𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭

♡ Angel Autopsy (Yandere! Il Dottore x Reader).

♡ Word Count. 6,009 words

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The first time Alhaitham heard the rumor, it was phrased as a question that pretended to be a joke.

“Are they… together?”

He did not look up from the document he was annotating. The margins were already crowded with precise, surgical notes—errors identified, redundancies excised, arguments dismantled with minimal effort. His quill paused for exactly half a second.

“Define together,” he said.

The student across the table laughed, uneasy. “You know. Like—dating?”

Alhaitham resumed writing. “No.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” he replied flatly. “That doesn’t make the claim any less unsupported.”

The student hesitated. “People are saying it’s… weird.”

That, at least, was accurate.

The rumor did not spread loudly. It moved the way mold did—quiet, persistent, fed by discomfort rather than interest.

Two local anomalies, already ill-fitting within the Akademiya’s social ecosystem, now allegedly orbiting each other with a degree of intimacy that unsettled observers who had long since decided neither of you were meant to be touched.

You, the chronic underperformer with inexplicable insight and no visible ambition.

Zandik, the academic aberration who treated ethics as an optional elective and other people as furniture.

Alhaitham closed the file.

From his vantage point as Scribe, he had a comprehensive view of the Akademiya’s rhythms.

He noticed patterns others missed—not because he cared, but because inefficiency offended him.

This situation, however, was inefficient in a different way.

It produced no measurable gain and yet consumed a disproportionate amount of cognitive bandwidth among the student body.

He had proposed the tutoring arrangement himself.

The logic had been straightforward.

You were wasting potential.

Your exam results hovered in mediocrity, not because of ignorance, but because of indifference. You did the bare minimum required to pass, sometimes not even that, and yet occasionally produced work that forced even the Sages to pause.

Motivation through pressure had failed.

Motivation through threat had failed.

Social incentives were meaningless to you.

So Alhaitham introduced a variable.

Zandik.

If nothing else, Zandik was efficient.

Brutal, but efficient. If you hated him, perhaps you would work harder out of spite. If you admired him—unlikely—you might improve through proximity.

Either outcome satisfied the original objective.

What Alhaitham had not accounted for was affection.

Not the conventional kind.

Something worse. Stranger.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He observed the first session from a distance, ostensibly reviewing requisitions in the Hall.

You arrived late, as expected.

Zandik did not comment. He never did. He simply stared at you with the same clinical detachment he reserved for malfunctioning equipment.

You dropped into the chair beside him, leaned your head against his shoulder without warning, and sighed.

“Ugh,” you said. “Academiya chairs are designed by people who hate spines.”

Zandik did not flinch.

He did not look at you.

He continued writing formulas on the parchment between you, his shoulder a passive surface against which you rested like an inconvenient object that had not yet justified removal.

Alhaitham frowned—not outwardly, but internally, where it mattered.

Touch avoidance was a documented Zandik trait. He tolerated no unnecessary contact. Even colleagues noted his tendency to reposition furniture rather than adjust himself.

And yet he allowed this.

You adjusted again, closer, your arm draped lazily around his.

“You smell like ink,” you murmured.

“Your observational skills remain unimpressive,” Zandik replied.

You hummed, content, fingers absently tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

Alhaitham noted several things in rapid succession.

One: the lack of reprimand.

Two: the absence of tension in Zandik’s posture.

Three: the way other students pretended not to look while very obviously looking.

This was not courtship. It was not flirtation in any recognizable sense.

It was something more disturbing: comfort.

That was where the rumors found traction.

They did not say you were romantic. They said you were wrong.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Over the following weeks, the behavior escalated—not dramatically, but persistently.

You began orbiting Zandik the way a moon did a dead planet, present without explanation, attached without justification.

You leaned over his notes, your chin resting on his head.

You poked his cheek when he ignored you.

You stole his gloves and wore them despite the size mismatch.

At one point, Alhaitham watched you curl up beside him on the library bench, knees drawn up, head pressed against his arm as you dozed while Zandik continued reading, one hand turning pages, the other unconsciously anchoring you in place.

It was absurd.

It was deeply inefficient.

And yet Zandik never stopped you.

When another student attempted to comment—something about personal space—Zandik silenced them with a look so sharp it ended the conversation permanently.

“Focus on your own deficiencies,” he said. “They are numerous.”

You snorted awake, blinking. “Did I miss something?”

“Nothing of value,” Zandik replied.

You smiled faintly and closed your eyes again.

Alhaitham observed all of this without intervening.

Intervention required justification. He had none that would withstand scrutiny—not academic, not administrative, and certainly not personal.

He told himself that his interest was purely analytical.

Which was, strictly speaking, true.

The discomfort arose from variables behaving unpredictably.

You were supposed to resent Zandik. You were supposed to resist. Instead, you treated him like a particularly sharp-edged piece of furniture you’d grown fond of—something to lean on, poke, drape yourself over without permission.

And Zandik, who cared nothing for permission, allowed it.

The student body reacted the only way it knew how: with fascination disguised as disgust.

“They don’t even talk,” someone whispered.

“They’re always together.”

“It’s creepy.”

“They’re in their own bubble.”

That, Alhaitham conceded, was accurate.

Inside that bubble, the rules were different.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

He observed one afternoon as you deliberately disrupted your tutoring session. Not like it was anything new.

Zandik was mid-explanation, outlining a complex theoretical structure with his usual ruthless clarity, when you reached over and tugged the corner of his collar.

“You’re doing the thing,” you said.

“What thing.”

“The murder lecture voice.”

“Your emotional discomfort is irrelevant.”

You smiled, pleased, and leaned closer. “Say it nicer.”

“No.”

You sighed theatrically and rested your full weight against him, head tucked under his chin like a cat claiming territory.

Zandik paused.

Not for long. A fraction of a second.

Then he continued speaking, one hand adjusting to accommodate your presence with mechanical precision.

“Note the inconsistency here,” he said, unbothered. “If you had applied even minimal effort earlier, this would not be difficult.”

You nodded lazily. “Mm. Probably.”

“You are insufferable.”

“Yet you keep tutoring me.”

“Regrettably.”

Alhaitham noticed the way your mouth twitched.

You were enjoying this.

Not him. The situation.

The friction.

The fact that Zandik did not push you away.

From a purely logical standpoint, Alhaitham understood the appeal.

Zandik was a constant—hostile to the world, but stable within it.

You, for reasons Alhaitham had long since stopped attempting to categorize, gravitated toward stability like gravity toward mass.

Still.

It bothered him.

Not because of jealousy—an inefficient, emotionally driven response he had long since optimized out of his system—but because the outcome diverged from his projected models.

You were improving academically.

Marginally. Irritatingly.

Zandik’s methods were effective. His presence, apparently, more so.

Alhaitham had expected you to come to him.

That had been the quiet subroutine beneath the proposal. When Zandik proved intolerable, you would seek an alternative.

You would ask Alhaitham for help. He would agree, conditionally, and the balance would be restored.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You return home at the same time you always do.

Not late. Not early. A narrow margin that suggests routine rather than discipline.

The door is already unlocked.

The lights are on.

There is food on the table—steam still rising, arranged with the kind of efficiency that prioritizes nutritional balance over aesthetic pleasure. Protein, carbohydrates, vegetables. No excess. No garnish that serves no function.

You pause in the doorway.

“You’re early,” you say, not looking particularly surprised.

“I’m not,” Alhaitham replies from the kitchen. “You’re punctual.”

That tracks.

You shrug off your coat, drop your bag by the wall where it doesn’t obstruct movement, and wander toward the table. The smell registers second—warm, clean, familiar. Something you didn’t ask for, didn’t request, but now exists regardless.

You sit.

Alhaitham joins you a moment later, already holding his own plate. He does not ask if you’re hungry. He never does. You always eat.

For a few minutes, there’s only the sound of cutlery and the faint hum of the Akademiya outside your window. Evening traffic. Distant voices. Life proceeding without either of you being required to participate.

You chew thoughtfully, then glance at him.

“This is good.”

“I know.”

You snort. “Modest.”

“Accurate.”

You eat another bite, unbothered. “If you ever quit the Akademiya, you could open a restaurant.”

“That would require interacting with customers.”

“Right. Tragic.”

He ignores that.

He always ignores that.

Another minute passes.

He waits until you’ve settled into eating properly before speaking, tone shifting just enough to signal intention.

“I heard,” he says, “that you stayed late again.”

You blink. “Wow. Rumors really do travel fast.”

“That wasn’t a rumor.”

You tilt your head. “Were you spying on me?”

“No.”

“Disappointing.”

He exhales through his nose. “You’ve been spending an increasing amount of time with Zandik.”

Ah.

There it is.

You take another bite, chewing slowly. “You sound like you’re about to give me a lecture.”

“I am.”

“Do I get a syllabus?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

He sets his cutlery down. Not hard. Not dramatic. Just deliberate.

“You should stop,” he says.

You glance up at him, expression flat. “Stop what.”

“Getting attached.”

You consider this. “I don’t think that’s what’s happening.”

“That’s because you lack objectivity.”

You smile faintly. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I’m not the one physically clinging to a known hazard.”

“He’s not radioactive.”

“That’s debatable.”

You laugh quietly and lean back in your chair, folding one leg under the other. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being precise.”

He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. His gaze is steady—not sharp, not heated. Just intent.

“Zandik is bad news,” he says. “This is not a matter of opinion.”

You hum. “You say that about most people.”

“Most people don’t meet the criteria.”

“Oh? What criteria are those?”

“Documented ethical violations. Repeated psychological misconduct. A complete disregard for social contracts. Patterns of behavior that indicate escalation rather than stagnation.”

You blink. “Wow. You’ve been busy.”

“I pay attention.”

You poke at your food, uninterested. “So what, you’re worried about me?”

“I’m annoyed by inefficiency.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You are not equipped to handle him.”

You glance up again, brow lifting slightly. “That’s kind of rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

You grin. “You really are in a mood tonight.”

He doesn’t rise to it.

“You have a savior complex,” he continues, unfazed. “You attach moral significance to your proximity to broken systems and assume your presence will alter their trajectory.”

“That sounds like a compliment.”

“It isn’t.”

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes half-lidded. “You make it sound like I’m trying to fix him.”

“You are.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t need to.”

You shrug. “Maybe I just like him.”

“That’s worse.”

You laugh outright this time. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m correct.”

He resumes eating, but his focus remains on you. “People have extreme reactions to Zandik for valid reasons. Both positive and negative. He inspires fixation. Obsession. Fear. Admiration. None of those are healthy.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “People are dramatic.”

“So is he.”

“Not around me.”

“That’s temporary.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “You sound almost… concerned.”

He pauses for exactly one second.

“Concern is a byproduct of risk assessment.”

“Of course it is.”

He sets his fork down again. “Publicly, he has a record of academic sabotage. Manipulative mentorship. Emotional coercion framed as intellectual rigor.”

“Sounds like half the Akademiya.”

“Privately,” he continues, ignoring you, “there are incidents that never made it to official records. Experiments conducted without consent. Deliberate psychological destabilization. A pattern of behavior that suggests he views people as variables, not individuals.”

You whistle softly. “Yikes.”

“And yet,” he adds, “you treat him like a stuffed toy.”

You grin. “He lets me.”

“That’s not a defense.”

“It kind of is.”

He looks at you like you’ve just committed a logical fallacy so egregious it borders on insult.

“You are not taking this seriously,” he says.

You shrug again. “I rarely do.”

“That’s exactly the problem.”

You lean forward, elbows on the table. “Look. I’m not trying to redeem him.”

“That’s not how it appears.”

“Well, appearances are misleading.”

“Not in this case.”

You poke his arm with your finger. “You’re really worked up about this.”

“I dislike watching preventable disasters unfold.”

“You must hate history.”

“I do.”

You smile faintly, then sit back. “You’re assuming a lot.”

“I’m extrapolating from data.”

“You’re assuming I think he’s good.”

“You don’t think he’s bad.”

You consider this. “I think he’s interesting.”

“That’s how it starts.”

“For what?”

“For attachment.”

You wave him off. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m observing.”

You finish your food, pushing the plate aside. “You know I don’t take anyone seriously, right?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “That includes him.”

“And you.”

“And me.”

You smile at that. “At least you’re self-aware.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

He stands, collecting plates with efficient movements. You watch him move around the kitchen like he belongs there—which he does, unfortunately.

“You don’t understand,” you say idly.

“That’s unlikely.”

“I’m not trying to save him.”

“Then why stay?”

You shrug. “He’s there.”

“That’s insufficient.”

“So is your argument.”

He turns back to you, brows drawn just slightly. “You are kind,” he says, flatly. “To a fault. You mistake tolerance for invulnerability.”

You blink. The word lands heavier than the rest.

You smile anyway. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is when directed at the wrong person.”

You stand, stretching. “You worry too much.”

“I worry the correct amount.”

You step past him, brushing his shoulder lightly as you move toward your room. “Relax. I’m not fixing anyone. I’m just… around.”

“That’s exactly what concerns me.”

You pause at your door, glancing back at him. “You really think I’d let him hurt me?”

He meets your gaze, expression unreadable.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that you underestimate how much damage can occur before you consider it harm.”

You consider responding. You don’t.

Instead, you smile, small and unbothered.

“Good night,” you say.

He watches you close the door.

The apartment settles into silence again, dinner cleared, warnings delivered, none heeded.

Alhaitham exhales, rubs his temples once, and returns to his book—already aware that logic, no matter how sound, rarely wins against someone who never intended to take the game seriously in the first place.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You realize something is wrong when your schedule stops being yours.

It doesn’t happen abruptly.

There’s no announcement, no confrontation, no dramatic line drawn in ink.

It starts with small, reasonable adjustments—things that make sense in isolation, things you don’t bother questioning because questioning them would require energy you don’t feel like spending.

It begins with a note on your desk.

Not handwritten.

Alhaitham doesn’t waste time with theatrics.

A clean, clipped message pinned beneath a paperweight you don’t remember owning.

You’re needed at the Scribe’s office after second bell. Don’t be late.

You stare at it for a moment, expression blank.

“…Needed?” you mutter.

You consider ignoring it. Briefly. Then you remember who it’s from, sigh, and fold the note into your pocket like it’s inevitable rather than optional.

By the time you arrive, he’s already there.

Of course he is.

The office is quieter than usual, stacks of documents arranged with ruthless precision. Alhaitham sits behind the desk, posture straight, eyes scanning a report with the same intensity most people reserve for emergency situations.

“You’re early,” he says without looking up.

“I was exactly on time.”

“Which is early for you.”

You scowl and drop into the chair across from him. “Why am I here.”

He finishes the sentence he’s reading, closes the file, and finally looks at you.

“Because,” he says, “I’ve reassessed your priorities.”

Your eye twitches. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I do when they’re inefficient.”

You lean back. “This is about Zandik, isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

There it is.

You groan loudly. “I thought we were done with this.”

“We were not.”

“I told you—”

“You told me nothing of value,” he cuts in smoothly. “And you ignored every reasonable concern presented.”

You glare at him. “So what, you kidnapped me?”

“No.”

“This feels like kidnapping.”

“This is delegation.”

“That’s worse.”

He ignores the complaint entirely and slides a stack of papers toward you. “Effective immediately, you’ll be assisting me.”

You blink. “…Assisting you.”

“Yes.”

“As in—”

“Administrative support. Document sorting. Festival coordination. Interdepartmental correspondence.”

Your soul leaves your body.

“You’re joking.”

“I don’t joke.”

“You absolutely do, it’s just incredibly unfunny.”

“This is not humor.”

You stare at the papers, then back at him. “Why me.”

“Because you’re available.”

“I’m busy!”

“With what.”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Open it again.

“…Things.”

“Unconvincing.”

You slump. “I don’t want to be your assistant.”

“You don’t want to be tutored by me either,” he replies, calm and cutting. “This is the compromise.”

Your jaw tightens. “I didn’t ask for either.”

“And yet here we are.”

You flip through the documents. It keeps going. And going. And going.

“…Is this all today.”

“No.”

Your voice goes flat. “I’m going to die.”

“Unlikely.”

“I hate you.”

“Statistically irrelevant.”

You drop your head onto the desk with a dull thud. “Why are you like this.”

“Because,” he says evenly, “you require structure.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him sideways. “I absolutely do not.”

“You’re passive,” he continues, unfazed. “You let circumstances dictate your actions. You complain, but you comply.”

“That is not—”

“You’re doing it right now.”

You freeze.

Slowly, you lift your head.

“…Oh.”

He watches you with infuriating calm. “You get pushed around,” he adds. “Not because you’re weak, but because you don’t resist unless resistance is entertaining.”

“I resist plenty.”

“You resist loudly,” he corrects. “Then you yield.”

You bristle. “You sound like you’ve been thinking about this.”

“I have.”

That… shouldn’t bother you.

It does.

“So,” you say lightly, “what, you’re keeping me on a leash now?”

“No.”

“Because it feels like it.”

He leans back slightly, folding his arms. “I’m keeping you occupied.”

“That’s worse.”

“You need a break from playtime.”

Your mouth drops open. “Excuse you?”

“You’ve been treating a dangerous individual like a recreational activity,” he continues. “That’s unsustainable.”

You scoff. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m mitigating risk.”

You laugh, sharp and incredulous. “By turning me into your personal slave?”

“Assistant.”

“Slave.”

“Assistant.”

You wave a hand. “Same thing.”

He doesn’t rise to the bait. “You’re safer here.”

You pause.

“…Safer?”

“Yes.”

You search his face for sarcasm. There is none.

Your chest tightens in a way you don’t acknowledge.

“Look,” you say, tone deliberately careless, “I don’t need babysitting.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then why—”

“Because,” he says, cutting in, “you won’t prioritize yourself.”

You scoff again, but it’s weaker this time. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being practical.”

He slides another document toward you. “The Akademiya Festival is approaching. Everyone will be occupied. Oversight will be lax. That’s when problems occur.”

“And somehow I’m the problem.”

“You’re adjacent to one.”

You roll your eyes and pick up the papers. “…This is a lot.”

“Yes.”

“…All of it is mine?”

“For now.”

You flip to the last page.

“…Why does this say ‘urgent’.”

“Because it is.”

You let out a long, suffering groan and slump back in your chair. “I’m going to cry.”

“Do it quietly.”

“You’re evil.”

“Efficient.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Your hands stop working first.

Not in a dramatic way.

They just… hesitate.

The page in front of you blurs slightly—not because you can’t see it, but because your focus slips like water through fingers.

You blink once. Then again.

Nothing fixes it.

You sit very still in the chair beside Alhaitham’s desk, papers spread out in careful stacks you organized yourself because it felt important to do at least one thing correctly today.

Your breathing is steady. Your face is neutral.

Anyone passing by would assume you’re tired, maybe annoyed.

No one would think you’re on the verge of breaking.

Alhaitham notices anyway.

He always does.

He doesn’t say your name. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He just exhales quietly, the sound controlled but weighted, and sets his book aside.

“You’re done,” he says.

You stare at the page. “…I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I still have—”

“You’re done,” he repeats, firmer now.

Your fingers curl slightly into the edge of the paper.

You don’t argue again.

You just… stop.

The resistance drains out of you like it always does when he decides something is final.

He stands, moves around the desk, and pulls the chair closer to his side—not abruptly, not gently either. Just enough that you’re suddenly within reach.

“Come here,” he says.

You frown faintly. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He rarely does.

Instead, he places a hand on your wrist and guides you—unhurried, deliberate—until you’re sitting beside him, shoulder brushing his arm. The contact is understated, almost accidental.

Almost.

You stiffen for half a second.

Then you don’t.

Your shoulders sag as if something invisible finally gives way. You don’t lean into him outright. You don’t cling.

You just… remain there, close enough that his presence presses into your peripheral awareness like gravity.

Low-key. Quiet. Familiar.

“This is unfair,” you mutter.

“Objectively,” he replies, “it isn’t.”

You let out a breath that borders on a laugh. “You say that about everything.”

“Because most complaints are emotional, not factual.”

“I’m emotional,” you say flatly.

“Yes.”

You swallow. Your throat feels tight, though you’re not crying. Not really. Your eyes sting in that vague, humiliating way that suggests they might betray you if you’re not careful.

“I hate being busy,” you continue, voice thin. “I hate schedules. I hate lists. I hate being useful.”

“That’s inaccurate.”

You glance at him. “Excuse me?”

“You don’t hate being useful,” he says. “You hate being noticed.”

Your mouth opens.

Closes.

You look away.

“That’s not—”

“It is,” he says calmly. “You’ve never minded effort. You mind expectation.”

You huff. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“I’m not.”

You cross your arms, curling inward slightly. He adjusts without comment, shifting so your shoulder presses more securely against his side, his arm a quiet barrier at your back.

Not a cage.

An anchor.

“You push me too hard,” you say, quieter now.

“Yes.”

You wait for an apology.

It doesn’t come.

“But,” he continues, “you’re capable of more than you allow yourself to access.”

You scoff weakly. “You make it sound like I’m choosing this.”

“In some ways, you are.”

That irritates you enough to spark a flicker of heat. “Oh?”

“You disengage,” he says. “Consistently. You minimize your presence. You perform competence just enough to avoid scrutiny, then disappear.”

You pick at the sleeve of your clothes. “So what.”

“So it’s not disinterest,” he replies. “It’s avoidance.”

You go quiet.

He doesn’t press further. He never does—not directly. He knows when to stop, when to let silence do the work.

Your breathing evens out gradually. The pressure in your chest loosens, slow and incremental, like a knot being teased apart thread by thread.

“I don’t like that you’re right all the time,” you mutter.

“Statistically improbable,” he says. “But frequent.”

You snort despite yourself.

The tension ebbs a little more.

You sit there like that for a while—no words, just proximity. His arm rests loosely around your shoulders now, not pulling you in, not letting you drift away. The contact is steady, unremarkable.

Old.

Familiar in a way that predates the Akademiya, predates titles and responsibilities and the quiet distance that crept in over the years.

You shift slightly, and he adjusts automatically, muscle memory kicking in without conscious thought.

“…You remember,” you say suddenly.

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

“Yes.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You don’t move for a long time.

Not because you’re asleep. Your breathing is too controlled for that—measured in a way Alhaitham recognizes as effort, not rest.

Your head stays against his shoulder, but there’s a rigidity to you that doesn’t match comfort. A careful stillness, like if you shift even slightly, something might spill over the edge.

He doesn’t comment on it.

Commentary invites a response.

You don’t respond well to direct questions when you’re like this. You prefer to pretend nothing is happening until it stops happening.

Alhaitham allows you the illusion.

His arm remains around you, steady, unintrusive. The office lamp casts a quiet pool of light over paperwork that can wait.

Outside, the Akademiya keeps breathing.

Inside, he thinks.

Not aimlessly. Not sentimentally. The way he always does when something doesn’t fit in the file where it belongs.

You are not supposed to be here like this—silent, small, pressed into his side like you’ve always been allowed to do, even when you insisted you didn’t need anyone. Even when you were younger and would have rather swallowed broken glass than admit you wanted comfort.

When you were younger, you didn’t sit quietly.

You fought.

That’s what makes the contrast intolerably obvious.

He looks at you now—your neutral face, the way your fingers curl into fabric without realizing, the way your eyes stay half-lidded like you’re conserving yourself.

The lack of sharpness. The absence of teeth.

It doesn’t match his earliest memories of you.

Back then, you were a blade.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You had met him in grade school, in a classroom that smelled of ink and chalk dust, under the watchful gaze of teachers who loved order and hated anomalies.

Alhaitham had been order.

A predictable top student, efficient, consistent, quiet.

He had not expected to find his equal seated three rows away with messy handwriting and a smile that looked like a challenge.

You did not introduce yourself properly.

You had waved a hand, said your name too fast, and immediately asked what his score was on the placement exam.

He remembers the moment clearly because irritation is an excellent memory anchor.

“Why,” he had asked, “would I tell you that.”

“Because if you’re higher than me, I need to know how much,” you had replied, utterly serious. “And if you’re lower than me, I need you to be aware.”

The teacher had laughed, assuming you were joking.

You weren’t.

Alhaitham had stared at you for a long second, unsettled by the sheer audacity of it.

Not arrogance—arrogance was common.

But your arrogance had been bright, almost… cheerful.

Like you truly believed the world owed you challenges and that you were entitled to win them.

It was irritating.

And fascinating.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Your families had been familiar names even then—two forces that occupied the same city like competing climates.

Yours: business, trade, influence that seeped into every corridor.

His: academe, scholarship, institutional weight.

Rivals in dinners and headlines, in committees and reputations.

You had brought that rivalry into the classroom like it was a birthright.

Alhaitham had not intended to engage.

Then you beat him by two points.

Two.

Not enough to be humiliating. Just enough to be intolerable.

He remembers the way you’d glanced at the posted leaderboard, then turned your head slightly toward him without even looking him in the eye.

“Hm,” you’d said, as if noting the weather. “So that’s how this is going to be.”

He had stared. “How what is going to be.”

“You and me,” you’d replied, smiling like a promise. “Obviously.”

It wasn’t obvious.

Until it was.

The rivalry didn’t happen the way teachers expected rivalries to happen. There were no shouting matches, no loud confrontations, no dramatic declarations. You didn’t need volume. You weaponized excellence.

You competed in silence.

You learned faster when he was watching.

He studied harder when you smiled.

Sometimes you won. Sometimes he did. The margins were always small and always sharp.

He remembers the petty things.

More than the victories. More than the praise.

The way you would “accidentally” leave your perfect test paper on the corner of his desk, folded just enough that the score was visible.

The way he would “coincidentally” answer questions in class just before you could, knowing it would irritate you.

The way you started bringing extra pens, extra erasers, extra everything—not to be kind, but because you couldn’t stand the idea of needing something and having him offer it first.

The way he began doing the same.

Even then, there was something off about you.

Not in your intelligence—your intelligence was obvious.

It was the contradictions.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

You were an artist in the way you talked about ideas, full of bright metaphors and grand principles, yet your academic work was brutal in its logic.

You could dissect problems with surgical precision, then turn around and make decisions with absolutely no practical awareness.

You had no street smarts. None.

He remembers you walking straight into a puddle because you were arguing about the ethics of competition and didn’t notice the ground.

He remembers you accepting a “limited edition” stationery set from a classmate who was clearly trying to curry favor, then looking baffled when Alhaitham told you you’d been manipulated.

“I didn’t agree to anything,” you’d said.

“They weren’t asking you to agree,” he’d replied. “They were buying access.”

You had frowned at the stationery. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s effective.”

You’d looked up at him, annoyed. “Why do you sound like you approve.”

“I’m explaining,” he’d said.

“You’re always explaining,” you’d snapped. “Do you ever stop talking.”

“No,” he’d replied honestly.

You’d stared at him, then laughed—bright, sharp, like you’d found something to poke at.

That had been your favorite thing back then: poking.

He had been boring to you.

You told him so, more than once, as if it was a complaint you expected him to fix.

“You’re like a textbook,” you’d said once, watching him organize his notes by subject and date. “Dry. Reliable. Annoyingly informative.”

“Then stop reading me,” he’d replied without looking up.

“I can’t,” you’d said, far too cheerfully. “I need to know what you’re doing so I can do it better.”

He remembers the way his irritation had sharpened into something else in that moment—something he hadn’t had words for. Not admiration. Not exactly.

A disturbance.

You disturbed him.

You had too much energy for someone so smart.

You moved too quickly, laughed too easily, got angry too easily.

You were emotional in ways Alhaitham couldn’t classify because they weren’t sloppy. They were… directed. Purposeful. You didn’t cry easily. You didn’t break easily.

You burned.

You were prideful and infuriating and absolutely convinced of your own competence. When you lost, you didn’t sulk—you plotted.

And Alhaitham, infuriatingly, found himself plotting back.

He always started the fights.

That was the worst part.

He’d tell himself you were distracting. That your methods were inefficient. That your idealism was childish, your chaos unnecessary. Then he would provoke you anyway.

He would ask questions designed to cut.

He would correct you publicly.

He would make a perfectly reasonable statement that he knew would irritate you into reacting.

And then, when you reacted, he would act as if it was your fault.

“You’re overreacting,” he’d tell you, calm as stone, while you glared at him like you wanted to strangle him with your own ribbon.

“You started it,” you’d hiss.

“I stated a fact.”

“You stated it like an insult.”

“That’s your interpretation.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re loud.”

“I’m not loud.”

“You’re loud.”

“I’m passionate,” you’d snapped, chin lifted, eyes blazing. “There’s a difference.”

He remembers that moment with uncomfortable clarity because he had thought: There it is.

That thing.

That fire.

It had unnerved him because it was real, and because it made him feel—briefly, irritatingly—like he was the one lacking something.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

That was grade school.

High school added a third variable.

The three of you formed an equilibrium that shouldn’t have worked.

And yet it did.

Alhaitham still remembers the first time the three of you won an academic competition together. Not because it was satisfying—victory was expected—but because you’d turned to him afterward, flushed with adrenaline, eyes bright, and said:

“See? You’re useful.”

He’d replied, “I was always useful.”

You’d grinned. “Yeah, but now you’re useful to me.”

The third boy had laughed and thrown an arm around both your shoulders like you were all already adults. “We’re unstoppable,” he’d declared.

You had believed it, back then.

Alhaitham had not. Not because he doubted your intelligence, but because he understood systems.

Systems changed. People changed.

You changed first.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

University did it quietly.

You didn’t announce it.

You didn’t complain.

You simply… stopped burning.

Alhaitham remembers watching it happen over months, then years—your laughter getting less frequent, your competitiveness dulling, your arrogance flattening into something detached. You still did well when you tried. But you rarely tried.

You started arriving on time instead of early.

You stopped chasing leaderboards.

You stopped picking fights.

You stopped looking at him like he was a challenge.

It should have been a relief.

Instead, it left a hollow space where friction used to be.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Now, sitting beside him in the lamplight, you look nothing like that girl who had stared at the leaderboard with a smile sharp enough to cut.

And the fact that Zandik has noticed you—fixated on you—does not surprise Alhaitham.

Zandik is drawn to anomalies. Always has been.

So was Alhaitham, once.

He just had the sense to call it analysis rather than fascination.

Your breathing shifts slightly. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve again, then loosen, as if you caught yourself doing it.

You do not speak.

You don’t look at him.

You sit very still, like if you remain quiet enough, the world won’t demand anything else from you tonight.

Alhaitham’s arm stays around you.

He doesn’t talk.

He doesn’t lecture.

He simply holds you the way he did when you were younger—when you would run out of words mid-argument and sit too close out of stubbornness, pretending it wasn’t comfort.

He thinks about the last of your trio abroad now, the third point of your old triangle, absent for the year. He wonders what he would say if he saw you like this—quiet, overwhelmed, orbiting the wrong kind of gravity.

Alhaitham doesn’t wonder what Zandik would do.

He knows.

Zandik would test the limits.

Press until something gave.

Call it curiosity.

Call it research.

Call it inevitability.

He would not be gentle.

And you—despite your blank expression, your aloofness, the way you pretend nothing touches you—are not as stable as you believe.

You never were.

You were just loud enough back then that no one noticed the cracks because they were hidden behind fire.

Now you are quiet enough that the cracks can widen unnoticed.

Alhaitham shifts slightly, pulling you closer—not abruptly, not possessively. Just enough that your shoulder presses firmly into his side, a steady point of contact.

You exhale, a thin sound that could be a laugh if someone wanted to misread it.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond with the usual dry remark.

He simply rests his chin lightly against the top of your head for a moment—brief, subtle, old.

Then he moves back, arm still around you, keeping you anchored without making it obvious.

In the lamplight, surrounded by paperwork and silence, he decides something with the same calm certainty he applies to administrative policy:

He will figure out what happened.

He will understand why the brightest, most infuriating rival he ever had went quiet.

And until he does, he will keep you close—busy, safe, grounded—because whatever you’ve become, you are still too unique to ignore.

And far too precious to lose to someone like Zandik.