a step back. And just then, from behind you, came a sweet, slightly too loud, and definitely out-of-place voice:

“Hey there, sweetheart!”

When you turned slowly, you saw Dr. Harleen Quinzel standing behind you. She wore her white coat, beneath it a faded pink dress. Her hair was neatly tied, dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night, but her lips were like springtime.

“When did you sneak in like that?” she asked, raising an eyebrow, her tone curious and warm.

“Uh… just now…” you whispered, though your voice didn’t even sound like your own.

Harleen stepped closer. “Like a class… If you’re standing so quietly outside a door, chances are you heard something, right?” Her voice was chirpy, but there was real mischief in her gaze. She was testing you. Measuring.

You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, the door suddenly swung open.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s eyes locked with yours for a brief moment. But it wasn’t the kind of look you were used to. It was cold and measured; revealing no emotion, yet seeming to read every question in your mind. That gaze had sliced through you—it was something between being seen and being exposed. The reflection of all that waiting, the eavesdropping, the fear of being caught—coldly mirrored in his eyes. But he said nothing.

As you stepped inside, Harleen whispered a warm goodbye and walked away. The office door closed slowly behind you, and the air inside thickened even more. The shadows trembling behind the window panes seemed to still hum with Crane’s voice. As he walked to his desk, he had his head down, gathering papers. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, but avoided direct eye contact. That made you even more uneasy.

You couldn’t help but speak.

“Just now… it was you and Dr. Strange in there, I think?” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “You were talking about a patient? I didn’t see any such case in my files. I was just curious if it’s an experimental—”

He raised his head.

When his gaze hit you, that same chilling silence once again filled the room. Only his eyes spoke; and in them, there was no anger. No rage. But a kind of warning. Slow, patient, slithering like a snake.

“Curiosity,” he said. His tone was sharp, but there was no smile. “In psychiatry, it’s a variable all its own. When not properly guided… it can be harmful.”

You swallowed. Your instincts told you to break eye contact, but something—pride, or maybe the need to explain—kept you rooted there.

“I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean to listen. I just happened to be nearby. I overheard because—”

“Because you were standing by the door,” he said, calmly. Almost kindly. “And you overheard. Because you want to show how good of an intern you are… don’t you?”

He used the silence you left as a blade. He took two steps toward you. His footsteps barely made a sound on the carpet, but something inside you coiled. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets. He tilted his head slightly, as if examining you.

“You’re in your sixth week, Miss Wayne. A bit early to be searching for all the answers. Some questions come with a price,” he said slowly. “Some knowledge... shouldn’t be so easy to gain.”

You instinctively took a step back, but he noticed and stepped closer. So close now that you could feel the chill of his breath on your skin. Yet he hadn’t yelled, hadn’t raised a hand. And still, you were already trembling.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said, your voice sounding like it didn’t even belong to you. “That wasn’t my intention. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

There was a curl at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t a smile. It was the reaction of a man who had shaped someone into exactly the mold he wanted. He had pushed you into that pit of guilt. And then left you there.

He returned to his desk, straightened the folders. Then, shattering the silence, he said:

“In your next session with Edward Nygma... continue to use your observational skills. But don’t forget to draw boundaries. The line between observation and obsession... you know, it’s very thin.”

You felt your insides freeze. You knew that was a reference. But to whom, it wasn’t clear. To you? To himself? Or perhaps… to both of you.

Dr. Crane’s gaze had sliced through your soul like the edge of a scalpel. He hadn’t even asked the question. He had asked it with his eyes; accused you with a look, passed judgment in silence. Just looking into his eyes had been enough to put you in your place. The words that came from his mouth weren’t sentences—they were cold, procedural, as if part of a treatment protocol. He hadn’t hurt you. He had ruined you.

You had lowered your head, trying to salvage the moment with a short “I’m sorry,” but the word stuck in your throat the moment it left your lips. Feeling like a child in his presence had become something you were slowly getting used to. But this time… this time something was different. Was he acting like this because you had heard the argument? Or had he always been like this and you were only now beginning to see it?

When you turned to your chair and opened your notebook, your fingers were trembling. Every letter you tried to write clashed with the thoughts echoing in your head. “What was it about? Who was in the room at night? ‘Extrasynaptic neurotransmission’? ‘Chemical orientation curve’? They hadn’t sounded like medical terms, more like the passwords to some secret ritual…” You placed your hands on your knees and took a deep breath. The air you inhaled through your nose didn’t carry the sterile metallic scent of the clinic—it carried the depthless darkness seeping from Crane’s office. That room… often felt less like an office and more like a coffin. Quiet, intimate, and soundproof enough that even if someone screamed, no one outside would hear it.

Just then, the silence was torn apart like a scalpel slicing through skin.

“Y/N?”

Dr. Crane’s voice wasn’t raised, but it carried a sharpness in its depth. He didn’t even glance at you from the corner of his eye. But his voice pierced right through you. When you lifted your head, you saw him standing among the files.

“Do you remember Arnold Wesker?” he asked, his voice like a warning you’d never want to hear in a dream. “The decision has been approved. He’ll be admitted today.”

You swallowed.

Wesker. The Ventriloquist. The Puppeteer.

Your hand instinctively gripped the pen tighter. You bit the inside of your lip, just to avoid reacting to the name. But the familiar hum had already taken hold of you. A fear crawling to the tips of your fingers. Puppets. Those dark figures without hard eyes, but always watching you… He knew. Before he even said it, he knew what your reaction would be. That’s why he had spoken the name out loud. He was watching your response. Perhaps he had already made up his mind.

“I want you to conduct the initial assessment,” he said quietly. The light from the room reflected off his glasses; you couldn’t see his eyes. But you could feel their presence. “It’ll be the first time we make such close contact with his mind. You may want to witness it.”

His tone wasn’t inviting. It wasn’t threatening either. But somewhere beneath, deeper than command, something more subterranean lingered. This wasn’t an offer. This was a test.

A knot twisted in your stomach. But on your face, you wore that professional mask. You nodded slightly.

“Understood,” you said. “I’m ready.”

But you weren’t.

And he had already seen that.

When Dr. Crane's voice fell silent, a brief stillness settled over the office. It stood in sharp contrast to the noise inside your head—your heartbeat pounded against your temples like pressure building behind your eyes. But when you looked at him, it was as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just dropped a name like Arnold Wesker into your lap and walked away. As if he hadn’t noticed how your hands clenched tightly, how your pupils had shrunk the moment you heard it.

But he had noticed.

Still, he didn’t let the slight curve at the corner of his lips falter. He observed you behind the glass of his spectacles—long and measured. Then, his voice suddenly softened. In that dark room, it felt like someone had extinguished a lamp and replaced it with candlelight.

“You don’t have any other tasks at the moment, Y/N,” he said. “If you’d like, take a break. A new coffee machine was installed downstairs—it’s not half bad.”

Was that all? After all that intimidation, was he going to speak this gently? At first, it felt like a trap. But his voice was so calm… so naturally carried by the flow of the moment… that it planted a seed of doubt inside you, while also gently pressing your shoulder toward the door.

You nodded, keeping your gaze steady, your smile cautious but not revealing it.

“Alright… Thank you, Doctor,” you said.

That was what he wanted. Both the words and the submission. He was sending you out through that door—but only physically.

You walked the hallway with brisk steps, as if shaking off the tension clinging to your shoulders. Arkham’s walls were as cold as ever, but for the first time, they felt suffocating. When you reached the lower floor, the corridors were nearly empty. The corner with the coffee machine had become a temporary refuge for a few staff members at the start of the night shift. You got yourself a plain coffee, though your hand was still trembling slightly.

And then, your phone buzzed.

Bruce.

Seeing his name on the screen made something tighten inside you. You slowly reached into your pocket and pulled the phone out. The screen was still lit:

“How are you?”

Then, a few minutes later, another message:

“I’m sorry for what happened this morning. I’ll make it up to you.”

You inhaled and exhaled, but didn’t reply. Your finger hovered over the screen, unmoving. You slid the phone back into your pocket. Saying anything felt like it would require an apology. Or worse: an explanation.

And right now, you didn’t want to explain anything.

And somehow, that silence felt oddly comforting.

When Jonathan Crane quietly closed the door to his office behind him, the only thing that followed the sound of his footsteps echoing through Arkham's corridors was the voice inside his own head. His steps were measured, but his mind worked like a metronome of calculations. With your departure, the warmth left in the office had instantly cooled, replaced by the sterile chill of a laboratory. Exactly the atmosphere he needed.

First, he adjusted his glasses. Then, from the inner pocket of his coat, he retrieved a magnetic key and placed it just below what appeared to be a rusted screw hole on the elevator's call panel—an unremarkable spot to most. A soft “click” sounded. The elevator began descending without delay. This was a floor unknown to regular staff: Sublevel D, one of the clinic’s basement levels long buried in Arkham’s past and missing from any official blueprints.

When the doors opened, they revealed a corridor wrapped in ancient lead pipes, flickering under the broken rhythm of fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling, the walls rotted with age and damp concrete. But to Crane, this wasn’t ugliness. This was a kind of silent divinity. A place where science was no longer shackled by ethics, where playing god came down to nothing more than technicalities.

As he opened the lab door, the groan of rusty hinges echoed out. Inside, under the pale yellow light, the air was thick with the mixed scent of distilled water, glycerin tubes, nitrous compounds, and potassium cyanate. On the central steel table sat half-filled beakers, ampoules held in dry ice, and gas cartridges preserved under inert atmosphere. Everything was orderly. Everything exactly as it should be.

Jonathan reached for the shelves. It didn’t take long to find the specially labeled serum. A small bottle marked only with “Variant 5B-Y.” It was a new liquid form of his fear toxin—based on the core 5B fear series, but the “Y” made it personalized. The “Y” wasn’t an initial; it was a target: Y/N.

The liquid, unlike the classic aerosol versions, had a finer diffusion profile. Its low evaporation rate at room temperature allowed it to interact only with the sensory threshold of those nearby. It wasn’t an attack, it was a touch. Its chemical makeup: a synthetic alkaloid blend accompanied by delta-phenylethylamine and hydroxytryptamine. He understood fear as not only a biochemical state but also a psychodynamic resonance. The formula was designed to travel through the olfactory bulb and activate symptom clusters previously marked by trauma.

Meaning: when Wesker’s puppet combined with Crane’s gas, your defenses would collapse. And no one would call it an attack, because Crane would have merely “stood beside you.”

He poured the liquid into a thin, matte black glass vial. Not like cologne… like perfume. The exterior was textured to leave no fingerprints. Its dual-valve spray mechanism ensured that upon contact with skin, diffusion wouldn’t start immediately, it would be activated by body heat.

The antidote was stored in a small cryo unit in the corner of the lab. A small, metallic gray tube—usable only with a needle, and providing just a few minutes of reversal window. Crane pocketed the antidote in his coat and, as if nothing had happened, carefully removed his gloves and placed them on the steel table. As he sterilized his hands, a serene smile crossed his face.

This was his sanctuary. The birthplace of every plan.

And you were his most carefully observed hypothesis.

Wesker’s puppet was ready. The psychosis trigger was active. And your mental balance was about to dance on a razor-thin chemical line. Crane adjusted his glasses once more, then turned off the lamp. His eyes had already adjusted to the dark.

Because some learn to see from within the shadows.

Coffee… the only solace of the morning, a bitter, warm, and familiar refuge clinging to the corner of your lips. Your fingers curled around the foam cup, your palms still carrying the tension from Crane’s office, and as you sat at the rusted metal table outside, under the pale sunlight, it didn’t feel like you were waking to a Gotham morning—but to your own darkness. As your fingerprints melted into the heat of the cup, your eyes drifted to your phone—the grayish glow of the screen once again presenting you with Bruce’s name.

Bruce Wayne

“I’m sorry for everything you thought about last night. I want to talk to you. I’m looking forward to you coming home.”

The sentence felt like it didn’t come from his voice, but from someone else’s fingers. Too late… or maybe you were just too tired. You looked at the screen, a little long, a little silent, a little hurt. You didn’t delete the message. But you didn’t reply either. When your fingers pulled away from the screen, your eyes locked onto something far off. You wondered where Bruce’s hands were now, what voices he was smiling at. Maybe he was too blind to really see you. Or maybe he was just human, too human to want to.

And then, the footsteps echoing behind you pulled you out of that thought. Smooth, rhythmic, quiet… but familiar. If anyone could walk this softly on Arkham’s decaying stone corridors, it was Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

His voice settled over you like a morning mist. Then, as you turned slightly to look back, you saw him in his deep navy coat thrown over his white shirt, his gaze hidden behind glasses, lingering on you again, studying you.

“They’ve brought Wesker into the room.”

He announced it, but his eyes said something else. “I think it’s time you met him. Are you ready?”

You nodded slowly as you set your coffee down. Your eyes didn’t meet his completely. It was as if you were still stuck on Bruce’s screen. Still there… and still alone. Crane noticed this. He reached into his pocket, and like drawing out a handkerchief, he pulled something between his fingers and began walking toward you.

“If this encounter is making you uneasy,” he said, his voice softening, “...just remember: this is only the first contact. We’ll observe. We won’t interfere. So… I’ll ask you to act like a shadow.”

You started walking. He adjusted his steps to match yours. The corridor walls were damp, and from somewhere distant came the clanging sound of something striking metal bars. But you were no longer alone. Crane’s presence seemed to mute the rest. As you walked, your hand came dangerously close to his—so close it nearly brushed. You noticed it, but he had already adjusted, his fingers lowering toward the seam of his trousers as he continued beside you, in sync. He said nothing. He simply wanted to feel you nearby. You knew that.

Then he turned slightly. Your shoulder neared his torso. The scent… yes, familiar, but also something new. Not floral, not woody, sharp, a bit damp, but drawing you in. Like warm metal. There was something unknown in that scent. In that moment, your steps slowed. Your heart beat as if two hands were pressing down on your chest.

Crane adjusted his glasses gently. Tilted his head toward you.

“Nervous?”

He asked it like he genuinely wanted to know. But beneath his voice was a faint vibration.

You smiled—or pretended to.

“I think I am.”

“Perfect.”

He said slowly, in that tone you liked, not like a medical professor, but like a confidant, a partner in crime.

As you walked, your hand once again nearly brushed his. But this time, it felt like he let it. It wasn’t a touch. It was permission. You noticed that. He was letting you step into that space.

And you… as you recalled Bruce’s night with Charlotte and searched for something in Crane’s eyes, responded to him without meaning to. With just a few seconds of contact, you accepted the calm he placed over you. It wasn’t trust. It was a silent need.

The corridor ended. You arrived at the steel door that led to the isolation cells where Arnold Wesker was held. Crane stepped ahead. But then he paused. Turned to you.

“If you’re ready, let’s begin,” he said. “But first… take a deep breath.”

You did. But what you inhaled wasn’t just air. It was the scent of a dark intent. You didn’t know it yet. But it had already touched your body.

The door opened.

Jonathan stepped in first. His gaze behind the glasses was echo-less and cool. He extended his hand slightly, as if to guide you in from behind. And again, that scent — like before, but now stronger, sharper. Sweat mixed with cologne, like rusty metal. He pressed you toward his chest. You didn’t pull back. Because there was nowhere left to run.

“Y/N,” he said, in a low tone.

“Start taking your notes when you're ready. This is his first admission. It'll be a good observation for you too.”

There was a tenderness in his voice, but underneath it, a playful note. Who was he trying to fool, right?

Arnold Wesker was in the center of the room. He wasn’t chained — because what could a man talking to himself really do with his hands? The wooden puppet on his lap, however, was much more upright and alert. Scarface… the cracks on his gray wood looked like bloodstains, his tiny eyes fixed on the void from their hollow sockets. You didn’t want to raise your head. But your notebook already read: “Scarface: passive object.” You wrote it down too.

“Mr. Wesker,” Crane said with soft professionalism. “I need to ask you a few questions. Just answer them, alright?”

Arnold lowered his head. His eyelids trembled, his voice came in a thin tone. “Of course, doctor. Scarface will be here too, but... don’t worry.”

Scarface didn’t move. But you could feel the tremor beneath your fingernails.

“Your name?”

“Arnold Wesker.”

“Your age?”

“Sixty-two.”

“When did you first start talking to the puppet?”

“...I don’t remember exactly.”

You were writing. The words were trembling. Your eyes were glued to the notebook, but your nose… your nose was still filled with that indescribable scent Crane wore. Something spinning slowly in your chest, blurring your stomach, yet lifting a veil inside your mind. Like thin splinters starting to circulate in your bloodstream.

Crane glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He noticed the breath between your lips as you wrote. The trembling of your lashes… even if you didn’t, he noticed.

“How would you describe your relationship with Scarface?”

“He’s my… protector. My brain. Sometimes my heart. He speaks for me.”

“Does he threaten in your place?”

“Not a threat…”

At that moment, Arnold’s voice faltered. He looked at the puppet.

“He only... tells the truth.”

Then you heard a sound.

The sound of wood scraping.

Did the puppet move?

No, that wasn’t possible. You were just tense. Maybe afraid. But no… it moved.

Your eyes briefly locked on Scarface’s tiny fingers. His nails… were they always that long?

Crane continued asking:

“Is Scarface here right now?”

Arnold didn’t respond. But Scarface’s head suddenly turned a few degrees to the side.

YOU SAW IT.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heartbeat started pounding against the walls of your chest. Your fingers dug into the edge of the notebook. Jonathan turned his head for a moment — but by then, Scarface was still.

He had moved only for you.

Crane fixed his eyes on you behind his glasses.

“Y/N?”

His voice was calm. But at the edge of his smile, there was something he knew.

You tried to steady your breath.

“It’s nothing… just... a reflection, I think.”

But even as you lied, your lips trembled. And he noticed.

Crane’s mind:

The antidote had worked.

The dose: small.

Delivery method: diffusion from skin surface to respiratory area.

Y/N did not “resist.” Did not fight.

But she saw.

She reacted.

Initiation complete.

Your breath spilled from your chest and clung to your collar. You could hear your heartbeat; it didn’t even feel like your own anymore. There were still echoes deep within your mind. Was it Scarface’s voice? Your father’s? Or… your own inner voice? You didn’t know. “You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N…” kept circling in the folds of your brain, as if repeated by a nailed, wooden tongue.

But when Crane’s fingers were beneath your chin… you found some calm. He was touching you so slowly, so carefully—you couldn’t tell if it was to avoid frightening you, or to prolong his own pleasure. His thumb tilted your chin upward. Your eyes locked with his. A blue emptiness watching from behind glass. But it wasn’t empty inside.

“Just a little longer, Y/N,” he said in a low voice. Meanwhile, Arnold Wesker had lowered his eyes, looking away with an ashamed expression. Unlike Scarface, he was timid, in a passive role.

Dr. Crane continued his therapy with Wesker. Your eyes had welled up with tears, but you hadn’t cried. Maybe out of fear, maybe to keep control. But more so… because you didn’t want to appear weak in front of him.

“I… I heard him. It was my father’s voice,” you thought. “The puppet was speaking. The eyes—THE EYES were looking at me. Just like his.”

You were supposed to be taking notes on Arnold Wesker’s statements, but you were lost in thought.

“I’m still there. I still hear his voice.”

Reality… was like the jagged edges of a shattered mirror. With every step, you felt like you were stepping on another shard. Your hands were still trembling; you threw the notebook between your fingers onto the metal table. Wesker flinched. He seemed to seek comfort from Scarface, as if hoping for protection.

You stood up, feeling that you had to stop there. Even the creak of the chair was like a whisper: “Run, run, run.”

Dr. Crane grabbed your wrist and called your name. But you didn’t hear him. When you looked at him —and at the puppet— you saw its sinister gaze, and heard your father’s voice.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N.”

“You should’ve obeyed me…”

“Now we’ll hollow you out, turn you into wood…”

That puppet… it was speaking with his voice. Your father’s. And you had seen its mouth move. At least you thought you had.

Just as you stepped forward, the world seemed to turn upside down. But where was the door? It felt like falling into a void. Your foot slipped. A scream rose from your chest and caught in your throat. Marble veins curled in your vision, and above, puppets seemed to hang from the walls, watching you. Puppets… no. Scarface. And his voice…

You tried to find the door, but your feet dragged you. Your knees were shaking. You spun around in panic. Your fingers slid along the walls, then found the cold metal surface of the door. You were out of breath. Your chest heaved, but breathing felt like anything *but* breathing.

At last, when you reached the door and turned the handle, you threw yourself out without knowing what you were doing. You started to run. You had to go upstairs. The stairs would save you. You wanted to get away—but you reached the landing’s railing. You took one last step and lost your balance. Your foot stepped into nothing. You were about to fall. But you didn’t.

Because a pair of arms caught you. Jonathan Crane.

His fingers pulled you to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist. He anchored you in the curve between your hip and his torso. His chest was warm. But those eyes. That familiar gray, dead calm was still there. But this time… something else too. Maybe a flicker of panic. Maybe attentiveness. Your hands were clenched on his coat, nails digging in so tight they nearly tore the fabric.

“Y/N,” he whispered.

He held you like that. His fingers still at your waist. You felt his breath on the side of your neck. His lips weren’t touching your skin, but your body absorbed his presence. As the hallucinations in your mind slowly receded, something else started to take their place. Something darker. Something more personal.

“Hey… make eye contact with me. Breathe.”

His voice was low. Barely a whisper. When it brushed past your ear, it sank into your mind like a splinter. You didn’t want to pull your nails from the fabric. For a moment, you allowed that false sense of salvation to completely envelop you. As you pressed closer to his chest, you didn’t hear his heartbeat, but the mechanical silence within him. Crane’s heart didn’t speak to the outside world.

“You need to calm down,” he said. Then, a sharp pain echoed in your arm, piercing through the fabric of his white coat. The tip of a needle entered and left just as quickly, stinging as it went. Then you felt his lips just above your ear.

“You’ll be fine soon.”

You tried to regain your breath. Your entire body was beginning to relax. Now your body was slowly surrendering to Dr. Crane’s arms.

“What’s happening to me, doctor?”

Dr. Crane tilted his head slightly to the side. As if observing a lab rat.

“I gave you an injection to calm you,” he said. “You’ll feel better soon.”

He placed one hand on your back, the other beneath your knees. He held you tighter. His fingers seemed to feel your skin. He pressed you against his chest. Your heart was pounding wildly. His was silent, but it was there. Like a metronome, arriving long after yours, measured and steady.

Suddenly the floor slipped from beneath you; you felt a sense of falling. Your eyes blurred. Something cold licked at you.

Dr. Harleen Quinzel was the first to reach you after hearing the noise. The heels of her shoes echoed with a metallic ring. Her brows were furrowed, anxiety all over her face, but when she saw the scene, you in Crane’s arms, something stuck in her throat.

“Jonathan… what happened to her?”

Crane didn’t turn his head, still holding you, as he replied.

His voice was frozen in its usual calm:

“She had a traumatic reaction during the Arnold Wesker session. A deep neurovegetative response… possibly an acute dissociative seizure. She’ll need to be kept under observation.”

Harleen was still inspecting you.

“Just now? What did you say to her?”

Crane turned his eyes to Harleen.

“She trusts me. She left the room in a panic. I was the first to reach her.”

He paused. Then turned his whole body toward Harleen.

“I’ll take her myself.”

There was a flicker of suspicion in Harleen’s eyes. But then she helped with her hands.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” she said briefly.

“No need,” said Crane, a faint smile forming on his lips. “I can take care of her.”

He was carrying you… but this wasn’t just a physical burden. At that moment, he was dissecting you in his mind into a thousand pieces, memorizing every detail, your fluttering eyelids, your racing pulse, the dryness of your lips. As if you were his most special experiment. But he didn’t call it an experiment. To him… it was passion. Desire mixed with science. And more than anything, this was the first step in transforming you.

Dr. Jonathan Crane’s car moved silently through Gotham’s narrow, fog-laced streets. Sitting behind the wheel, Crane gripped it with his usual precision, his attention shifting occasionally to you in the passenger seat. Your eyes were half-lidded, your breaths short and irregular. Your skin, under the pale light of the moon, looked like cold marble. You had leaned your head against the seat, but your body hadn’t relaxed. Fear still echoed in your bones. And that scent — it still clung to you. Sweet, chemical, warm… It was Jonathan’s.

At that very moment, a muffled vibration came from inside the bag. Then a melody echoed—like a warning stubbornly ringing out against time. Crane’s brows furrowed.

“What now?” he muttered to himself, in a low tone that slipped almost through clenched teeth. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached back — his fingers moved through the contents of the bag with surgical precision, not slowing down for even a second. At last, he found the phone screen. The incoming call was clear and jarring.

Bruce Wayne is calling.

Crane stared at the screen for a few seconds. The muscle in his jaw twitched slightly. Then, with a click, he answered.

“Yes?” he said, his voice distant, but wrapped in carefully composed professionalism.

Bruce’s voice came through immediately. There was a tension in his tone, as if racing against time.

“Crane? Why isn’t Y/N getting back to me? I’ve been calling, she’s not answering. What’s going on?”

Jonathan kept his eyes on the road as he spoke, his voice now a little softer, but filled with a cold, veiled game of hide and seek.

“Mr. Wayne. At the moment… Y/N is in a rather delicate condition. She had a minor episode during Arnold Wesker’s intake. She must’ve been affected, early childhood traumas might have been triggered.”

“What do you mean, an episode?” Bruce’s voice rose an octave. “Where are you right now? How is she?”

“We’re not at Arkham,” Jonathan replied, still as calm as ever. “She’s under my supervision. I’m driving. I’m taking her to my residence.”

“No. No, no. Bring her to my house,” Bruce said, his voice now trembling with barely contained anger. “Wayne Manor. She should stay there. We can provide the best care for her here.”

Crane exhaled quietly behind the wheel. His fingers gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. His eyes flicked briefly to you.

The veins in your neck were visible, your skin seemed cloaked in the very image of fear. And even in your unconscious state… you were his. At least for now.

“Yes… of course,” Jonathan said. “If you think that’s best, I’ll take her to Wayne Manor. She’s stable. But there might be memory fractures… it’s better if she isn’t left alone for a while.”

“Thank you, Crane. Really. I appreciate your help.”

Bruce’s voice had softened slightly, though concern still lingered. The call ended.

Jonathan drove in silence for a few more seconds. He let out a quiet breath through his teeth.

“Of course,” he said to himself. “Of course you’ll take her… Wayne. You always do, don’t you?”

He slowly turned his head and looked at you again. Reaching out, he gently brushed the strands of hair away from your cheek — a delicate but calculated motion.

“You see,” he whispered in a low voice, “Even when you’re under my control, they still can’t stop wanting you.”

As the car rolled toward Wayne Manor, everything inside you swelled quietly.

You murmured something in a low voice. It sounded like it echoed right next to your ear:

“…not a puppet… I… I’m not a puppet…”

Your voice cracked, lips dry. Your mouth seemed to struggle with every word, as if language itself was trying to abandon you.

Jonathan glanced at you from the corner of his eye. Your pupils were dilated, your face pale yet delicate, like porcelain on the verge of shattering.

The liquid form of his Fear Toxin didn’t induce panic directly. It brought you to the brink, then blurred the line between the conscious and the subconscious. Its effects weren’t fleeting. They left marks. Especially on a target caught in an emotional void with enough resistance to struggle...

You were such a target.

“I’m not a puppet…”

You whispered it again, barely audible, but Jonathan heard. He smiled. Still in control of the wheel, but his true focus was now entirely on you.

To himself, barely a whisper:

“I didn’t say that to her. Not yet.”

Good… That meant this fear came from within. That this fracture belonged not just to Arnold Wesker… but to a deeper past.

When he stopped at a red light, he leaned over to adjust your seatbelt. His hand brushed your back, and you shivered slightly, but couldn’t react.

“Don’t be afraid…” he murmured. His voice was calm, like someone who hadn’t slept in years. “You’re not a puppet. Not anymore. No one’s going to pull your strings again.”

The irony in his words belonged only to him. Because he had already taken hold of your strings.

One hand moved to the back of your head. His fingers slid through your hair as he gently tilted it back. You had squinted, but Crane had already brought his nose close to your neck. He was breathing you in, imprinting you into memory. His breath moved along your nape like a wandering perfume. Then he whispered:

“This version of you is so... docile. Do you know how beautiful you become when you stop fighting?”

His words carried a corrupted desire. In his tone was a blend of affection and admiration, dangerous, impure, and unstoppable.

By the time they reached Wayne Manor and parked, you were somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. You thought you heard your father’s voice. But this time… it was the puppet that spoke it.

“You should’ve been a puppet, Y/N… you should’ve obeyed me…”

Your eyes filled with tears. They didn’t fall. They simply stayed there, frozen.

Jonathan saw them. He noticed your tears but said nothing.

He simply unfastened your belt and slipped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. Your head rested against his chest. His fingers roamed your nape, his touch soft like a caress, but beneath it, there was still control.

“I won’t be one of your puppets…” you whispered, your eyelids falling.

Jonathan didn’t reply. But the familiar curl at the corner of his lips was there as he held you in his arms.

Another plan had worked. And you, gently, weren’t falling into his mind... You were falling into the space he had made for you inside it.

The doors closed silently. Even Alfred’s footsteps outside couldn’t reach into this room; this wing of Wayne Manor was a refuge Bruce had hidden even from his own past. The dim, yellow lights turned the paintings on the walls into hazy dreams. The bedside lamp cast its pale glow on your sweaty forehead, highlighting the dull shadow of your face.

Under the blanket, your legs were sprawled to one side. Your arms still bore the marks of tension, your fingertips stiffened, nails dug into your palms. The warm, pale hue of your skin, filtered through fear, burned something deep within Bruce.

He was sitting beside you, at the foot of the bed. He had already taken off his jacket, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. His palms seemed to merge with your hands, as if he could protect you with his touch, as if he could erase the past and rewrite it anew.

His eyes were watching you. Your breathing was steady but deep, each breath a sign your body was still at war. The fine line beside your nose, even in sleep, was proof that fear lingered on your face.

Bruce quietly took a cloth and dabbed your forehead. The movement was gentle, but carried the weight of guilt. He knew you so well... Those puppets left by your father, the lifeless figures with red wigs around your house — you had told him everything, sobbing in his lap at the age of fifteen.

“The puppets are watching me, Bruce,” you had said. That day he had promised:

“None of them will ever watch you again.”

But he hadn’t protected you enough. Now, seeing you like this, that old, guilt-filled silence settled once again in his eyes.

You stirred slowly. Your eyelids trembled. A faint murmur escaped your lips, your breath quickened briefly.

“Y/N?” Bruce whispered, leaning in. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Your eyes opened slightly. A few seconds of blurriness… then the room began to take shape. Your gaze slowly focused on Bruce’s eyes. There was a moment of hesitation, as if you didn’t recognize him at first, then you leaned toward the edge of the pillow.

Bruce lowered his head, brought his face closer.

“Don’t be afraid. You’re here now. It’s all over.”

You turned your head slightly to the side. Your lips moved. In a voice barely above a whisper:

“…Crane… Dr. Crane…”

Bruce’s face tightened immediately. It wasn’t just jealousy — nor was it pure anger. His face bore the weight of pain. His eyes, for a moment, were not on you, but on a silhouette imagined on the wall. Maybe he was pinning Dr. Crane to it. Or maybe, it was the weight of being unable to stop you from feeling safe with him.

But he recovered quickly. Tried to smile.

“He’s not here. And he doesn’t need to be. You’re under my care now.”

You, a little embarrassed, buried your face into your arm. Yet even in that embarrassment, you clung to the softness in his voice. Just like you did when you were a child.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a hoarse voice. “It’s just… in that moment… he was the only one there.”

Bruce nodded. He reached out, slipping his fingers into your hair, moving them gently to soothe you.

“I know. In fear, the person you reach for isn’t always chosen by reason. But… I won’t let go of you. Not ever.”

You slowly lifted your head. Searched his eyes with your gaze. Eyes that had once adopted you as family, but now, something else shimmered in their depths. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You were drunk on his tenderness. You felt safe. Bruce Wayne loved you. Truly loved you. But there was something inside… something you couldn’t quite define.

Bruce looked closely at your face. With his thumb, he brushed one side gently.

“I wish…” he began, then stopped. Held his breath.

“Wish what?”

He looked away. His jaw tensed slightly.

“I wish none of this had happened… Then some things could’ve been so different.”

A silence fell between you.

He pulled you close, helping you sit up. And within himself, he silenced a thousand words.

You had begun to hear the beating of his heart. Right where your head rested, just below his chest, was that rhythm. Silent, yet strong... perhaps the only safe rhythm in the world. His arm wrapped around you like a blanket, not just enveloping you, but your past as well.

Bruce ran his hands gently through your hair. Each breath he drew seemed to burn inside his lungs, as if seeing you like this scorched him from the inside. But his voice... still steady. Still in control. Only you could sense the break in it, only you.

He placed a hand on your forehead. Wiped the sweat away, then reached for a damp cloth from the tray beside him. As if you were trembling, he pulled the blanket up to your shoulders. Then he noticed something, your lips were silently moving with a fragmented sentence:

“I… I’m not a puppet…”

Bruce's eyes widened at the whisper. He took your hand and pressed his thumb gently to your wrist. Checked your pulse. Then looked at your face.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice softer now. “You own your mind. No one can control you. Not your father… not him…” — he didn’t finish the sentence. He refused to say Dr. Crane’s name. He didn’t want that name to echo through the walls of this room.

But he knew. He knew everything.

Ten years ago. A gray sky, a closed-off Gotham morning. The rain had just stopped. Inside the dark-tinted car, Bruce had seen you for the first time in a case file. The photo was small, but your gaze was immense. You held a wooden puppet in your hand. Through the soaked strands of your hair, something in your eyes looked straight through, and it wasn’t the look of a child. Maybe you were just one of thousands of children who had forgotten how to be young in this city… but there was something in your eyes: “I don’t want to be saved. I just want someone to come.”

That gaze had broken Bruce. He had pulled you out of all that darkness and brought you here. Not to give you shelter, but to give you a new foundation, a home that could protect you.

You were beginning to come to. “Bruce…” you whispered.

Bruce immediately leaned down.

“I’m here. You’re safe now.”

He took your hand. This time, tightly. As if you might slip away between his fingers.

“My father… I saw him… he was going to turn me into wood…”

Bruce’s throat tightened. His eyes welled with tears, but he didn’t cry. A Wayne didn’t cry, but inside, a part of him broke every time he couldn’t protect you.

“No,” he said firmly. “No one can touch you now. I’m here. I’ll stay with you all night if you want. I’ll breathe in time with you. I won’t leave you.”

Then he leaned in slightly, gently pulled you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest again. You, like a child; he, like a father. But underneath it all, something else stirred. Something buried, suppressed, locked in chains.

Love.

But a forbidden love.

While tending to your wounds, he had realized he loved you. While trying to protect you, he wanted to belong to you.

He was angry with himself. Angry for the way he looked at you, not like a girl, but like a woman who made him feel something uncontainable. But he couldn’t let go of you either. He couldn’t allow it. Because if he let go, he’d never get back that girl with the haunted eyes. So he didn’t let go. That’s why, when someone like Crane got close to you, it crushed him.

And you felt it. His heartbeat, close to your skin, had quickened. You noticed. For one moment, your eyes met. Bruce looked away. But he didn’t let go of your hand.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. If I have to… I’ll shield you with my own darkness.”

And he was there. Without ever leaving. Sitting beside you through the entire night. He placed two pillows behind your back, tilted your head gently so you could breathe easier. Pulled the thin blanket up to your shoulders, wiped the sweat from your forehead with a soft cloth again and again. Checked your temperature by pressing his fingers to your temple, counted your pulse. Each time he touched you, it was like he was handling delicate glass. One hand on his own knee, the other wrapped around yours. And when your fingers twitched from time to time, like rejecting something, perhaps the dreams, or the bottomless pits of memory, he stayed, always calling you back.

He placed his hand on your forehead again. Your fever had slightly lowered. You took a deep breath. Your lips parted:

“Don’t go…”

That word shattered every wall inside him. Bruce heard that sentence from a different place in his heart. Don’t go… because now you needed him.

And he wouldn’t go.

He lay beside you slowly, but didn’t touch you. Rested his head near your shoulder. From over the blanket, he reached for your hand again. Closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. He just listened. To your breathing. To the rhythm of your heart. To the occasional murmurs of unrest. And once again, he faced the darkness inside himself.

He held you like a father, but couldn’t let go of you like a man.

By dawn, when the sun began to filter through the gray curtains, Bruce was still there. You squeezed his hand. This time, you were aware. You knew he hadn’t left you. You knew he had stayed through the night.

And in that moment, Bruce said to himself:

“When you wake up, I’ll lie again. I’ll say I only care about you. Not that I love you. Not that I’m terrified of losing you. But still… with just one look, you’ll know everything.”

102 notes · View notes

kkoga · 4 months ago

Text

10:36, huh yunjin x fem!reader

A valentine special collab with @ceeaann!!

Warning ! Foul words, ghosting

Disclaimer ! Every person is not an accurate portrayal of themselves. Everything written here is pure fiction. Mentions of Manon x fem!reader

Synopsis ! After Yunjin suddenly disappears, you find out she has been practicing with Source Music for the past few months, and that she had gotten into the debuting lineup of Le sserafim. Normally, you would have been proud, shouting out to the rooftops about your girlfriends debut. But you couldn't, you wouldn't.

Collab masterlist !

WC — 2.67k

Credits to @cafekitsune for the divider!!

The whole Dream Academy contestants were excited. You all were going to shoot a tiktok video in Le sserafim’s very own practice room! But you? You weren’t as ecstatic as the others. It hurt you just thinking about it. You couldn’t bear the pain, so you just shoved it down your throat.

‘’I just gotta get through this. It’s just a tiktok challenge. In and out.’’ You tried convincing yourself, but your gut told you something bad was going to happen.

You all entered the elevator, as you tried your best to manage your expression in front of the camera. Daniela felt as though your vibes were a bit off, looking at you with a slightly worried expression. You had noticed, and told her you were alright with a smile. The Latina smiled back, hoping you truly were.

All of the Dream Academy contestants, as well as you, were now standing in front of Le sserafim’s practice room. Your stomach churned, as you bit your lip to prevent your expression from going sour.

As the bulk of you all entered, you were greeted with cameras, and a camera man holding a phone. You guessed they were probably the person filming the tiktok for you all. But they were dressed in all black, a cap and mask hiding their identity. Maybe it was to keep their privacy because this was a documentation? You weren’t sure.

After some practice rounds, you all got ready for the actual filming. The performance was perfect. As perfect as it could get. And as the rest of the contestants had finished their parts, the camera man had suddenly taken off their mask and cap.

Screams erupted from around you— after The Kim Chaewon had suddenly appeared. Your face dropped… there was no way this was happening right now. You weren’t ready.

The other Le sserafim members entered their practice room, and the contestants' yells were louder— if that was even possible.

And there she stood, the person who used to be the light of your life. A radiant smile on her face, contrasting the obvious scowl on yours.

After a split second, you remembered the cameras were still rolling. So you had carefully managed your expression.

All Le sserafim members greeted the contestants, and as Yunjin’s eyes fell on you, it felt as though the whole world had stopped. Like it was just the two of you, right here, right now.

Your breath hitched. It’s been two years. Two years since this malevolent asshole had left you— not telling you anything. You had to find out through her fucking debut.

Maybe if she had told you normally— had a talk with you, then maybe you both would have been fine. You were proud of her, yes, but utterly disappointed at the way she had dumped you.

It’s been three days since you’ve gotten a text from Yunjin. The worry on your face was evident, and your friends have started to grow concerned too. You tried contacting her family— but they said they didn’t know where she was either.

You bought it for the past two days, but three days? No, you weren’t that stupid. The only other time something like this had happened was during PD48— when she joined that damned survival show and left you in the dark about it.

She only contacted you after she had gotten eliminated. You were pissed. Your relationship was on the verge of ending— but for some reason, the girl had somehow managed to convince you to stay.

You swore, if this bitch was doing it again, then you were going to find every damn way to make her life hell. You were on your bed, trying to find any leads. When your phone suddenly started ringing.

You answered, and it was your friend.

‘’Y/n?! Oh my God, have you heard?’’ He told you to check Hybe’s youtube, and you knew what you were about to face.

And there it was. Her fucking trailer for the group named ‘’Le sserafim’’. It felt like a slap to your face— especially after giving her another chance. Was she being serious right now? The audacity to not tell you once more, irritated you beyond reason. The past few months made sense now. The constant ‘’I need to go.’’ On your dates? The way she appeared to be really busy even though she didn’t go to college?

Yunjin had been training these past few months. And you had to find out through this.

If that’s how she wants to play, then that’s how it’s gonna be.

You began to throw everything that reminded you of her into a box, and once you had finished, you threw it right out your door. You didn’t care who the hell would pick it up. As long as it was all gone. Just like she had wanted.

You were on the verge of tears. This was your first time seeing her in so long. Aside from constant news of her group's success and whatnot, you haven’t actually looked her in the eye.

A pained expression flashed on both your faces, before masking it with fake smiles. In the midst of all this, Manon noticed your silence. She thought you’d be shouting out of happiness, considering how passionate you were about Kpop and everything. Much to her surprise, you just stood there, looking all frozen up.

As you were all greeting each other, Yunjin suddenly said she had remembered all your names. That means she knew you were in the competition.

‘’Sophia and…’’ You were last. She looked at you with a smile like there was no history between the two of you. It hurt. Hurt so bad. Good God, playing Huh Yunjin’s games was always annoying— hurtful.

Everything about Yunjin hurts.

‘’Y/n. Am I right?’’ Everyone including you yelled, happy and excited. Nobody except Yunjin knew you were faking it.

After the producers had you all perform in front of Le sserafim, and talk with Bang Si-hyuk, you all started walking towards the elevator. You managed to stay calm and keep a single tear from falling.

The producers and Missy trusted you all to make your own way down, since each of you had different plans for today. Yunjin could then be seen, running through the halls, towards you.

‘’Wait!’’ All DA contestants turned their heads, and find Yunjin out of breath.

‘’Y/n..’’ Everyone looked between you and Yunjin and instantly noticed the strong tension.

You sighed— you didn’t want to deal with this, to deal with her.

You simply looked at the girl, and said, ‘’No.’’

You coldly turned away, but Yunjin grabbed your wrist. You winced, not expecting her to do so.

‘’Don’t do this…’’ You stared at each other's eyes, and she silently pleaded to you. This was beyond embarrassing. She seriously couldn’t contain herself? She just had to do this in front of everyone?

After noticing your discomfort, Manon pried her hands away from yours.

‘’I’m so sorry, but she said no. Please don’t grab my friend's hand like that all of a sudden.’’ Yunjin was gagged, and looked around her. She bowed her head to say sorry, and gave you a piece of paper.

‘’Please, call me.’’ She walked away, and you scoffed, bewildered with her behaviour.

Everyone looked at you, curiosity in their eyes. You rolled yours, and gave their stares a response.

“Later. When we get home.’’

The van was filled with quiet chatter, but you weren’t part of it. You sat by the window, forehead resting against the cool glass, trying to steady your breathing. The encounter with Yunjin had left you shaken, and no matter how much you tried to push it down, the weight of it lingered.

Manon, sitting beside you, had noticed.

“You’ve been weird since we left,” she said, her voice low enough that the others wouldn’t overhear. “What’s going on?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening into fists. “Nothing.”

Manon scoffed. “Liar. That wasn’t just ‘nothing’ back there with Yunjin. What the hell happened between you two?”

Your jaw clenched. You weren’t sure you wanted to explain. Not here. Not when the memories were clawing their way back to the surface, raw and suffocating. But Manon wasn’t one to drop things easily. Her concerned gaze was unwavering.

“You’re shaking,” she pointed out softly, taking your free hand and rubbing slow circles against your palm. “I don’t know what she did, but… I’m here, okay?”

You exhaled sharply, feeling the burn behind your eyes. “She ghosted me. She’s done it before— during PD48. We almost broke up.. I mean technically we did, but she talked me into getting back with her. She promised me never again… And then all of a sudden, two years ago, she disappeared.’’

A silence enveloped the area around the two of you. The chatter of your fellow contestants suddenly thinning itself out.

“I had to hear from a friend. I had to hear from the fucking HYBE youtube channel.’’

Manon’s brows furrowed. “And now she suddenly wants to talk?”

You laughed bitterly. “Apparently.”

She let out a low whistle, shaking her head. “That’s fucked up.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, staring at your hands like they might start trembling again. “And the worst part? She looked at me like—like she missed me.”

Manon squeezed your hand a little tighter. “And do you miss her?”

You didn’t answer right away. You weren’t sure what the answer even was.

“Look,” she continued, voice softer, “you don’t owe her anything. She hurt you. And if she wants back in your life, that’s on your terms, not hers.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of everything pressing down on you. You wanted to believe that. That you had control. That you weren’t still stuck in the past, holding onto something that had already crumbled.

But Yunjin had opened the wound all over again. And now, you weren’t sure how to stop the bleeding.

It’s been three weeks since you met Yunjin. You were thankful for Manon. She’s been with you since you had joined Dream Academy— the two of you joining within the same week.

You were chilling on the top bunk of you and Manon’s bunk bed, when Sophia had called your name. You took your headphones off, getting off from your bed with a confused face.

‘’Yes! Be right there!’ You hurried down as fast as you could, almost slipping on Manon’s left slipper.

As you entered the living room, there you saw Sophia, Ezrela, Daniela, and Yunjin.

Your neutral—happy expression dropped, a pained look beginning to paint your face.

Yunjin spoke before you could shoo the Korean away.

‘’Please. Hear me out.’’ The girl made her move, stepping closer to you. You stepped back before responding.

‘’I told you Yunjin, no. Get the fuck out of my dorm.’’ The girl very obviously did not get the hint, and it was starting to concern the other contestants.

‘’Just let me explain what—’’

‘’I said no Huh Yunjin! You don’t get the right to do so! You were the one who left me— so you should just save your fucking reputation and leave.’’

By now, the other girls had gotten the hint about what was happening, and just as they were about to step in to help, Yunjin got on her knees.

‘’Let me explain. That’s all I’m asking for, please.’’ You felt so conflicted, you didn’t know what to do. This all felt so overwhelming, you didn’t want to repeat the same mistake you made all those years ago.

‘’Baby please— I couldn’t— it wasn’t my choice. Please you have to understand—’’ You slapped her, hot tears streaming down your face. You hated her. The audacity to show up at your house, after ghosting you, leaving you in the dark about her audition and acceptance to the survival show called PD48. Now here she was, at your door, after getting eliminated three months into it. She made it far, you were proud, but you could never forget the way she left you— especially because the wound was still painfully flesh.

Your hand was shaking. You can’t believe you just slapped Yunjin. You two have never physically harmed each other in any way possible. But you believed the emotional and mental pain she had caused you within these past three months felt worse.

‘’You don’t get to call me baby. Just— just stop.’’

The girl persisted, and hugged you, caressing your back as you tried to pull away.

‘’I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry.’’ She whispered into your ear, and eventually you gave up.

The two of you talked that night, and the Korean had coaxed you into staying with her.

‘’Not again. Never again. Just stop.’’

‘’For closure. Please, Y/n.’’ It hurt you seeing her on her knees like this, so you came to a conclusion.

‘’I said no! Huh Yunjin, I hate you. I hate you as much as I used to love you. Don’t come into my place and think you can get away with it again. I will not and will never open my heart to you the same way I did all those years ago. You broke what we had Yunjin, so don’t start begging on me now.’’ Angry tears were flowing on your face, the other DA contestants that were currently home were with you now. Daniela held you and shielded you away from Yunjin, and they all asked her to get out.

Finally, after much pushing she saw herself out, but not before mumbling a short ‘’I’m sorry.’’

Everyone looked at you— concern on their faces. You took your phone out of your pocket and called Manon. The girl picked up after a couple rings, and heard you sob.

‘’Y/n? Are you crying? Where are you right now?’’ You gave your phone to Daniela, and walked to your room. Daniela got the signal.

‘’Manon? It’s Dani now. She gave me her phone— she’s at home. Yunjin visited.’’ The last two words made Manon enter her fight or flight mode, and Ghanian booked it home.

The door swung loudly with a bang, indicating Manon’s arrival. Daniela signalled you were in your room, and Manon ran there as fast as she could.

As she opened the door to your room, she saw you there, on the bottom bunk of the bed, her bunk. You were sobbing, your knees to your chest, hands covering your eyes.

Manon knocked on the already open door, as if telling you she had arrived. The Ghanaian closed the door shortly after knocking.

The girl sat in front of you, the bed dipping as soon as she did. She held your arms, silently asking you to remove them from your face. You obeyed, looking at her with red, and burdened eyes.

Manon frowned, and pulled you into a hug.

‘’Shh.. It’s okay now.. I’m here..’’ The girl mumbled comforting phrases to you, as you cried into her brand new shirt. But you didn’t care, because you knew she wouldn’t either.

‘’I— I don’t know what to do. A part of me wants to give her a chance, let her explain. But I don’t want to make the same mistake. I just— it’s too much.’’ The Ghanaian pulled away, cupping your cheeks with her hands.

‘’Hey. I already told you— you don’t owe her anything. Your answer doesn’t have to be now. How about we just cuddle and forget about it for a while. Think about it when you know you can handle it, yeah?’’ It sounded like a great— no, amazing idea.

‘’..Okay.’’ The two of you moved into a comfortable position, with you on top of Manon’s side. You cuddled into her, inhaling her lavender scented perfume.

For some reason, Manon just knew how to calm you down. And you were eternally thankful to the girl.

After a dozen minutes, you had eventually drifted into dreamland. The last thing you remember feeling was Manon’s hand pulling you closer to her, as she hummed a calm melody.

#kkoga #katseye #katseye x female reader #katseye x reader #manon #huh yunjin #jennifer huh #le sserafim yunjin #yunjin #le sserafim #le sserafim x fem reader #le sserafim x reader #yunjin x reader #manon x reader #collaboration #kpop imagines #angst #comfort

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baddybaddyadardaddy · 9 months ago

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Okay, I'm going to make a wild prediction about Adar and Galadriel in Episode 8, so strap in.

An overarching the/major motif of the Rings of Power from the very first episode has been, obviously, the interplay between darkness/light.

"To find the light, we must first touch the darkness." / "Before light, darkness must flee, etc."

Adar and Galadriel together are a manifestation of that duality between light and dark and accordingly, I think there's a compelling case for them to team up against Sauron at the end of Season 2.

Here's my attempt at this argument:

PARALLELS BETWEEN ADAR AND GALADRIEL

The show has established a few strong visual parallels between the two of them.

Mourning ritual. Galadriel mourning for Finrod in S1Ep1 is echoed by Adar's mourning of the Uruks in S2Ep7. They even mirror the single tear.

What's more, Galadriel bears WITNESS to Adar's funeral ritual, enforcing the connection of this moment.

Seed planting. Frankly, my jaw hit the floor when S2Ep2 had Galadriel planting seeds in the memorial garden in Lindon, because the shots/framing were almost IDENTICAL to the seed planting Adar does at the beginning of S1Ep6. The sentiments of both instances are the same "life over death," though the words do differ.

Flip sides of the same coin/mirror to one another. The show has also presented us with many instances where they function as mirrors to one another. If not signficant, why do?

Barn scene. The barn scene in S1Ep6 is a PRIME example, when Adar literally calls Galadriel out for the hypocrisy of her hatred of the orcs.

The dinner scene. Adar once again holds up a mirror to Galadriel, pushing back against her notion that "you yielded to him. I resisted." Then they have the shared acknowledgement that without Sauron, the world seems a "dull grey" (GREY, interestingly, a halfway point between dark and light). Adar's face in response to her admission will live rent-free in my mind forever-- it's like he's been SEEN for the first time in his life.

So while Galadriel sees herself as a warrior of light, and views Adar as a creature of darkness, the show does a pretty superb job of showing that both of these characters have light and dark within them in equal measure.

They were both tempted by Sauron and succumbed.

So there is a clear, thematic link between these two from that standpoint.

ADAR'S JOURNEY TOWARD THE LIGHT

Next, I think it is clear Adar on a path toward light/redemption as an elf, and it tracks in a VERY LITERAL SENSE.

First time we see Adar, he is bathed in an angelic light. As he performs the funeral ritual for Magrot, light streams into the Uruk tent.

The shot at the end of S2 Ep1, when the camera lingers on Adar as Gil-Galad's call to the Eldalie commences. Adar feels the undeniable call to his elven past. That camera shot was NOT A COINCIDENCE, and I'm FOREVER FERAL ABOUT IT.

Cavalry charge at the siege of Eregion. Adar is OBVIOUSLY backlit:

There is a dividing line between light and shadow an Adar is RIGHT on the border of it.

When he steps up to take possession of Nenya, the sky behind him is split between a darker side and a lighter side. (You can argue that it's a CREEPY light, but it's still light. There is almost no all-black coloring on him in that second frame when he actually has the ring. For a character that's been head to toe in black the entire series, this is Significant.)

So where does that leave us for the big Sauron smackdown?

My first wild prediction: In an INSANE reversal, Galadriel will be the one to bring Morgoth's dark crown to the confrontation, while Adar will wield Nenya, a symbol of light.

It's not inconceivable that Gal could have smuggled it out of Adar's camp somehow under her oversized Uruk cloak. And Adar, OBVIOUSLY now possesses Nenya at the end of S2Ep7.

I think the fight between Galadriel and Sauron is ACTUALLY a three-person fight; we just haven't seen Adar in the promos because

1. Obvious plot spoilers and

2. HE WILL BE FIGHTING IN A FAIR FORM BECAUSE NENYA WILL HEAL HIS CORRUPTION.

My second wild prediction: This three-person fight is telegraphed in The Last Temptation. There's a new motif (not musical, so unclear if this is the correct term??) that starts around 1:07. It sounds like an aggressive children's choir. Interspersed, we get some of Gal's themes and Sauron-flavored music. I think this new bit could be either a combined theme for Gal/Adar fighting side by side, OR a new motif for a changed/elven Adar. It's aggressive, which to me tracks with Adar's fighting style that we saw through S2Ep7, and it builds and gets more voices added to it as the song progresses. At one point, it blends perfectly with Gal's theme.

Third wild prediction that I hope I'm wrong about: Adar will likely get fatally stabbed during this fight. I could see him giving Galadriel the ring at a crucial moment, in as a redemptive act, which would forfeit any protection it might have offered him, and I think he'll receive a fatal blow from Sauron, but not before we get a much clearer picture of EXACTLY who Adar is. IF they do it this way, it will be a deeply satisying end to Adar's story arc, IMHO.

Last thoroughly unhinged thing I will leave you with:

Nolwa Mahtar translation (from S1), according to Bear's blog:

Finish the war, the darkness, end this suffering

Impossible to pursue, deep in shadow, follow light

Finish the war, the darkness, end this suffering

Bright warrior against darkness.

Obviously this theme plays a HUGE role in S2. I believe the lyrics are different; we don't know what they say yet.

But I have contended all along that this piece has always applied in some way to BOTH Adar and Galadriel.

Galadriel is the bright warrior standing against Sauron's darkness, yes, that image is obvious.

But Adar, a figure who lived deep in shadow, follows light, ultimately finishing his own war and ending his own suffering.

#adar #galadriel #baddydaddy discourse #rings of power speculation #rings of power spoilers #rings of power meta #i'm probably wrong about this and i don't actually care #just putting my speculation out there

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coffeeshades · 10 months ago

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credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VII

—forever winter

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 6.8k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and covid. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello again, here's the next part!! also here are a few songs i listened to while writing this one: salt in the wound - boygenius, flume - bon iver, the gold - phoebe bridgers, for emma - bon iver, forever winter - taylor swift and calgary - bon iver.

happy reading <3

masterlist!

January 19, 2020

Los Angeles, CA

There have always been two versions of you: the person you once were and the person the world has decided you are. The first is the one who existed long before the spotlight, the one with a bit of adolescent angst, dreams bigger than herself, and a heart still learning to shield itself.

This version was taught by her parents that she was special, but the world hadn’t yet caught on. She was the girl who felt small and out of place, who wrestled with who she was and where she belonged.

And then there’s the second version, the one who stands in the center of magazine covers, on the glossy side of fame. She is everything you once dreamed of becoming—and more. You’ve spent the last decade perfecting her image, carving her out of raw ambition and countless hours under the hot glare of cameras. Her Wikipedia page reads like an epic: awards, accolades, achievements—flawless. She’s a masterpiece.

This side of you is never tired. She never shows frustration. She knows how to angle her face when the camera flashes, to smile when the questions sting, and to cry beautifully when accepting awards. She can gracefully discuss the sexism she’s faced in the industry, yet she knows better than to name names or point fingers.

She always sticks to the narrative.

For the longest time, you hoped you wouldn’t need to split into two people. That the version of yourself from years ago would be good enough for the world. But the divide wasn’t gradual—it was sudden. It happened four years ago, the day your ex decided to make you the centerpiece of a bitter, ugly breakup that splashed across every tabloid in the country. Since then, you’ve been caught between these two identities, juggling the woman you once were with the image the world expects of you.

As you sit in the back seat of the car, your eyes linger on your reflection in the tinted window. Tonight is the SAG Awards, another high-profile event where your public persona will take the lead. You watch yourself in the mirror, a familiar stranger, and wonder: Does anyone truly know you? Do you even know yourself anymore?

“There's a line of press when you get out of the car,” Taylor, your manager, says without looking up from her phone. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“Got it.”

You nod, trying to focus on the task ahead, but your thoughts are far away. You look out the window, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of color. No matter how many of these events you attend, it never gets easier.

The car slows to a stop, the muffled sounds of the crowd growing louder through the windows.

“Why isn’t Daniel here?” Taylor asks, breaking the silence.

“He had to fly back to Enstone,” you reply, a pang of disappointment in your chest. “The season starts soon. He’s prepping.”

Last year was a challenging one for Daniel—his racing season wasn’t what he hoped for, and he’s determined to make up for it this time around. His commitment to his craft mirrors yours in so many ways, but tonight, you wish he was here with you.

“Oh, that’s too bad, babe,” Taylor says, her hand resting on your knee in a gesture of sympathy. “When will he be back?”

“I’m not sure; he didn't say,” you murmur. “Hopefully soon.”

The door opens, and the roar of the crowd hits you like a wave. Flashing cameras, the shouting of photographers, and the glittering red carpet stretch out before you. “Looks like we’re here,” Taylor says, stepping out and extending a hand to help you.

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. It’s always easier with someone by your side, but tonight you’ll have to do this alone. You follow Taylor’s lead, plastering a smile on your face as you step out into the chaos. The cameras flash, posing and waving, but inside, you feel detached—like you’re watching yourself from afar.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally make it inside the venue, your body relaxing slightly as the noise of the red carpet fades behind you. You’re greeted by familiar faces and smiles, but the exhaustion from keeping up appearances lingers.

“I thought I was going to be the coolest person here, but clearly, you've beat me to it.”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts, deep and teasing. You turn and find Pedro standing there, dressed in a sleek silver suit jacket with black pants, his expression warm and playful.

His presence doesn't faze you; you've been filming for the Mandalorian since November last year, seeing each other here and there, not really spending time together between takes, and not acknowledging what happened at the wedding. You didn't hear from him since production stopped mid-December, only to get back on set early January. Although with everything else he's doing, you barely see him there anyway.

“You look amazing,” he says, his eyes lingering on you.

You glance down at your outfit—a sharp, stylish suit you picked for the night. It fits perfectly, giving you an air of confidence even though, inside, you feel anything but. “Thanks,” you say. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Pascal.” You gesture to his getup, offering a kind smile.

Pedro smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I came over to congratulate you.”

"Yeah?"

“The Achievement Award. That's huge.”

You laugh softly, a little self-conscious. “That sounds like an overstatement for someone who’s only 28.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze piercing. Pedro has always been able to see through you in ways that others can’t. You can hide from the world, but not from him.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly, his voice firm.

“Do what?” you ask, but he cuts you off before you can finish.

“Don’t invalidate your accomplishments. You deserve this.”

There’s something in the way he says it—a weight to his words that makes you pause. Part of you wants to argue, to downplay everything like you always do, but his sincerity stops you.

Instead, you nod, offering a small smile.

“Thank you, Pedro,” you say softly. “That means a lot.”

Does it?

He sees right through and holds out his arm, a silent invitation. “Wanna walk in with me?”

For a moment, you hesitate. There’s an unspoken tension between the two of you, a history that neither of you has fully acknowledged. But as your eyes meet, the air shifts. You loop your arm through his, holding onto his bicep as the two of you make your way into the theater together. A camera flash goes off, and you smile. But this time, with Pedro by your side, it feels a little less lonely.

•••

You were sitting at a table when a fellow actor and friend started talking about you on stage. It was surreal, like time had slowed down, and you found yourself lost in thought. You’d been to countless awards shows and accepted more than your share of accolades, but this one felt different. A recognition of not just a role or a single performance, but a lifetime of work—or at least, a decade of it. And you were still young. Too young, part of you thought, for this kind of tribute. Yet here you were, about to be honored in front of your peers, the people who had seen your highs and lows.

The screen flickered to life, and a montage of your work began to play. Scenes from movies that had shaped your career, close-ups of moments that had shaped you. A smile here, a tear there, moments of triumph and vulnerability.

It was oddly like watching your life flash before your eyes—a strange out-of-body experience, as if you were looking back at someone else's journey. The montage moved through the years, capturing not just the characters you played but the changes in you—subtle at first, then more pronounced. The younger you, still full of raw hope and untamed energy, compared to the more seasoned version, who had learned how to navigate the treacherous terrain of fame. It felt like a snapshot of your life in fast-forward, as if you were witnessing your own eulogy.

You breathed in deeply, trying to stay present. It wasn’t the end, you reminded yourself.

The applause was thunderous as the montage ended, and it wasn’t until your name was called that reality snapped back into focus.

You stepped out into the blinding lights, the weight of the moment settling in as you approached the podium. The sea of faces before you blurred slightly in the brightness, but you could make out familiar ones. Peers you respected, younger actors looking up at you with wide eyes, veterans who had paved the way before you. And somewhere out there, you knew Pedro was watching.

With trembling hands, you held the award, the metal cool against your palm. You took a breath, steadying yourself before speaking.

“This is... overwhelming,” you began, chuckling, your voice breaking slightly from the emotion of it all. “I don’t even know where to start. Thank you to everyone who believed in me and to the people who supported me through the ups and downs. This means more than I can put into words.”

You paused, scanning the room, catching sight of Pedro for just a second, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that grounded you.

“When I started this journey, I was just a kid with big dreams and very little understanding of how hard this industry could be,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “But I learned early on that dreams don’t work unless you do. It’s not just about talent—it’s about determination, grit, and pushing through even when everything seems impossible.”

Your eyes drifted toward the younger faces in the audience. “To the younger actors out there, keep going. I know it can feel like the world is telling you no at every turn, like you’re not good enough or that you’ll never make it, but don’t stop dreaming. Don’t stop working. This industry can be brutal, but it can also be beautiful. Find the beauty. Hold onto it. Work for it.”

A wave of applause broke out, but you weren’t finished yet. You felt a pull, a need to say more, something from the heart. Something real.

“And through all of it,” you said, your voice softer now, “keep the people who truly love you close. In this business, it’s easy to get lost in the noise, in the hundreds of things that try to tear you down or make you feel like you’re not enough. But the people who love you for who you are, not what you can give them, are the ones who will keep you grounded. I’ve met some of my forever people in this industry, and for that, I’m grateful. Despite all the bad and all the heartache that comes with this life, it’s those relationships that make it worthwhile.”

Your gaze wandered again, unconsciously searching the crowd for Pedro, and when your eyes met his, something inside you softened. He knew what you were talking about. He knew the weight of those words better than anyone.

“I’m grateful,” you continued, your voice a little more vulnerable now, “because I’ve been able to hold on to those people. Even when things get complicated even when it feels like the world is pushing us apart. You have to fight for those connections. They’re what make this crazy, beautiful life worth living.”

You felt a lump in your throat but pushed through it, finishing with, “So thank you. To the people in my life who have stuck with me through the good and the bad. This is as much yours as it is mine.”

March 5th, 2020

Calgary, Canada

Life after the awards ceremony didn’t feel much different than before. It was still the same relentless rhythm—work, events, travel, more work. The brief moments of peace in between became rare and fleeting, like whispers in the storm of your career. Daniel’s season was supposed to start soon, and though you’d seen him twice after he flew to France for preparations, something between you felt... off. His distance was palpable, but you hadn’t allowed yourself to dwell on it too much. It was easier to stay busy, keep moving, and brush it off as a phase. After all, the both of you were pulled in so many directions—when was the last time anything felt normal?

A quiet dinner in your NYC apartment, one of the few times Daniel managed to swing by in between training sessions. The table was set with takeout boxes instead of a home-cooked meal—neither of you had the energy for anything more.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said softly, watching him as he absentmindedly poked at his food with a fork. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I miss this,” you added.

“Yeah, me too,” Daniel said, but the words were like dust on the air—insubstantial, weightless.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been quiet," you trailed off, unsure of how to breach the distance you felt growing between you.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind with the season coming up. It’s…you know, a lot of pressure.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand on his. “You’re going to be great. You always are.”

He gave you that familiar smile, but it still felt like something was slipping through your fingers.

•••

By March, you had flown to Calgary to shoot a horror-adjacent film. The setting—a desolate cabin in the snow, miles from anywhere—was perfect for the kind of chilling atmosphere the director was aiming for. You’d always loved working with indie directors; their stories had depth, innovation, and a sense of grounded reality that the big-budget productions sometimes lacked. It was a reminder of why you fell in love with acting in the first place.

On set, things moved fast. Between takes, you found a quiet corner of the cabin and pulled out your phone to FaceTime with Taylor. She was mid-ranting when she answered.

“There’s a potential shutdown happening, babe. Something about a virus…COVID, or whatever they’re calling it. Have you heard anything about it?”

You’d heard whispers from the crew, but nothing had been confirmed. “I’ve heard some talk around set, but no one knows what’s happening yet.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, it’s serious. This might be the last project you get to work on for a while. Everything else is likely to be delayed. Keep your eyes open.”

You sighed, looking around as the crew moved around with their usual buzz of energy.

“Guess I’ll enjoy this last bit of freedom while I can.”

Taylor chuckled. “Yeah, enjoy it while you’re in the middle of nowhere. Call me if you hear anything else.”

You ended the call and pocketed your phone, the unease settling into your chest. Everyone around the set seemed unfazed, but the air had undoubtedly changed.

By the final days of production, the world was different. Everyone wore face masks, and hand sanitizer became the reigning deity on set.

•••

Reality hit hard. Flights were cancelled. No one could leave. You were stuck in the cabin, snow piling up outside like a barricade against the world, while the virus barricaded you from returning home. You made a grocery run the minute things got a little hectic, filling the place with more supplies than you’d ever seen yourself buy—just in case. The panic in the air was contagious, and chaos reigned for those first two weeks.

You FaceTimed your mom as you unpacked. “I’m stuck in Canada,” you said, laughing softly despite the anxiety that gnawed at your insides.

“Are you serious?” her voice was a mix of worry and exasperation. “You should’ve been back by now. What about New York?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back. Airports are closed.”

She sighed heavily, the sound crackling through the phone. “Just take care of yourself, honey, alright? Don’t be reckless. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine."

Her voice softened. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

•••

It was a particularly dark, cold afternoon. The kind where the sky hung low with thick clouds and the cold crept in through the cracks of the cabin no matter how many layers you wore. You had wrapped yourself in a blanket, the silence of isolation pressing down heavier than usual when your phone buzzed on the table.

Daniel’s name appeared on the screen.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, but you couldn’t ignore him. Not yet. So you swiped to answer and brought the phone to your ear, forcing a soft, casual, “Hey.”

His voice on the other end was calm, but there was an undercurrent to it—a kind of distance that had been growing for months. "Hey," he replied, his Aussie accent tinged with something heavy. "How’s it going over there?"

You shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “You know… same. Snowed in. A lot of waiting.” There was an awkward pause. You filled it with a half-hearted laugh. “How about you? Everything alright?”

He cleared his throat, and you could feel the shift before he even said it. “Actually… I don’t think we should keep this up.”

The words hit you like the cold outside, seeping into your bones, but not with shock—just a kind of muted inevitability. There it is, you thought, the final crack in what was already falling apart.

Your brain hummed with white noise after that. You don’t remember what you said in response, something vague like, “Yeah, I get it.” The words came out on autopilot, and you weren’t really listening anymore. It wasn’t traumatic; it wasn’t the kind of breakup that destroyed you. It was like slowly waking from a dream and realizing it had already ended before you even opened your eyes.

His voice was kind, soft—too soft. “You’re so great, you know that, right? This just… it wasn’t working anymore. For either of us.”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. Your mind was elsewhere—on the conversations with Pedro, on the way your heart leaped when you heard his voice instead of Daniel’s. You had known, deep down, for a while now where your heart really was.

“I guess we knew this was coming,” you finally managed, voice steady, as if you were discussing something as simple as the weather.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still… I didn’t want it to hurt.”

The niceties and the polite words that followed hurt more than any fight ever could have. It was the kindness of it that made it sting—the acknowledgment that neither of you had it in you to fight for something that had already drifted away. There was no anger, no raised voices, no accusations.

Just two people who had loved each other briefly, now saying goodbye like they were parting ways at an airport terminal.

“Well, take care of yourself, alright?” Daniel said softly.

“You too,” you whispered, already feeling the weight of finality.

And then it was over. The phone went silent in your hand, and you stared at the screen as if it could offer you some kind of closure that you weren’t sure you needed.

•••

The days began to bleed into one another. You were alone in that cabin—snowed in and quarantined from the world. The only connection you had was through your phone, through calls with Sarah and Oscar, who checked in on you daily.

Most days, you found ways to pass the time. You read, you cooked—burned some things, too—and found yourself sitting by the old piano that had come with the cabin. Your fingers brushed against the keys, unsure at first, after so much time spent focusing on acting. But the music came swiftly, like muscle memory. The songs poured out of you, stories in lyrical form, shaped by the silence and solitude around you.

But some nights, the quiet was too loud.

The breakup with Daniel lingered in the back of your mind like a dull ache. You had been okay with it for the most part; you knew it was coming, and neither of you were in it anymore. But there were nights, like tonight, when the weight of it crashed down and the loneliness felt too heavy to carry. You lay in bed, tears wetting the pillow, thinking about how everything had ended in polite goodbyes when maybe you needed the screaming.

•••

One day, in the middle of baking—flour dusting your hands and a bowl of half-mixed batter sitting on the counter—you received a text: “I hope you’re doing okay.”

You stared at it, your heart skipping a beat. You had thought about him every single day and wondered how he was coping and whether he was safe. Anytime Sarah called, you asked about him, telling yourself that it was enough to know from a distance. But now, with that simple text, you caved.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

His reply came almost immediately. “Not really. Mostly lonely.”

Your heart broke for him. You knew how hard it was for him to be alone. He thrived off people, off energy. And now, the world had gone still.

“Wanna talk?” you typed, holding your breath.

“Would love to hear your voice,” came the reply.

So you called him, and the hours melted away as you both talked about everything—about the virus, about work, about how isolating it all was. He asked, finally, “How’s Daniel?”

You hesitated. “We’re no longer together. Haven’t been for a while.”

There was a pause, then a soft, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

You quickly changed the subject, but it lingered between you, the unspoken acknowledgment of what that meant. After that, you spoke almost every day. The isolation became less suffocating, and with each call, you both felt a little less alone.

•••

On Pedro’s birthday, you baked a cupcake in his honor, lighting a single candle before FaceTiming him. When he picked up, he laughed, “You made me a cupcake?”

“Of course I did,” you said with a grin, holding up the tiny treat. “Now, pretend to blow out the candle.”

He played along, puffing his cheeks and making a ridiculous show of it. “Thank you for this. It’s not much of a birthday without people.”

“Well, you’ve got me,” you said, singing an off-key version of Happy Birthday. His laughter filled the space between you.

Later that night, he posted a screenshot of your call on his Instagram story, and the internet lost its mind. Comments flooded in—"Omg, she baked him a cupcake!"—“My favorite best friends!”—and you laughed at the attention it brought.

•••

One evening, as you sat at the piano again, your phone propped up with Pedro on FaceTime, he listened quietly as you played a new melody. “I think the lyrics need work,” you said, biting your lip.

He smirked. “Let me hear them.”

You hummed the first few lines, fumbling over the phrasing. “See, it doesn’t quite flow.”

“Let’s try this,” Pedro suggested, offering a line.

By the end of the night, the song felt whole, and you felt lighter.

The days passed—isolated and cold—but your connection with Pedro was alive and warm again. And as the weeks stretched on, you couldn’t help but wonder: How long until you fucked this up again?

October 5, 2020

Budapest, Hungary

Pedro had always known loneliness. It was a quiet, persistent companion, but in Budapest, it had taken on a new form. The city was beautiful, its streets old and layered with history, but none of it could distract him from the hollow ache in his chest. The early mornings on set, the long hours of filming—the work was steady. But outside of that, the hours stretched endlessly.

He had been filming in Europe for months, and though he loved his job, the thrill of creating something special—the distance—both physical and emotional—was wearing him thin. He had been keeping in touch with you, his constant thread of connection. The texts, the occasional FaceTime calls, were easy and comforting. But he could never shake the weight of what he hadn’t told you. What you didn't allow him to say. It felt like a brick in his stomach.

You lived strangely in his head.

He still hadn’t found the courage to say the words. I love you. They haunted him—a truth he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Every time he thought he was ready, he backtracked, swallowing the confession whole. His cowardice infuriated him. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been in love with you for years, the feelings growing stronger and deeper, but now… now you were thousands of miles away, and he was stuck in this self-made purgatory.

His thoughts often drifted to his mother lately. She had always known how to comfort him, her voice soothing, her advice simple but profound. What would she have said about you? About his inability to speak the truth? He could hear her in his head, telling him to stop being such a fool, to just go for it. But she wasn’t here anymore, and he felt lost without her, more than he ever let on.

The days on set were repetitive but engaging. The crew was tightknit, and the project was exciting. He threw himself into work, hoping it would distract him. He laughed with the cast, bantered with the director, but when the camera wasn’t rolling, his mind was elsewhere. It was with you.

•••

A few weeks later, after wrapping up in Budapest, he found himself in Switzerland alone again. He didn’t know why he’d come. The scenery was breathtaking, the mountains vast and quiet, but the isolation magnified the emptiness he felt. It was as if everything had come to a standstill.

The stillness weighed on him. The quiet, once a solace, now felt oppressive. He spent his days wandering the small towns, drinking coffee in hidden cafés, trying to convince himself that the solitude was a gift. But he felt shattered, more broken than before.

One night, the loneliness became too much, and he called you. Desperation tightened his throat as he waited for you to pick up, his mind screaming at him to just tell you. The phone rang, and when you answered, your voice was soft, familiar, and full of comfort.

"Pedro," you said, and it was enough to stop him in his tracks.

His breath caught, and the confession lodged itself in his throat again. He had been ready, so ready, but hearing you—he thought better of it. What could he say that wouldn’t ruin everything?

"Hey," he replied, his voice rougher than intended. "Just wanted to hear your voice."

You chuckled softly on the other end. "You good?"

"Yeah, I’m good," he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. "Just…miss talking to you, that’s all."

"I miss you too," you said, and it broke him a little more. The call went on, but he had already retreated into himself, too afraid to say what needed to be said. He listened to you talk about your day, your laugh filling the silence on his end, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was failing—failing himself, failing you.

•••

The next day, he went for a walk. The air was cold, biting, but it didn’t bother him. He needed to clear his head. He walked along the cobbled streets, past quaint houses with shuttered windows, and let the weight of his feelings wash over him. It was overwhelming. His history with you, all the unsaid things, all the moments when he should have acted and didn’t. It crashed over him like a wave, leaving him breathless.

He found a bench and sat, his head in his hands. One day, he thought. One day, I’ll tell her.

December 31st, 2020

New York, NY

The phone call from Oscar came two weeks before New Year's Eve. His voice was warm, as it always was, but there was an unmistakable edge of hope in it, the kind that crept in after months of isolation.

“It’s just something small,” he had said. You could hear his smile through the phone, that charming grin he always wore. “Not a lot of people, you know. Just family and close friends. After the last few months we've had… I think we need this.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar in person in what felt like forever, and the idea of being with people—Oscar’s people, your people—sounded like a balm to the soul. You agreed before he could finish the invitation, the excitement bubbling up despite the world still not feeling quite right.

You got tested later that week, making sure you were safe to attend the gathering.

When you arrived at Oscar’s apartment, the city had an eerie quiet to it. New York was never still, even during the pandemic, but tonight it felt subdued, like it was holding its breath for something more. You headed for the entrance, and the soft sound of music spilled out the moment the doors opened.

Oscar met you with his arms wide open, pulling you into a tight hug. “Look who finally made it,” he teased, his face lighting up in that familiar way. “You look good.”

“You too,” you said, stepping back and taking in the warmth of the room. It was intimate—just the right amount of people to make you feel at home, but not so many that it felt overwhelming.

Before you could take another step, Sarah swooped in, stealing you from Oscar’s embrace with an exaggerated squeal. She enveloped you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe.

“I missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. You hadn’t seen her in ages, and the reunion felt like a weight lifting off your chest. The two of you spent the next few minutes catching up, your laughter blending in with the soft chatter around the room.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him. He had arrived a little late, typical of him, but the sight of him sent your heart into a dizzying spin. It had been almost a year since you last saw each other in person.

He moved through the room, and when he finally made his way toward you, your breath hitched. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his toned chest. His hair was longer, fluffy from the months of lockdown, and his big brown eyes—usually so full of light —looked tired.

But when he saw you, the weariness seemed to lift for a moment.

He said your name softly, stepping close. His arms opened, and you fell into them without hesitation, wrapping yourself around him in a way that felt too familiar, too safe. He held you tight, his grip lingering longer than necessary, like he was afraid to let go.

“Hey,” you breathed against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—pleasant, familiar, grounding. The world seemed to fall away for a moment, leaving just the two of you. You pulled back slightly, looking into his face, wanting to say something—anything. You couldn’t live without thinking about him. He consumed your every thought, and somewhere along the way, you had come to terms with how you felt about him.

But the words stuck in your throat.

“At last, we see each other,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, his hand still on your back.

“At last,” you repeated, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You both opened your mouths to speak, then laughed in unison.

"You first," Pedro said, his eyes twinkling with amusement, though there was something deeper there—something lingering just beneath the surface.

But before you could say anything more, Sarah reappeared, her arm hooking through yours as she dragged you away. “Sorry! I need to steal her for a sec,” she said with a laugh, oblivious to the quiet intensity of the moment she’d interrupted.

Pedro smiled at her, though his eyes flicked back to you. "What I wanted to say can wait," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise that sent a jolt through you.

You promised yourself you’d find him later.

•••

In the kitchen, you and Sarah were rummaging through cabinets for more drinks when you heard Oscar’s booming laugh. Turning, you spotted him and Pedro, who now had a ridiculous pointy birthday hat perched on his head. You burst into laughter at the sight, unable to resist.

“Cute hat,” you said, pulling your phone from your back pocket. “Let’s document this moment.”

He grinned, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder and pulling him in for the picture. Pedro tilted his head, drinking from his beer, and Oscar looked up at him with a puzzled expression as you snapped a photo.

“Perfect. That’s going on Instagram for sure,” you teased, and Pedro groaned.

Before anyone could respond, Oscar’s wife walked by, eyeing the hat on Pedro’s head with mock suspicion. Pedro took his cue, unlocking from Oscar and jokingly attacking her with the pointy hat, poking her side with the plastic tip. You snapped another picture, laughing as she swatted him away.

“Send that to me,” she called over her shoulder, and you nodded, tucking your phone back into your pocket just as Sarah handed you a drink.

•••

The night continued, the energy in the room bubbling up as the countdown to midnight approached. Karaoke had started in one of the rooms, and you couldn’t resist.

Pedro avoided it at all costs, standing in the doorway with a bemused expression. After your rendition of Losing My Religion, he caught your eye.

“That was something, huh?” he said, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I was extra terrible just for you,” you shot back, walking over to him. “I know how much you hate this.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” he said.

Just as you were about to respond, a woman’s voice broke through the moment. “Oscar said you were in here,” she said, stepping forward. “Hi.”

You turned to see her approach Pedro, and before you could fully register what was happening, she leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips. A casual, intimate gesture that sent a shock of realization through your entire body.

You blink, dumbfounded, as Pedro shifted slightly to make introductions. “This is Julia,” he said, his voice a little too calm for the turmoil suddenly spinning inside you.

Your mind raced, trying to place her. And then it hit you—she was in the group photos he posted from the crew of the movie he was filming in Budapest. One of the producers, you think.

Oh.

Julia greeted you happily, oblivious to the terrible ache now pooling in your chest. You felt your throat tighten, the words you had wanted to say earlier were now swallowed by this unfamiliar wave of jealousy and disappointment. You went mute, unable to find words that wouldn’t betray how much this hurt.

Pedro’s voice broke the silence again, almost too nonchalant. “This is what I wanted to talk about earlier.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh, great,” you managed to say, forcing a smile that you didn’t feel.

“And you?” Pedro asked, clearly trying to keep things light. “You said you wanted to talk, too.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and your mind screamed for you to say something—anything—but all you could muster was, “No, um, it was nothing, really.”

Something stung deep inside you. It was a dull ache, gnawing away at your resolve. You needed a way out. Fast.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” you said to her, your voice tight. “If you’ll excuse me…”

And before either of them could say anything more, you slipped away, making a beeline for the kitchen where Oscar stood.

“Hey,” you blurted, pulling him aside. “He’s fucking dating someone? And you didn’t say a thing?”

Oscar looked at you, taken aback. “I—it wasn’t my news to share.”

You pressed your fingers to your forehead, trying to swallow the embarrassment. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I just… I can't believe I was about to confess my love for him and make a fool of myself. Again.”

Oscar stared at you, his eyebrows raised. “You were what?”

You laughed, though it was tinged with bitterness. “Yeah. But now? I mean, clearly, it’s just another sign. The timing’s never right. Never.”

Was it punishment? you thought.

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly uncertain of what to say. Instead, he walked over to the counter and grabbed another drink. “Here,” he said quietly, offering it to you.

You took it, staring at the liquid swirling in the glass.

"It’s fairly new, you know," Oscar said softly, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Like two weeks or something. It’s not serious yet."

“I just don’t get it,” you muttered, almost to yourself. “I don’t.”

Oscar sighed, his hand finding your back, a comforting weight that helped ground you. “I know. I know.”

You knew there was else nothing you could do right now, so you poured the drink down your throat, feeling the burn as it went down.

•••

“There you are,” Pedro called softly, his voice muffled by the cold air as he stepped through the glass doors onto the backyard patio. The wind hit him immediately, sharp and biting, but the bitter cold felt fitting, almost poetic.

You stood there, your back to him, a silhouette against the frozen horizon. For a moment, he was transported back to the first time he saw you in this very spot, under a much different sky. That night, the air had been warm, filled with the kind of anticipation that crackled with every glance exchanged. You had stood just like this, dressed similarly too, arms crossed against the world, hair cascading down your back like a curtain he desperately wanted to pull aside.

But tonight was different. Tonight, your shoulders were tense, hunched against more than just the cold. When you turned around, your face wasn’t full of curiosity. It was distant, your eyes heavy with an emotion he couldn’t quite name, but that he knew he was responsible for.

"You bolted out of there," Pedro said, his voice strained as he tried to sound casual, but the worry leaked through.

You gave a soft, bitter hum, a sound he couldn’t decipher but felt in his bones. "I was a bit shocked, honestly."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous, fumbling with the words he had rehearsed in his mind so many times but never managed to say. "I know. I wanted to tell you about her, I just... I don’t know. It’s new. I didn’t think it was important enough yet. I thought I’d find the right moment, but it never felt... appropriate. And I didn’t want to make things weird, you know?"

Pedro kept talking, words spilling out as he tried to explain. He mentioned her name—Julia—said they had met on set, that it wasn’t serious yet, that it had barely even begun. His voice grew quieter, more unsure with every sentence, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

See, Pedro hadn't planned on getting into a relationship, not when his every thought was consumed by you, not when he knew he loved you, and yet here he was. He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

But your expression had already changed. He could see the way your face shut down, the way your gaze hardened, and it twisted something deep inside him.

“Don’t apologize to me about your relationship,” you said, the words sharp and cutting. “That’s the kind of thing that makes me feel like I’m some kind of Machiavellian villain.”

Pedro winced, his breath catching in his throat. He hated this. But before he could say anything, you spoke again, your voice lower, more controlled.

"Our time never seems to align, does it? It never has, and it never will. It's funny, even.” You paused, looking away, your voice a strained whisper.

Pedro wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that he felt trapped between his own heart and the razor-sharp edge of what was right, what was fair. The guilt and longing were choking him, twisting his insides until all he could feel was the jagged ache of wanting something that was always just out of reach.

You took a deep breath, the cold air clouding in front of you like smoke.

"Are you happy?" you asked, your voice barely audible. A mirror of his very own "Do you love him?" from last year.

Pedro looked at you, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, the truth in the words landing hard.

You nodded, your lips pressed together in a sad, resigned smile.

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

It was an unspoken agreement—a quiet acceptance that, once again, you were not meant to be. That your lives had written this story long before you’d ever had a say in it.

a/n: enough sadness, their time will come soon ;)

a like, reblog or comment, anything is very much appreciated <3

#pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal angst #pedro pascal fic #my writing #love is complicated fic

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