♡ Angel Autopsy (Yandere! Il Dottore x Reader x Yandere! Various! Multiverse).
♡ Word Count. 15,634 words
The tarmac smells like sterilizer and rain, the kind engineered to convince you this place is clean even when it absolutely is not. New Federation greets you with glass and chrome and a horizon so straight it feels accusatory.
You step down from the transport beside Mortefi, who already looks like he’s mentally cataloguing infrastructure flaws and liability reports, eyes half-lidded, coat immaculate, expression set to this will be tedious but manageable.
You’re busy adjusting the strap of your bag when a shadow detaches itself from the welcoming committee.
No.
No, no, no.
Your foot misses the next step because your brain hard-stops like a corrupted file.
He’s waving. Of course he’s waving. Like a man greeting a lover returning from war, like the runway is a stage and he’s been rehearsing this moment in the mirror with the same grin that used to make you fantasize about shoving him into a cryogenic freezer labeled problematic variables.
Mr. Reca looks exactly the same and worse for it—too bright, too awake, too interested in you specifically. Hair perfect in the way that implies he hasn’t slept and doesn’t need to. Smile sharp enough to qualify as laboratory equipment.
You pivot on instinct, bag swinging, shoes squeaking, dignity evaporating. You head straight back toward the transport like if you pretend hard enough this is a misprint on reality.
“—Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t really think I wouldn’t come meet you, did you?”
Your screech is inhuman. It escapes your throat before language can stop it, a sound usually reserved for rodents discovering the concept of hawks. You spin around just in time to be engulfed.
He hugs you.
He hugs you like he’s been starved.
Your arms pin at your sides. His coat smells like antiseptic and citrus and a bad memory. He’s warm in the way people shouldn’t be warm, all kinetic energy and bone-crushing enthusiasm, chin hooking over your shoulder.
“Missed you,” he murmurs into your hair, affectionate as a long-distance boyfriend who absolutely does not exist. “Did you miss me?”
“No—!” you choke, trying to pry him off with what little upper-body strength evolution saw fit to gift you. You push. He does not move. You push harder. He adjusts his grip like you’re a cat trying to escape a bath. “Let go—what the hell—Reca—!”
“Language,” he scolds, tightening his arms with a laugh that vibrates through your ribcage. “You’re greeting me like I’m a stranger. That hurts.”
“WE ARE STRANGERS,” you yell. “WE COLLABORATED ONCE.”
“Thirteen months,” he corrects cheerfully. “Six papers. Two near-fatal peer reviews. One shared grant proposal that you sabotaged out of spite.”
“You tried to rewrite my methodology in Comic Sans.”
“And yet,” he sighs, crushing you tighter, “here we are.”
You catch Mortefi’s sleeve out of the corner of your eye. He’s turned, frowning, already opening his mouth to intervene—
—and then Dr. Ratio appears like a summons answered by bureaucracy itself.
“Mortefi,” Ratio says briskly, clipboard in hand, expression carved from rules and righteous irritation. “We need to discuss the classified material regarding the—ah.”
He pauses. His eyes flick to you being actively kidnapped.
Reca beams at him. “Doctor! Perfect timing. Isn’t she radiant?”
You make a strangled noise that might be help if anyone loved you.
Ratio blinks once. Twice. Files the scene under not my department with the efficiency of a man who has chosen his battles and found this one deeply optional.
“Mortefi,” he says again, pointedly turning away, “we’ll need immediate clearance on the containment wing. This cannot wait.”
Mortefi hesitates. You lock eyes with him, pleading, feral, betrayed. He looks between you and the two researchers like a man forced to choose between a burning building and a different burning building that is on a tighter schedule.
“I’ll be back,” he says to you, apologetic and doomed. “Don’t—”
Too late.
Reca drags you away with alarming ease, one arm locking around your shoulders, the other waving cheerfully at the committee. Your feet half-skip as you’re hauled off, dignity now a distant rumor.
“Shh,” Reca whispers as you gasp, his grip tightening just enough to be unmistakably threatening, forearm pressing against your throat. Not enough to kill. Enough to remind. “You’re making a scene.”
“I am being abducted,” you wheeze. “Again.”
“Borrowed,” he corrects. “Temporarily.”
Your vision spots. Your hands scrabble uselessly at his sleeve.
You consider, fleetingly, vaporizing him on a molecular level. The thought drifts away. Too much work. Too public. Too permanent.
You settle for glaring with all the dead-eyed fury of a woman who has seen the inside of too many labs and too few consequences.
He drags you into a corridor that smells like ozone and overfunding, boots echoing. The doors slide shut behind you with a hiss that sounds suspiciously like laughter.
“There,” he says brightly, releasing you just enough for air to remember your lungs exist. “Privacy.”
You stagger, coughing, then immediately try to bolt. He catches you by the strap of your bag, yanks you back like a fish on a line, and laughs.
“Oh no you don’t. You always do that.”
“Because you’re a nightmare,” you snap, throat burning. “You’re a manipulative, pushy psychopath with boundary issues and a god complex.”
He looks pleased. “You remembered.”
You fold your arms, back against the wall, eyes flat. “Why are you here.”
“To greet you.”
“Liar.”
“To help.”
“Worse liar.”
He steps closer, crowding your space with deliberate intimacy. His grin softens, just a little, like a blade sheathed in velvet.
“You vanished,” he says. “A year. No calls. No emails. You left mid-argument about sample contamination and never came back.”
“I was busy.”
“You were sulking.”
“You falsified data.”
“I optimized.”
“You endangered people.”
“They signed waivers.”
You shove him. He barely rocks back. Instead, he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head with infuriating gentleness.
“See?” he says fondly. “This is what I missed. You’re always so dramatic.”
Your mind flashes—late nights hunched over shared screens, his voice in your ear, needling. Reca leaning over your shoulder, correcting your equations with a marker he absolutely did not need to take from your hand. Reca stealing your lunch, replacing it with something spicier just to watch you suffer. Reca calling you angel in meetings just to see you flinch.
He was unbearable.
He was brilliant.
He was one of the only people who noticed when you went quiet not because you were bored, but because you were calculating exits.
“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, voice cold. “We were colleagues.”
“We were partners,” he counters. “Enemies. Accomplices. You laughed exactly three times in my presence and I treasure them.”
“I hate you.”
“Adore that about you.”
He releases your wrists, steps back, gives you space like he’s granting a privilege. You rub at your arms, scowling.
“You know,” he says conversationally, “when you left, the lab got boring. No one argued with me properly. No one sabotaged my slides. No one threatened to kill me with office supplies.”
“That was a joke.”
“You sharpened a stapler.”
“You rewrote my conclusions.”
“Because you were wrong.”
You stare at him. He stares back, eyes alight, thrilled.
“God,” he sighs. “You really didn’t miss me at all, did you?”
You consider lying. You consider honesty. You choose something else.
“I missed the silence.”
He laughs, delighted, stepping in again, forehead almost touching yours. “Liar.”
Somewhere deep inside you, something ancient and vast watches this exchange like a sitcom rerun. You let it. You stay human. You stay small. You let him loom and tease and tug at your sleeve like a man who thinks possession is a love language.
You sigh. “Reca.”
“Yes, angel?”
“If you touch me again, I’m requisitioning a black hole.”
He grins wider. “See? You missed me.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He hums.
Not quietly. Not casually.
He hums like a director stalling rehearsal because the lighting is wrong and the lead actress just blinked off-script. A long, theatrical hum, rising and falling, his head tilting as he slowly, deliberately steps closer—too close—into your personal bubble like it’s a chalk outline he intends to redraw.
You don’t move.
You stare at him with that familiar deadpan, eyes half-lidded, soul visibly clocked out. The expression you reserve for malfunctioning machines, tedious ethics boards, and men who think proximity equals intimacy.
Reca sighs.
A suffering sigh. A martyred sigh. The sigh of a man betrayed by narrative structure itself.
“…Wow,” he says softly, raising an eyebrow. “So this is how I find out.”
You blink once. “Find out what.”
He presses a hand to his chest. “That you cheated on me.”
Silence.
Then: “…what.”
He laughs.
Oh, he laughs. Throws his head back, one hand braced on the wall beside your face, body caging you in with infuriating ease. It’s loud, delighted, scandalized, like he’s just uncovered the twist ending of a particularly juicy drama.
“I knew it,” he says, breathless. “I knew it. The signs were all there.”
“There were no signs,” you say flatly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he replies, leaning in, voice dropping conspiratorially. “There were so many signs.”
You try to step sideways. He mirrors you instantly, crowding closer, shoulder brushing yours. You hiss under your breath like an annoyed cat. He looks thrilled.
He taps his temple. “Let’s begin, shall we? A purely logical, scientific, rational analysis. Conducted by a true genius. Also—” he gestures vaguely to himself “—your certified boyfriend.”
“You are not—”
“—tragically unacknowledged, yes, yes, we’ve been over this,” he waves you off. “Now. Exhibit A.”
He lifts a finger.
“You stopped arguing with me.”
You stare. “…That’s because I’m tired.”
“No,” he says immediately. “Incorrect. When you’re tired, you get meaner. Sharper. You start weaponizing footnotes. This?” He squints at you. “This is disinterest.”
“Good,” you mutter. “That means it’s working.”
He ignores you.
“Exhibit B,” he continues, lifting a second finger. “You’ve been late. Not in the usual way—your usual late is intentional, strategic, designed to inconvenience people you dislike. This late?” He smiles thinly. “Distracted. Preoccupied. Thinking about something else.”
You try to duck under his arm. He shifts, blocking you effortlessly, arm sliding around your shoulders like it belongs there. You freeze, every muscle screaming irritation.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“Relax,” he says fondly. “I’m observing.”
You bare your teeth.
“Exhibit C,” he goes on, utterly unbothered. “You smell different.”
That gets a reaction.
Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”
“Not bad,” he adds quickly, eyes gleaming. “Just—different. Not chemicals. Not stress. Not blood. It’s…hm?” He leans in, inhales far too close to your neck. “Interest.”
You shove his chest. Hard.
He stumbles back half a step, laughing, hands raised in mock surrender. “There it is! The violence! God, I missed that.”
“You’re disgusting,” you say. “And creepy.”
“Yes,” he agrees cheerfully. “And right.”
You fold your arms, glaring. “I am not interested in anyone.”
He tilts his head, studying you like a specimen under glass. “You say that. But your pupils disagree.”
“That’s not—”
“Your reaction times are slower,” he continues, warming to the topic. “Your attention drifts. You used to treat people like variables—interchangeable, irrelevant. Now?” He clicks his tongue. “There’s one you’re tracking. Subconsciously. Constantly.”
Your spine prickles.
He steps closer again, voice dropping. “You don’t care about work. Or collaborations. Or institutions. Or me—” he winces dramatically “—which is frankly cruel. But this time?” His eyes lock onto yours. “This time you care.”
Your stomach sinks, not with fear, but with annoyance so deep it borders on cosmic.
“You’re projecting,” you say.
He grins. “I’m observing.”
A pause.
Then, lightly: “Who is he?”
You don’t answer.
You don’t even bother pretending.
That’s what gives you away.
Reca’s smile widens slowly, like something unfolding petal by petal. “Oh. Oh, that’s bad.”
You try to leave again. He catches your wrist, gentle but unyielding, thumb brushing your pulse like he’s memorizing it. You glare at the contact.
“Let go.”
“In a moment,” he says pleasantly. “I just want to savor this.”
“Savor what.”
“The fact that someone finally managed to do what I couldn’t.”
Your brow furrows despite yourself. “Which is.”
“Get your attention,” he says simply.
You scoff. “You’ve always had my attention. You’re loud.”
“Mm. No.” He shakes his head. “I had your irritation. Your tolerance. Your knives-out professionalism. Not this.”
“This what.”
“This silence,” he says softly. “This… pull. You’re not bored. You’re not annoyed. You’re not even amused.” He leans in, eyes sharp. “You’re interested.”
Something cold crawls up your spine.
You stare at him, truly looking now. At the manic intelligence, the way his gaze dissects without mercy, the unsettling accuracy that made working with him unbearable.
“How,” you say slowly, “would you even know.”
He laughs again, delighted. “Oh, angel. I’ve been stalking you for years.”
You don’t react. That, too, is a tell.
“Lightly,” he adds. “Casually. Professionally. You know—background checks, travel logs, academic footprints. The usual.”
“That is not usual.”
“For me it is.” He shrugs. “And recently?” His grin sharpens. “There’s a new anomaly.”
You tense.
“Your patterns shifted,” he continues. “Your risk tolerance changed. You started orbiting someone dangerous—not in the fun, obvious way, but the interesting way. Controlled. Calculated. Like you’re circling a live wire just to see if it bites.”
Your jaw tightens.
“And then,” he says, almost gleeful, “you stopped answering my messages entirely.”
“I always ignore you.”
“Yes, but this time you didn’t even bother insulting me first.” He clicks his tongue. “Rude.”
You finally snap. “You’re wrong. About all of it.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
He hums again, thoughtful. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you found someone who matches your freak.”
You flinch.
There it is. Tiny. Microscopic. But real.
Reca’s eyes light up like he’s just confirmed a hypothesis.
“Oh, I knew it,” he breathes. “You don’t look at people like that unless they scare you a little.”
“I am not scared.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re curious. Which is worse.”
He releases your wrist at last, stepping back, hands in his pockets, posture loose and theatrical once more.
“So,” he says lightly, “as your boyfriend—”
“You are not—”
“—I must formally lodge a complaint,” he continues, steamrolling you. “You partner with half the scientific community, but this one you keep to yourself? Secret meetings. No documentation. No peer review. Honestly? I’m offended.”
You stare at him, exhausted. “You’re insane.”
“Yes,” he agrees brightly. “But I’m also correct.”
A beat.
“…Is he better than me?”
You laugh despite yourself. A short, humorless huff.
He watches it like it’s a rare phenomenon.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “That answer was loud.”
You turn away.
Behind you, Reca smiles—wide, sharp, delighted, and just a little unhinged.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You know what happens when you find something interesting.”
You pause.
“…No,” you say flatly. “What.”
“You keep it,” he replies. “Until it breaks. Or you do.”
He just hums, already rewriting the story in his head, already planning how to insert himself back into your orbit—because now that you’ve found someone else?
Well.
That simply won’t do.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
He doesn’t ask.
He never asks.
One second you’re standing there, arms crossed, soul on airplane mode, and the next Reca is on you—arms locking around your torso, pulling you flush against his chest with enough force to make your lungs reconsider their career choices.
“Oof—what—” you grunt, immediately trying to pry him off.
“No,” he whines, burying his face against the side of your head. “Nope. Not letting go. I’m filing a formal complaint.”
“This is assault,” you say flatly, muffled by his coat.
“This is affection,” he snaps back, squeezing tighter. “And jealousy. Extremely justified jealousy.”
You wheeze. “You are… not entitled… to—”
He tightens his grip like a dramatic Victorian heroine clinging to her lover before a tragic farewell. “You are my research subject.”
“I am a person.”
“I found you first.”
“That does not—”
“I observed you before anyone else,” he continues, steamrolling you with offended intensity. “Before this mystery man. Before whoever you’re hiding so well I can’t even scrape metadata off his existence.”
You freeze.
He feels it immediately.
“Oh,” he says smugly into your hair. “There it is. That little pause. That delicious tension. You really are hiding him.”
“I am not hiding anyone,” you mutter.
“You are concealing,” he corrects. “Meticulously. Intentionally. Professionally.” He pulls back just enough to look at your face, eyes sharp and shining. “Which is rude, by the way.”
You scowl. “Why do you even care.”
He stares at you like you’ve just asked why gravity bothers pulling things down.
“Because,” he says slowly, then abruptly tightens his arms again, crushing you to him, “you’re my girlfriend.”
“I am not—”
“Semantics,” he snorts. “You never signed the paperwork, sure, but emotionally? Spiritually? Astronomically? All mine.”
“That is not how—”
“And,” he adds pettily, “you are definitely not allowed to two-time me.”
“I am not dating you.”
He hums. “You’re dating someone.”
“I am not.”
“You’re interested,” he insists. “Which is worse.”
You try to duck out of his grip. He anticipates it, shifting his weight, chin hooking over your shoulder again, cheek pressing against yours.
“Don’t squirm,” he says fondly. “You know I love it when you squirm.”
“I hate you,” you hiss.
“You love me,” he corrects. “Or at least tolerate me. Which is practically marriage in your emotional range.”
He nuzzles closer, breath warm against your ear. You make a face so disgusted it could curdle milk.
“Get off,” you say.
“No.”
He presses a kiss to your cheek.
You stiffen.
Then another. Too close. Another—closer still, brushing the corner of your lips.
Your hand shoots up instantly, slapping over his mouth. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs against your palm, biting down suddenly.
“OW—!” you yelp, jerking back and smacking him square in the chest.
He staggers a step, clutching himself dramatically. “Violence. Again. See? We’re intimate.”
“You bit me!”
“Affectionately.”
“You are unhinged.”
“And yet,” he says, grinning, leaning back in, arms wrapping around you again like a restraining order waiting to happen, “you’re still here.”
You glare. “Because you’re physically stronger.”
“And because,” he adds lightly, “you don’t actually want me gone.”
“That is not true.”
He sighs, long and theatrical, resting his chin atop your head like he belongs there. “You’re terrible at lying.”
You don’t respond.
That, too, is an answer.
He tightens his hold just a fraction, enough to feel constraining without tipping into obvious menace. The gesture is almost gentle. Almost.
“You know,” he says conversationally, “I ran the numbers. Statistically, the probability of you forming an attachment is negligible. You don’t care about people. You don’t care about institutions. You don’t even care about yourself in any conventional sense.”
“Flattering,” you mutter.
“But this?” He hums thoughtfully. “This anomaly? Fascinating. You’re careful now. Guarded. Like you’re protecting something fragile.”
You scoff. “I don’t protect.”
He smiles against your hair. “You do when you value something.”
Silence stretches.
His voice drops, still playful, but edged with something sharper. “So tell me. What makes him special.”
You don’t answer.
He doesn’t push. Not immediately.
Instead, he presses another kiss to your cheek—slower this time, lingering just long enough to be annoying rather than invasive.
“You know,” he continues, “I checked everything. Travel records. Collaboration networks. Shadow citations. There’s nothing. Whoever he is, he’s either very good…” His fingers flex slightly at your side. “…or very dangerous.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re projecting again.”
“Maybe,” he concedes. “But I don’t miss patterns like this.”
He shifts, turning you slightly so you’re facing him whether you like it or not. His grip loosens just enough to look non-threatening, eyes searching your face with infuriating acuity.
“You don’t look bored,” he says softly. “You don’t look annoyed. You look… invested.”
Your jaw tightens.
He grins. “God, it’s adorable.”
“I am going to kill you,” you say without heat.
“Eventually,” he agrees cheerfully. “But not before I meet him.”
“That is not happening.”
“Oh, it is,” he says. “Because I can’t find him. And that makes him interesting. And anything interesting to you?” He taps your chest lightly. “Becomes noteworthy to me.”
You slap his hand away.
He laughs, delighted, immediately leaning back in to steal another kiss—this time you shove your hand over his mouth again, scowling.
“Stop that.”
He bites your palm again, gentler this time, playful.
You smack him harder.
He beams. “There it is. Foreplay.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And jealous,” he adds, whining suddenly, clinging to you again like a melodramatic octopus. “So jealous. Do you have any idea how unfair this is? I put in years of work. Observation. Analysis. Light stalking.”
“Light?”
“Extremely light.” He squeezes you. “And then some mystery man shows up and suddenly you’re all secretive and interesting and—ugh. I hate him already.”
You sigh. “You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough,” Reca says smugly. “He’s got your attention. Which means he’s either brilliant, terrifying, or both.”
You go still.
He notices.
“Oh,” he murmurs. “Both, then.”
You glare at him. “You’re wrong.”
He smiles like a man who has already won an argument you haven’t realized you’re having.
“Maybe,” he says. “But until proven otherwise?” He pulls you back into his arms, chin resting on your head, voice light and teasing. “You’re all mine.”
“I am not—”
“—my favorite anomaly,” he finishes. “My girlfriend. My problem.”
You groan.
He laughs.
And somewhere beneath the comedy, beneath the whining and the kisses and the playful bites, something darker curls contentedly—unseen, unspoken, patient.
After all.
He found you first.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
You should have known something was wrong the moment he called it a “casual coffee date” with that face.
That face being the exact expression of a man who had already planned the next three hours of your life down to the angle of your cup and the publicly acceptable number of times he intended to touch you in front of witnesses.
“Why are you standing there like a condemned woman?” Reca asked, appearing at your side with the effortless, deeply irritating timing of a stalker blessed by divine favoritism. “It’s coffee, not an execution.”
You looked at him.
He looked offensively delighted with himself.
The New Federation main campus was alive in the restless, over-caffeinated way it always was in the late morning: students cutting across the central walkways with bags slung over one shoulder, faculty pretending not to be exhausted, digital billboards flashing campus announcements, event teasers, and countdowns for the upcoming M Championships and the endless stretch of festivals everyone had apparently agreed were a good idea.
Somewhere nearby, someone was trying and failing to tune an instrument. Somewhere farther away, two people were having a vicious intellectual disagreement over committee logistics. The air smelled faintly of exhaust, synthetic flowers from landscaping drones, and roasted coffee from the café Reca was already dragging you toward by the wrist.
Not holding your hand.
Your wrist.
Like he’d caught a feral cat that looked capable of murder and had decided it was adorable.
“You walk so slowly,” he complained, not releasing you. “Do you do this to be dramatic, or were you born like this?”
“You’re loud,” you said.
“And you’re welcome.”
“For what?”
“For taking you on a date.”
You kept walking because refusing would require stopping and you had already been physically acquired.
“That implies I agreed.”
He turned to look at you while still walking forward at a speed that should have caused at least one collision. “You kept moving with me. That’s legally binding in several very romantic jurisdictions.”
“You made that up.”
He gasped in mock offense. “You wound me. I would never lie to my girlfriend before noon.”
Three students coming the opposite way heard that and immediately swerved around the two of you with the quick, startled reflexes of prey animals avoiding an apex problem.
You sighed.
He grinned.
The café sat at the corner of the main campus square, glass-fronted and aggressively modern in the way institutions liked to be when they wanted students to think tuition was being used responsibly.
Inside, the place was packed with the usual species: sleep-deprived researchers, suspiciously polished student leaders, social clusters pretending to study, actual students studying out of spite, and a few doomed souls trying to find seating with drinks balanced like sacrificial offerings.
The moment Reca pushed the door open and ushered you inside with a hand at the small of your back, heads turned.
Not because you were the center of attention.
Because Reca entered every room like attention owed him rent.
“There she is,” he announced to absolutely no one who had asked, sweeping one hand toward the menu board while the other remained at your back, guiding, steering, claiming, “my beautiful and emotionally unavailable coffee companion.”
The barista, who had clearly seen him before and not enjoyed the experience, straightened like a soldier under artillery threat. “Hi. What can I get for you?”
Reca leaned casually against the counter like he paid taxes here. “One iced chocolate cream blend, less ice, extra syrup, and make it pretty because she has the emotional range of a stone monument and needs aesthetic compensation.”
You turned your head toward him very slowly.
The barista froze.
“And one black cold brew,” he continued, completely unafraid of death. “No sugar. No mercy. Just caffeine and bad decisions.”
“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” you said.
He looked at you with infuriating patience. “I know what you want.”
“You know what you assume.”
“I know what you routinely order when you’re tired and pretending you’re not.”
You stared at him.
He smiled brighter. “And you’re tired.”
He wasn’t wrong, which was unfortunate.
“You profile people for fun,” you said.
“I profile you because it’s my civic duty as your boyfriend.”
“You’re not—”
“Oh no,” he said gravely, looking toward the barista. “She’s in denial again. Terrible condition. Tragic. I’ve been so strong.”
The barista made the universal face of customer service personnel everywhere: I am not paid enough to arbitrate this level of nonsense.
You considered leaving.
Reca, without looking, caught your sleeve between two fingers.
“Don’t,” he said pleasantly.
The problem with him was that half the time he sounded like he was joking and the other half he sounded exactly the same.
You stayed.
Which was also a problem.
He paid before you could stop him, then took both receipt slips, glanced at them, and tucked yours into his pocket too.
“Why.”
“Souvenir.”
“It’s a receipt.”
“It’s evidence of our first coffee date.”
“It’s not our first.”
“It’s our first officially acknowledged one.”
“No one acknowledged anything.”
He leaned down slightly, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his voice before the words landed. “I did.”
You looked away first, which pleased him so visibly it was embarrassing.
Waiting for drinks with Reca should have been uneventful.
Instead, it became performance art.
He herded you off to the side, then immediately ignored the existence of personal space as a concept. One arm looped around your shoulders. One hand stole your bag off you and slung it over his own. His fingers idly toyed with the edge of your sleeve like you were both standing alone instead of in the middle of a crowded campus café.
“You know what’s romantic?” he asked.
“No.”
“Matching beverage condensation.”
“That isn’t romantic.”
“It can be if you stop being such a hater.”
“I’m not hating. I’m observing.”
He nodded solemnly. “And I’m observing that you haven’t tried to hit me with a chair yet, so clearly you’re enjoying yourself.”
You looked at the nearest chair.
He laughed immediately, delighted rather than threatened. “There she is.”
A few people near the pickup counter kept glancing over. Mostly because Reca was not keeping his voice down. Also because he had now progressed from arm-around-shoulders to openly resting his chin on top of your head like a menace-sized housecat claiming furniture.
“You’re heavy,” you said.
“You’re tiny.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It can be.”
He shifted just enough to press a quick kiss to your hairline.
You did not react.
He drew back with a wounded look so fake it deserved an award. “Nothing. No blushing. No fluster. No scandalized gasp. Do you know how discouraging this is for an artist?”
“You’re not an artist.”
“I’m creating moments.”
“You’re creating a disturbance.”
“That too.”
When the drinks were called, he was there instantly, collecting both with the proprietary confidence of someone retrieving shared assets. He handed you your iced drink first, then didn’t let go.
You looked at the cup.
Then at his hand still wrapped around it.
Then at him.
“What.”
He tilted his head. “You’re supposed to take the first sip while I admire you.”
“You sound insane.”
He smiled. “And yet.”
You took the drink anyway because arguing was boring. He watched with absurd concentration as you took a sip, like the barista had handed him lab results instead of coffee.
“Well?” he asked.
“It tastes like sugar.”
“That is because joy frightens you and I’m broadening your horizons.”
“It tastes like chocolate-dripped debt.”
He stared at you for one second, then nearly laughed the lid off his own drink. “That is the most hateful thing anyone has ever said about coffee. I think I’m in love with you.”
“You say that too easily.”
“No, I say it exactly the appropriate amount.”
He hooked two fingers under the strap of your bag on his shoulder and steered you toward the seating area before you could object.
Every table was nearly full. Students hunched over tablets, notebooks, projections, and the corpses of group assignments. Near the windows, a pair of seniors in committee jackets were having an argument intense enough to qualify as diplomacy.
Reca scanned the room once, dismissed most of it, then chose a small table near the side wall. Not tucked away, not exactly private—just inconvenient enough that anyone passing had to get very close.
Strategic.
You noticed.
He noticed you noticing.
“Sit,” he said pleasantly.
“That sounded authoritarian.”
“That’s because you resist all reasonable guidance.”
You sat.
He sat beside you instead of across.
Of course he did.
There was an entire empty chair opposite you, a functioning social norm, and approximately ten thousand years of human etiquette suggesting he should use it.
Instead, he took the seat next to you, angled himself partly toward you, draped an arm across the back of your chair, and acted like this was the only logical arrangement.
“You know,” he said, stirring a straw through his black coffee like it had offended him personally, “normal couples sit across from each other so they can make eye contact.”
“You should try that then.”
He smiled lazily. “No. This lets me bother you more efficiently.”
He stole a napkin, flattened it on the table, and took out a pen from nowhere.
You watched him write something.
Then he slid the napkin toward you.
It said, in aggressively neat handwriting:
COFFEE DATE EVALUATION FORM
- Was your companion devastatingly charming?
- Would you permit a second date?
- Are you aware he is carrying this relationship on his back?
You looked at it for a long moment.
Then you took his pen and added a fourth line.
- Do you suffer from a personality disorder that makes silence physically painful?
He read it and lit up like he’d been handed flowers.
“Oh, that’s intimate,” he said. “You’re engaging.”
“I’m diagnosing.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
He folded the napkin and tucked it into his coat pocket like it was precious.
“Why are you keeping that?”
“Archival purposes.”
“You’re horrifying.”
“You like me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Mm.” He sipped his coffee. “That’s basically a love confession from you.”
You stared at the window instead of him. Outside, students crossed the square beneath championship banners and festival advertisements. Delivery bots rolled past in neat lines. Somewhere near the entrance, someone dropped something metallic and swore with enough sincerity to turn it into prayer.
Reca followed your gaze.
“You do this thing,” he said.
“What thing.”
“This thing where you look out at everything like you’re not part of it.”
You didn’t answer.
He rested his cheek briefly against your temple with irritating casualness. “It’s annoying.”
“You say that like it’s my problem.”
“It is my problem. I brought you on a cute date, and you’re acting like a commemorative statue.”
“I’m drinking the coffee.”
“Without proper enthusiasm.”
“Is there a standard?”
“There should be.”
He nudged your drink closer when it drifted a centimeter too far from your reach, then, in the same motion, stole your straw and took a sip from your cup.
You turned to him.
He swallowed, thoughtful. “Still too sweet.”
“That was mine.”
“That’s what makes it romantic.”
“That’s what makes it theft.”
He grinned, then deliberately pushed his own drink toward you. “Trade.”
You looked down at the black cold brew like it had personally slighted you.
“You hate bitter things,” he said.
“No, I hate unpleasant surprises.”
“Same principle.”
He watched you take a cautious sip. Your expression didn’t change.
“You’re terrifying,” he said fondly. “No reaction. It’s like dating a highly selective neural network.”
“It tastes like regret.”
“There she is.”
He took his cup back, then fished around in his pocket and produced two small sugar packets he had apparently stolen from the counter.
Without asking, he tore one open and added half to your drink, then stirred it with clinical concentration.
“You micromanage.”
“I care.”
“You’re making up synonyms.”
“I’m improving your experience.”
You should have been annoyed.
You were annoyed.
But he had lowered his voice slightly, and the easy nonsense had gone gentler around the edges, and the simple fact of him paying attention to the exact amount of sugar you’d tolerate in a drink you never admitted liking felt more intimate than it had any right to.
Which was disgusting.
You took another sip.
He watched.
“Well?”
You looked at him flatly. “Acceptable.”
His hand flew to his chest. “High praise. I’ll treasure this forever.”
A girl at the next table choked on her own laughter and tried to hide it with a cough. Reca turned instantly.
“Thank you,” he told her with a gracious nod. “It’s difficult, but we make it work.”
You closed your eyes for one full second.
When you opened them again, he had already pivoted to the next phase of whatever deranged coffee ritual he had decided was necessary.
“Okay,” he said, tapping the table. “Next order of business.”
“There’s business?”
“Obviously. This is a coffee date. There are rituals.”
“There are not.”
“There are now.”
He held up a finger and began counting off. “One: ordering each other’s drinks. Already completed. Two: judging each other’s taste. Also completed. Three: silent people-watching and mutually bitchy commentary.”
You looked out across the café again.
He leaned close beside you, shoulder touching yours, and murmured, “Window table, blue jacket, pretending to study but actually waiting for someone.”
“Red folder,” you said. “Committee member. Sleep-deprived. Overcompensating.”
He hummed approvingly. “Good. Couple activity.”
“We are not a detective agency.”
“We could be.”
“We’d be arrested.”
“Only if they caught us.”
He pointed subtly with his straw. “Back corner. Third-year economics. Currently being broken up with over text.”
You glanced once. “That’s not a breakup face.”
“What is it, then?”
“Budget spreadsheet.”
He squinted. “…Damn. You’re right.”
You took another sip of your drink.
He stared at you with bright, unfiltered delight. “You are so fun.”
“No one has ever said that sincerely.”
“That’s because no one else appreciates your weird little deadpan hobbies.”
“Observation is not a hobby.”
“It is when you do it with me over coffee while looking too pretty to be trusted.”
You ignored that.
He, clearly encouraged by your refusal to escalate, reached over and plucked at the sleeve of your jacket. “You know another ritual?”
“No.”
“Table doodles.”
Before you could object, he took your hand—not rough, not sudden, but with the maddening confidence of repeated success—and turned it palm-up on the table.
Then, using the tip of his pen, he drew a tiny star on the inside of your wrist.
You looked down at it.
Then at him.
He looked smug. “Branding.”
“That’s ink.”
“That’s symbolism.”
“You’re embarrassing.”
“You let me.”
You should have pulled your hand away.
Instead, you let him finish the tiny little cluster of stars around your wrist like some cheap temporary constellation. He did it with ridiculous focus, tongue pressed briefly to the inside of his cheek, like this mattered in some irrationally specific way.
When he was done, he turned your wrist slightly, admiring his own work.
“There. Now you’re festive.”
“It looks like I lost a fight with a stationery store.”
“It looks cute.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m your boyfriend. Bias is the job description.”
There were moments with him where the world narrowed in nonsensical ways. Not softer exactly, because softness implied peace and Reca had never once entered your life without bringing chaos tucked into his sleeves. But narrower. More pointed. Focused. A little ridiculous and a little too bright.
He was unbearable.
He was also adjusting the position of your cup so the condensation ring didn’t soak the sleeve of your jacket.
You noticed that too.
He noticed you noticing again, because of course he did.
“What?” he asked, mouth curved.
“You’re weirdly domestic.”
He looked genuinely pleased. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“It was to me.”
The café grew louder as noon crept closer. More students filed in. More orders were called. Chairs scraped. A nearby table of athletes argued about training schedules. Somewhere behind the counter, a blender started screaming like it had seen the future and disapproved.
Reca finished half his coffee, then rested his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, openly studying you.
“Why are you looking at me like that.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s ominous.”
“I’m deciding what pastry fits your personality.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly.
He continued, unbothered. “You’d say something severe like espresso brownie, but that’s not right. That implies self-awareness. No, you’re one of those desserts that looks plain and then ruins someone’s week.”
“That’s not even an insult. That’s just slander with garnish.”
He grinned. “What would I be?”
“A sugar bomb with structural instability.”
He stared at you for a beat, then laughed so hard he had to lean forward. “God, that’s awful. I’m keeping that too.”
“You keep everything.”
“Yes.”
That one landed strangely.
His smile didn’t change. His tone didn’t either. Still light. Still playful. Still easy.
But the word sat there a second too long between you.
Yes.
He keeps everything.
Receipts. Napkins. Comments. Reactions. Patterns. Preferences.
The exact amount of sugar you tolerated. The way your mouth flattened before you said something especially mean. The way you never moved away fast enough when he leaned in. The way your silence changed texture depending on whether you were actually annoyed or only pretending not to indulge him.
He kept everything.
Then he ruined the moment by reaching over and pinching your cheek.
You slapped his hand away immediately.
“There,” he said, satisfied. “Alive.”
“You’re going to die.”
“No you won’t kill me in public,” he said cheerfully. “You’re too considerate.”
That was unfortunately accurate.
He stood abruptly, grabbed both cups, and jerked his head toward the exit. “Come on.”
“Why.”
“Coffee date phase two.”
“There are phases.”
“There are now.”
He dumped the empty cups, reclaimed your bag before you could, and took your hand this time instead of your wrist. Full fingers laced together like the natural progression of things. Like this had been decided long before you arrived.
Outside, the campus square had gotten brighter. The midday rush shimmered across the main paths. Digital banners overhead cycled from championship promos to festival countdowns to some aggressively wholesome student wellness campaign that no one believed.
Reca led you toward the long side walkway lined with planters, benches, and a cleaner view of the central fountain.
“This,” he declared, “is the traditional post-coffee stroll.”
“There is nothing traditional about you.”
“No, but there could be.”
He swung your joined hands once between you like a smug idiot in a commercial for selective emotional damage.
You kept pace beside him anyway.
He looked over at you, sunlight catching the edges of his grin, hair ruffled slightly by the breeze, too pleased with too little.
Then he leaned down and kissed your temple with the lazy confidence of a man who had been waiting to do it again since the café.
“Successful first date,” he announced.
“It’s still ongoing …?”
“Exactly. See? Commitment.”
You stared ahead.
He squeezed your hand.
And you did not let go first.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
By the time Reca informed you that you had been “voluntold for pre-festival vendor quality assurance,” you were already staring at the forged evaluator badge clipped neatly to the front of your jacket and wondering whether homicide counted as community service if the target was universally annoying.
“This is fake,” you said.
He kept walking.
“This,” he corrected, tapping the laminated pass hanging from your neck, “is an administratively flexible access credential.”
“It says Senior Tasting Consultant.”
“Yes.”
“I have never consulted on anything in my life.”
He finally looked at you, scandalized. “That is insulting. You judge everything.”
“That’s not consulting.”
“That is literally premium consulting with a bad attitude.”
You looked down at his own pass.
CHIEF FIELD EVALUATOR.
Of course it did.
The New Federation campus had transformed again.
The main grounds near the campus promenade were crowded with half-assembled vendor booths and taste-testing stations where committee members were apparently running trial rounds before the actual festival opening.
Which, on paper, sounded normal.
In practice, it meant Reca had obtained—or fabricated—access to a space full of food, games, activities, and trapped committee members too tired to question his confidence.
So naturally, he took one look at the sprawling rows of test vendors and decided this was romance.
“Look alive,” he said, taking your hand before you could decide whether walking away was worth the energy. “This is our second date.”
“It’s trespassing.”
He squeezed your hand once. “That too.”
He dragged you through the entrance checkpoint with the air of a man returning to property he personally financed. One committee volunteer looked at the badges, then at Reca, then at you, and visibly chose peace over truth.
“Please give honest feedback,” she said weakly.
Reca smiled like a serpent blessed by customer service training. “Always.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The sweets section was the worst of it all.
It was all festival desserts designed to be cute enough for social media and sweet enough to destroy public health.
Mini cakes. Frosted pastries. Candied fruits. Decorative cream buns. Colorful wafer towers. Tiny branded cookies shaped like championship emblems and mascot animals. There was even one stall dedicated exclusively to experimental seasonal desserts that looked like a committee member had weaponized whimsy.
Reca nearly stopped walking.
“Oh, this is repulsive,” he said reverently. “I want everything.”
“You say that like you’re being forced.”
“I’m being seduced by sugar architecture.”
The girl at the stall lit up when she saw the badges. “Please test visual appeal and flavor expectations!”
Reca pointed at the cutest pastry tray with immediate moral weakness. “We’ll need a full comparative analysis.”
“You’ll need insulin.”
“We’ll need teamwork.”
He picked out a tiny cream-filled pastry decorated with glossy fruit and edible shimmer, then held it toward you. You took one look at it.
“No.”
He moved it an inch closer. “One bite.”
“No.”
“Do it for science.”
“No.”
“Do it because I’m pretty.”
You stared at him until even the girl at the stall looked embarrassed on his behalf.
He sighed heavily, then did the thing he always did when you refused to react properly—tilted his head, softened his expression just enough to suggest he was moments away from feigning heartbreak, and asked, with exaggerated patience, “Do you enjoy being difficult, or is it involuntary?”
“You’re holding a glitter pastry in my face.”
“And?”
“You look ridiculous.”
His grin returned immediately. “That’s not a no.”
You bit it just enough to shut him up.
He watched you chew like a man observing sacred revelation.
“Well?” he asked.
You swallowed. “It tastes expensive and unstable.”
The stall girl covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
Reca snapped his fingers. “Exactly. That’s the review. Write that down. Expensive and unstable. Like me.”
“That’s the first honest thing you’ve said today.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Cruelty from the woman I spoil with cream-based desserts.”
Then, because the universe hated you, he wiped a tiny smear of filling from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
You froze.
The stall girl froze.
The air around the booth seemed to hold still for one cursed second.
Reca looked down at the cream on his thumb, then at you, and without breaking eye contact, casually licked it off.
The stall girl made a small sound somewhere between a cough and a spiritual emergency.
You stared at him flatly. “You’re disgusting.”
“And yet,” he said silkily, “you’re still here.”
You turned and walked away before he could make it worse.
He followed immediately, laughing under his breath, one hand finding the back of your neck for a second as if to guide you even though you were already moving in the same direction.
“Don’t be shy,” he teased.
“I’m considering manslaughter.”
“You do that every date.”
“That should concern you.”
“It would, if you ever meant it.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The next section was games.
Temporary carnival-style booths lined the central strip—ring toss, dart balloons, lucky draw, bottle knockdown, target shooting with low-powered foam launchers, spinning prize wheels, bean bag throws, and a horrible cooperative obstacle game that was clearly going to cause injuries when the real festival opened.
Staff and volunteers hovered nearby with checklists, trying to evaluate fairness, setup time, prize stock, and whether the mechanics were actually fun or just visually stressful.
Reca’s eyes gleamed the second he saw the ring toss.
“Oh, absolutely not,” you said.
“Oh, absolutely yes,” he said, already dragging you toward it. “This is foundational couple behavior.”
The volunteer running the booth recognized the evaluator tags and handed over the rings. “Please test distance calibration and prize attainability.”
Reca nodded with grave professionalism, then immediately shoved all the rings into your hand. “Win me something.”
“You have two hands.”
“I’m preserving my mystique.”
“You missed a dart last time.”
“That was strategic vulnerability.”
“You failed publicly.”
He leaned in. “And yet you stayed with me. Inspirational.”
You looked at the bottles arranged in rows across the booth. Then casually tossed the first ring. It landed.
The volunteer blinked.
You tossed the second. Landed.
The third. Landed.
The fourth bounced once and settled.
The fifth dropped cleanly over the bottleneck without hesitation.
The volunteer stared at you with the quiet panic of someone realizing the “evaluation guest” might actually be an eldritch entity in a dead-eyed girl’s body.
Reca stared at the bottles, then at you, then laughed in delighted disbelief. “There you are. Horrifying. Perfect.”
He didn’t even pretend he had anything to do with it. He just reached over the prize rack and selected a stuffed black cat mascot with huge ears and a vacant little face.
Then he placed it directly into your arms.
“I won this for you,” he said.
“You did nothing.”
“I believed in you.”
“That’s not labor.”
“That’s boyfriend support.”
The volunteer, perhaps unwilling to challenge the narrative, simply nodded like yes, that was clearly how physics worked.
You held the plush because refusing it would prolong the interaction.
Reca immediately used the fact that your arms were occupied to wrap one arm around your waist.
“You’re so convenient when carrying gifts,” he remarked.
“You planned this.”
“I capitalize on opportunities.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The next booth involved one of those impossible fishing games where flimsy paper scoops were used to catch floating tokens or toy capsules from a shallow pool. Reca saw it and announced, “This one’s for us.”
“You say that about everything.”
“Yes. Relationship mindset.”
He crouched beside the pool, sleeves rolled slightly, looking far too pleased with himself for a grown man about to fail at children’s festival equipment. You stood beside him holding the stuffed prize from the last booth like a disillusioned nanny to a morally suspicious child.
He attempted the paper scoop once.
It broke.
He frowned at it like the laws of material science had personally betrayed him.
“Rigged,” he said immediately.
“It’s paper.”
“It lacks ambition.”
The volunteer at the booth nervously offered another scoop.
Reca accepted it, then looked up at you. “Come here.”
“No.”
“Yes. Cooperative test.”
Before you could object, he caught your wrist and tugged you down beside him so you were both crouched awkwardly next to the little pool. Then, with criminal audacity, he put his hand over yours on the handle of the paper scoop.
“You are unbearable.”
“And yet this is adorable.”
“It’s humiliating.”
“It’s bonding.”
Together—meaning mostly you, with him gratuitously guiding nothing—you managed to lift a floating capsule out of the water before the scoop gave out.
The volunteer clapped lightly.
Reca looked at the tiny prize capsule like it contained state secrets. He cracked it open and found a cheap charm shaped like a star.
“Well,” he said, “that’s fate.”
“It’s plastic.”
“Same difference.”
He tucked it into your pocket before you could protest.
“You keep giving me junk.”
“I’m giving you mementos.”
“You’re cluttering my life.”
He smiled brightly. “That too.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
Food again.
Always food.
The savory trial section had expanded into full tasting plates now: fried wraps, stuffed buns, grilled skewers, noodles in sample cups, portable rice boxes, layered snacks, spicy chips, dumplings, and bizarre fusion experiments that looked like committee members had lost bets.
Reca insisted on trying everything with the sincerity of a man treating culinary overconsumption as patriotic duty.
At one booth offering sample dumplings, he took a bite and immediately leaned into your space.
“Try.”
“No.”
“Open.”
“No.”
“I’m not moving.”
“That sounds like a personal issue.”
He held the dumpling in front of your face for three full seconds while you stared at him, then at the dumpling, then at the dumpling again because he had the stubborn persistence of a disease vector.
Finally you bit it.
He looked absurdly triumphant.
“This is why persistence matters,” he told the vendor.
The vendor, who had not asked to become part of your dynamic, just nodded weakly.
“Too much salt,” you said after swallowing.
“See?” Reca said. “She’s terrifying and useful.”
“You say that like you’re surprised every time.”
“I choose to remain delighted.”
Then, because he lacked fear or shame, he kissed your cheek right there at the dumpling stall as if your evaluation comment had been particularly romantic.
The vendor looked away so fast it was almost athletic.
The prize wheel booth came next.
A large spinning wheel had sections marked with snack vouchers, toy tokens, drink discounts, sticker packs, novelty accessories, and one humiliating grand prize that appeared to be a giant themed headband shaped like the M Championships mascot.
Reca took one look and said, “I want the ugly crown.”
“You’d wear it.”
“I’d make you wear it.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t have it.”
The volunteer let each of you spin once.
Reca spun with ludicrous flourish, as if trying to impress a panel of judges no one else could see. The wheel clicked, slowed, and landed on a minor snack voucher.
He looked offended. “This game lacks vision.”
You spun once. The wheel went around with much less drama and landed directly on the grand prize.
The volunteer actually smiled. “Congratulations!”
Reca stared at the mascot headband in the volunteer’s hands like a man watching destiny mock him.
Then he recovered instantly. “Perfect. Put it on her.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
The volunteer, cowed by his confidence and perhaps entertained by your visible lack of enthusiasm, gently offered the headband to you. Before you could refuse again, Reca took it himself and set it carefully on your head.
It had little mascot ears.
He stepped back to admire the result.
Then he had the audacity to go quiet.
That was how you knew it was bad.
“Why are you silent,” you asked.
He put a hand over his mouth and looked pained. “Because if I speak honestly right now, I’ll become embarrassing in public.”
“You’re always embarrassing.”
“Not like this.”
He leaned down slightly, eyes fixed on you with that bright, ruined sort of tenderness he buried under jokes and nonsense and criminal amounts of flirting.
“You look cute,” he said, and for once it came out without mockery.
You stared at him.
He immediately ruined it by grinning and adding, “It’s disgusting. I hate how effective it is.”
“There you are,” you said. “Recovered.”
He laughed and bent to kiss the top of your headband-covered forehead because apparently humiliation alone was insufficient.
By then your hands were full again—plush tucked under one arm, snack voucher in your pocket, star charm somewhere in your jacket, mascot headband still on because he physically removed your hand every time you tried to take it off.
“It’s market testing,” he insisted.
“It’s blackmail with accessories.”
“It’s branding.”
“You need to stop using business words for nonsense.”
“No,” he said, taking your hand again. “I need to buy you more food.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The final stretch of the date took you through the vendor aisle where non-food booths were testing crafts, novelty goods, festival souvenirs, and decorative trinkets. Handmade pins, themed bracelets, scented tokens, mini lanterns, keychains, notebooks, collectible cards, low-cost gadgets, and silly little keepsakes crowded the tables in colorful rows.
Reca drifted from booth to booth with predatory curiosity.
At a bracelet stall he held up two beaded bands. One darker, one lighter. Matching.
You saw where this was going and disliked it on sight.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Couple merchandise.”
“I will bite you.”
He grinned. “Promises.”
The vendor, who seemed to think this was adorable instead of ominous, packaged them anyway. Reca bought them without hesitation and proceeded to tie one around your wrist right there in the walkway.
His fingers were warm.
Annoyingly careful.
You watched him cinch the bracelet into place with the kind of precision that suggested he treated even stupid things seriously if they were going on you.
“There,” he said softly, almost to himself. Then louder: “Now you’re properly decorated.”
“You waste money.”
“I invest in aesthetics.”
“You invest in nonsense.”
“I invest in things that stay on you.”
The phrasing sat there for a second too long.
Then he ruined it by holding out his own wrist expectantly. “Your turn.”
You looked at him.
He wiggled his fingers.
You tied the matching bracelet on his wrist mostly because refusing would create another ten-minute argument and because a tiny, treacherous part of you was curious how pleased he’d look.
The answer was: extremely.
Like you had personally handed him a medal.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
The sun had started lowering by the time you finished your forced pilgrimage through festival prep.
Lights were beginning to flicker on overhead, strings of temporary lanterns and booth signs casting warm patches of color across the pathways. Workers adjusted final wiring. More vendors rolled in crates. Music tested in the distance again. The campus was shifting from preparation to anticipation.
And somehow, after all that noise, Reca still had more to say.
He walked beside you in the growing evening glow with one hand linked through yours and the other carrying a paper tray of one last snack he had insisted you “absolutely had to try before the festival masses ruined the supply chain.”
“You know,” he said, “this was a successful second date.”
“This was an assault by committee.”
“This was chemistry.”
“This was bribery.”
“This was us,” he corrected, then immediately held the snack up to your mouth again. “Open.”
You looked at it. “What is that.”
“Cheese-stuffed fried nonsense.”
“No.”
“It’s the final test.”
“No.”
“Do it for me.”
“I would rather be shot.”
He smiled lazily. “You’re so shy with your feelings.”
You took the bite anyway because you had learned by now that compliance was often the shortest route to silence.
He watched you chew.
“Well?”
You sighed. “Acceptable.”
His smile turned smug enough to be unlawful. “See? I know how to show you a good time.”
“You know how to stage-manage an inconvenience.”
He leaned down and kissed your cheek one last time, shameless in the middle of the pre-festival walkway while students, vendors, and volunteers passed by pretending not to see.
“Same thing,” he murmured.
You stood there with your ridiculous mascot ears, your stuffed prize, your matching bracelet, your pocket full of junk he insisted were mementos instead of evidence, and the fading taste of festival food still on your tongue while Reca smiled at you like the day had gone exactly according to his deeply suspicious plans.
Which, honestly, it probably had.
And because life was offensive, because he was relentless, because somewhere between his constant flirting, terrible business metaphors, shameless public affection, and the sheer exhausting persistence of his presence, you had somehow let this become a thing—
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
By the time Reca announced that there was a “final phase” to the date, you were already suspicious on principle.
That was mostly because every time he said the word final it meant he had hidden another logistical ambush somewhere in the day like a raccoon with a graduate degree and too much free time.
The festival grounds below were still bright with pre-opening activity, rows of half-tested stalls glowing under strings of lights, committee staff moving like frantic little organisms through the evening while music checks, generator hums, and distant laughter all tangled into one loud unfinished pulse. It would have been reasonable to stay there. Flat pavement. Public space. Access to snacks. Witnesses.
Instead, Reca had taken one look at the hill path curling behind the New Federation campus and decided that romance apparently required elevation gain.
“This is stupid,” you told him five minutes into the climb.
He turned around while still walking backward uphill, one hand over his heart in theatrical injury and the other still hooked around your wrist because at no point had he considered allowing you independent mobility. “That’s a cruel thing to say about my carefully curated scenic route.”
“It’s dark. The path is uneven. You’re dramatic. This is how people die.”
He scoffed. “Please. If anyone here is a threat to survival, it’s your attitude.”
“You’re the one complaining.”
“I am not complaining,” he said immediately, in the tone of a man who had in fact been complaining without pause for the past seven minutes. “I am providing running commentary on the severe injustice of making a beautiful, charming, socially necessary man hike uphill for romance.”
“You chose this.”
“I chose the destination. The suffering was not adequately advertised.”
He huffed exaggeratedly as the path rose another incline, his coat pulled half-open, hair a little disordered by the climb and the wind.
There were campus lights below now, festival lanterns and sports banners glowing in fragments through the trees, the New Federation grounds spread out in pieces whenever the brush thinned enough to reveal them.
Somewhere far beneath, you could still hear bursts of amplified testing from the main stage and the occasional distant cheer whenever some committee team successfully finished assembling something without killing themselves.
Reca stopped suddenly, bent slightly forward with his hands on his knees, and looked up at you like a betrayed Victorian invalid. “Do you feel anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Annoyance.”
He stared at you, breathing just hard enough to make the offense look sincere. “I’m laboring under the moonlight for you.”
“You’re walking uphill.”
“For you.”
“You said there was a view.”
“There is.”
“You could have led with that.”
“I did. You were being hateful and chose not to appreciate the art of my persuasion.”
You stepped past him.
He made a wounded noise and immediately caught up, because of course the complaints were at least fifty percent decorative. “You know,” he said, falling into step beside you, “most people would find this charming.”
“Most people aren’t with you.”
He brightened. “That sounds exclusive. I’ll take it.”
The path got narrower as it climbed, winding around rocky edges and low brush until the sounds from the campus below grew softer, less immediate.
Reca kept up a steady stream of commentary the entire way, half mock-suffering, half narration, as if the two of you were starring in a documentary about an endangered species being forced through courtship rituals against his will.
“This slope was built by sadists.”
“It’s a path.”
“It’s a personal attack.”
“You wanted romance.”
“I still do. I just object to the cardio prerequisite.”
“You’re the one dragging me.”
“That’s because if I asked nicely, you’d look at me like a dead saint and say no.”
“That’s a possible outcome.”
“Exactly.”
He brushed your shoulder with his as you walked, then after another few steps hooked his pinky around yours, apparently unable to tolerate even thirty consecutive seconds of non-contact.
It escalated quickly from pinky to full handhold when the trail turned rockier, not because you needed it, but because he saw an excuse and treated it like a legal loophole.
“You’re using the terrain as an excuse,” you said.
“I’m using the terrain as evidence that hand-holding saves lives.”
“You are such a liar.”
“Yes,” he said. “But I’m being affectionate about it.”
When you finally reached the top, it was because the trail gave way all at once, the trees thinning into an open ridge that overlooked the lower festival grounds and half the illuminated New Federation campus.
The hilltop was quiet compared to the chaos below, just a patch of flattened stone and grass edged by low brush, the wind cooler here, carrying distant music, voices, and the warm smell of food and electricity drifting up from the festival preparations beneath.
Strings of temporary lights mapped the roads and walkways below, lantern frames glowing gold and white, stalls arranged in neat bright rows.
From up here the whole thing looked almost unreal, like a little mechanical city made of light, every moving figure below reduced to a shifting thread in something larger and glittering.
Above it, the sky had opened fully now—dark and wide and deep, the stars visible in a scattered silver field beyond the artificial glow.
Reca stopped talking.
That by itself was suspicious.
You looked at him.
He looked at the view, then at you, and for once the smugness in his face softened into something simpler and more dangerous for how unguarded it almost seemed.
“See,” he said at last, quieter than before. “I’m right again.”
“You hiked us up a hill to be smug at a skyline.”
“I hiked us up a hill,” he corrected, recovering rapidly, “to engineer an unforgettable romantic atmosphere. The smugness is merely a bonus.”
You stepped closer to the edge of the overlook and looked down at the festival lights. From here the testing chaos below became something softer. The movement of people blurred into patterns. The sound reached only in fragments. It looked peaceful in the way things only do from far enough away.
Reca came up beside you, not touching you for a whole three seconds, which was probably a personal record.
Then his hand found the back of your coat and lightly tugged you half a step away from the edge.
You glanced at him.
He shrugged. “Insurance.”
“I’m not going to fall.”
“I know. But imagine how annoying the paperwork would be.”
“You think about paperwork at moments like this?”
“I think about everything at moments like this.”
Then, because he couldn’t tolerate sincerity without poisoning it a little, he spread one arm toward the sky and lights below with a flourish. “Observe. The stars. The festival. The breathtaking company. This is the point at which you’re supposed to admit I’m an incredible boyfriend.”
“You look winded.”
He put a hand to his chest. “You are incapable of basic romance.”
“You dragged me uphill at night with no warning and have spent the whole time complaining.”
“That was foreplay,” he said.
You stared at him.
He grinned, entirely too pleased with himself. “Verbal foreplay. Keep up.”
There was a bench off to one side, not an official installation so much as an old reinforced sitting ledge built into the stone overlook. Reca claimed it instantly, then patted the space beside him with the confidence of a man who had never feared being ignored.
You remained standing for a moment.
He looked up at you expectantly. “What. You’re not going to reject my scenic seating arrangement too, are you?”
“It depends.”
“On.”
“How much more talking you plan to do.”
He considered it. “A moderate amount. But I can make it charming.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“Cruel. Sit down.”
You did, mostly because the view was better from there and because he was right in one infuriating respect: it was actually nice.
The stone still held some warmth from the day, though the air had cooled around it.
Reca stretched his legs out in front of him and exhaled like he had personally conquered nature. “There,” he said. “Now we are picturesque.”
“You are exhausted.”
“I am thriving.”
“You nearly died halfway up the switchback.”
“I was making it look difficult so you’d admire my resilience.”
“That’s pathetic.”
“And yet you came anyway.”
He turned slightly toward you, elbow braced on the back of the ledge, head tilted. “You know, you’re very bad at this.”
“At what.”
“At behaving like someone on a romantic overlook with her devastatingly handsome boyfriend.”
You looked back at the lights below. “You say boyfriend like a court ruling.”
“It should be.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re avoiding the atmosphere.”
He leaned in just enough for you to feel the heat of him beside the chill in the wind. “Normal people would be staring at the stars, getting soft, saying meaningful things.”
“Then go find normal people.”
“No. I love this one.”
You snorted before you could stop it.
He went still.
Then his entire expression sharpened with delighted triumph. “You laughed.”
“I exhaled aggressively.”
“No, no, I heard it. That was a real one.” He pointed at you like he had just discovered a new species. “Do it again.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Oh, now I’m definitely going to start performing if it gets that result.”
“That’s not a threat. That’s the status quo.”
“True.”
He leaned back again, visibly satisfied in the way he got when he managed to wring even the smallest involuntary reaction out of you.
Below, a line of lights switched on around one of the larger festival squares, outlining a ring of booths in warm gold. Somewhere in the distance there was a test burst of music followed by someone yelling for them to lower the volume. Reca listened for a moment, then sighed.
“Honestly, the festival looks better from up here. Less committee panic. More illusion of competence.”
“Distance improves many things.”
He glanced sideways at you. “Not me.”
“That remains unproven.”
He clicked his tongue. “See, now this is where a softer woman would say something sweet.”
“Then why did you bring me.”
“Because softer women bore me.”
The answer came too fast to be rehearsed. Too easy. He said it like fact, like weather, like one of those things he had long since settled in his own mind and saw no reason to hide.
You looked at him.
He smiled without looking over, gaze tilted up toward the sky now. “Also because you’d appreciate this and pretend not to.”
You looked away first.
That, annoyingly, made him look pleased.
He started pointing out constellations after that, or at least what he claimed were constellations. You suspected at least half of them were fabricated for the sake of narrative control.
“That one,” he said, pointing to a faint shape overhead, “looks like a knife.”
“That’s not a constellation.”
“It should be.”
“That’s not how stars work.”
“That’s exactly how mythology works.”
He shifted closer as he spoke until your shoulders touched. Then he took your hand and raised it toward the sky as though physically aligning your finger with the stars would somehow improve the experience.
“There. See it?”
“No.”
“You have no vision.”
“You are drawing imaginary weapons in the sky.”
“Romantically.”
“You keep using that word wrong.”
He laughed under his breath, then lowered your hand but did not let go of it. Instead he turned your palm upward and traced a line lightly across it with his fingertip, absurdly gentle.
“This one,” he said, drawing another invisible line across your skin, “is clearly the shape of a tragic heroine with poor communication skills.”
“That’s your autobiography.”
“No, mine would have more applause.”
His touch continued idly, mapping nothing on your hand, connecting nonexistent stars. It should have been stupid. It was stupid. It was also, unfortunately, warm.
You let him.
He noticed.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Letting me have atmosphere.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’ll take any excuse.”
The wind picked up. He immediately took off his coat and tried to drape it over your shoulders.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
“You’re doing too much.”
“I’m doing exactly enough. It’s cold.”
“I’m fine.”
He clicked his tongue and dropped the coat around your shoulders anyway, then tugged the front edges closed with irritating efficiency. “Your definition of fine is not medically reliable.”
“You were the one dying on the trail.”
“I died beautifully.”
“You sweated through your own monologue.”
“And yet,” he said, settling back beside you in shirtsleeves as if the temperature no longer applied to him, “who provided the stars.”
“You don’t own the stars.”
He tilted his head. “Would if I could.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It’s aspirational.”
For a while the two of you just sat there.
Reca, miraculously, spoke less. Not silent, because silence seemed to cause him physical pain, but quieter. The kind of intermittent talking that didn’t break the atmosphere so much as thread through it.
He commented on the booths below. The lighting choices. The one generator that was definitely going to fail if the committee didn’t move it. The likely traffic flow once the festival opened properly. Half jokes. Half observations. Sharp, cutthroat little analyses softened by the night.
From anyone else it might have sounded clinical.
From him it sounded like attention.
At one point he nudged your shoulder with his. “If I say something horribly cheesy right now, will you leave.”
“You made me hike uphill. I can still throw you off this hill.”
“So that’s a maybe.”
He drew in a breath, composed himself with absurd seriousness, then gestured at the view below. “Everything down there is loud and overbuilt and trying very hard to be memorable. But from up here it’s just light. Simple. Beautiful. Manageable.”
You waited.
He turned to you with maddening calm and finished, “Like you.”
You stared at him for a full second.
Then you snorted again, harder this time.
He slapped a hand over his chest in delight. “There! Again! God, I’m incredible.”
“That was terrible.”
“That was poetry.”
“That was an abuse of metaphor.”
“That was me exposing my heart beneath the stars.”
“That was you comparing me to crowd-control lighting.”
He laughed so hard he had to lean sideways for a moment, shoulder knocking against yours. “You are impossible to seduce.”
“That implies failure.”
“I’m succeeding long-term.”
“You keep saying things like that.”
“Because they’re true.”
He looked entirely too smug about it.
You should have shoved him.
Instead you looked back out at the stars.
That seemed to satisfy him in its own irritating way.
After a while he reached into the bag he had brought with him—the one you had assumed only contained water, festival junk, and whatever else he deemed essential to a date ambush—and pulled out something rectangular wrapped in dark cloth.
You glanced at it.
He held it out, but did not immediately place it in your hands.
“What is that.”
“A gift.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It’s from me. Of course it’s suspicious.”
You took it anyway.
The object was heavier than expected, flat and firm beneath the cloth. When you unwrapped it, it turned out to be an old photo album, small enough to carry but solidly made, bound in dark material with metal corner pieces worn faintly at the edges. There was a clasp on the front—not exactly a lock, but not something that gave easily either.
You turned it over once in your hands.
Then tried the clasp.
It didn’t open.
You looked at him.
He looked maddeningly pleased.
“It’s locked.”
“Very observant.”
“You gave me a locked book.”
“It’s not a book. It’s an album.”
You tried again, this time with more pressure. The clasp didn’t budge.
“It’s broken.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then open it.”
He leaned back on one arm, looking up at the stars as if discussing weather. “Can’t.”
“You can’t.”
“Not normally.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Why are you giving me something you can’t open.”
His expression shifted—not darker exactly, because he kept the same lazy, teasing tone, but there was something more deliberate under it now. Something chosen.
“Because maybe you can.”
You looked at the album again.
Then at him.
He smiled faintly. “Or maybe not now. Maybe later. Maybe it helps you. Maybe it doesn’t. I thought you should have it anyway.”
“That’s vague.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s the best you’re getting tonight.”
You scoffed softly, turning the album in your hands once more. No marks. No title. Just worn corners, the stubborn clasp, and an odd weight to it. It should have been meaningless. Another one of his strange little objects, another thing he handed you with too much significance and too few details.
You tried the clasp once more, because if nothing else you were stubborn.
Nothing.
“See,” he said. “Normal method failed.”
“There are other methods.”
His eyes flicked to you, amused. “Yes. That’s why I gave it to you.”
That answer was annoying enough to merit silence.
You set the album down beside you on the ledge instead.
He watched you do it, and whatever he saw in that small act—acceptance, maybe, or merely the lack of rejection—made his mouth curve slightly at one corner.
“Aw,” he said softly. “You kept it.”
“I put it down.”
“Beside you.”
“You’re inventing sentiment.”
“You’re radiating it accidentally.”
That was the problem with him. Every inch of meaning had to be fought over, because if left alone he would flood the whole landscape with his own.
The wind shifted again. Below, another cluster of festival lights flickered on, and for a moment the whole campus seemed to glow brighter, a low radiant spread beneath the open sky.
Reca turned toward you fully then, propping one knee up on the ledge, one arm stretched behind you along the stone.
“You know,” he said, voice lowering into something smoother, “this is the part where a less patient man would capitalize on the mood.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“That sounds like honesty.”
He leaned in.
Not suddenly. Not enough to force a flinch. Just the slow, deliberate approach of someone who expected resistance and found it charming.
His eyes stayed on your face with infuriating steadiness, warm with mischief and all that hidden, hungry fondness he dressed up in jokes to keep it deniable.
He was close enough that the wind seemed to bend around the space between you.
“Reca,” you said.
“Yes?”
“That’s enough.”
He paused.
His mouth pulled into a visible pout so immediate and petulant it ruined ninety percent of the atmosphere on impact.
“Seriously?” he complained. “I hiked for this.”
“You complained for half the climb.”
“I complained with devotion.”
“You’re still not getting whatever you think this is.”
He leaned back an inch, still too close, and narrowed his eyes at you with deeply injured theatricality. “You are unbelievably difficult to romance.”
“You brought me to a hill, pointed at the sky, gave me a locked mystery object, and tried to weaponize moonlight.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds excellent.”
“It sounds deranged.”
“It was elegant,” he insisted. Then, because he was who he was, he added, “And for the record, I was going for a kiss, not a marriage proposal. Your standards are unreasonable.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You encourage me.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You came.”
“That is not encouragement. That is poor judgment.”
He sighed, flopped backward against the ledge in exaggerated despair, and looked up at the stars. “My own girlfriend rejects me under the heavens I personally arranged.”
“You did not arrange the heavens.”
“Then I arranged the hike. Same scale, emotionally.”
He stayed pouting for about eight seconds.
Then he rolled his head sideways and looked at you again.
The album still sat between you, close to your thigh where you had set it down.
His expression softened almost unwillingly when he saw it still there.
“You’ll keep it,” he said.
Not a question.
You looked ahead at the lights below. “Maybe.”
He smiled at that in the quiet way he only did when he thought he had gotten something real by accident.
Then, because no genuine moment was allowed to survive in peace around him, he scooted closer again until his shoulder pressed fully against yours and said, “Fine. Since you’ve denied me all cinematic gratification, I’m stealing compensation.”
He took your hand.
Just that.
Laced your fingers together and held them between you with annoying calm, like this was the revised bargain and he was generous to accept it. His thumb moved once over your knuckles, slow and absentminded.
You let him.
He looked intolerably pleased. “There. Progress.”
“This is minimal.”
“I’m patient.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m patient with you.”
That one landed differently.
But you didn’t answer.
Reca squeezed your hand once and looked up at the sky again, still sulking just enough to be annoying, still smiling just enough to make it obvious he had already decided the evening counted as a victory.
And beside you, the locked album waited in silence.
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
You let out a long, heavy sigh like you were personally offended by the existence of romance as a genre.
Reca, of course, took it as encouragement.
“See?” he said immediately, sitting up straighter on the stone ledge like he had just received a signed confession instead of a dramatic exhale. “That was emotional engagement. You’re overwhelmed. Deeply moved. Possibly on the verge of tears.”
“I’m on the verge of pushing you downhill.”
“That too,” he said graciously. “Passion is multifaceted.”
Above, the stars stretched clear and cold. Beside you, the old locked album still sat where you had placed it, dark and stubborn and irritatingly inscrutable.
You looked at it again.
Then at Reca.
He was looking at you with that bright, infuriating anticipation that meant he had hidden yet another layer inside the date like a trap disguised as sentiment.
“What,” you said flatly.
He spread his hands. “Open your gift.”
“It doesn’t open.”
“Try harder. With feeling.”
“That’s not how locks work.”
“It is for symbolic objects.”
You gave him a long, dead look.
He only smiled wider.
You reached for the album again mostly to prove that his mystical nonsense still obeyed normal laws of material frustration.
Your fingers brushed the clasp. For one strange, split second, your left eye stung—not pain exactly, just a brief pressure behind it, like light passing through cut glass where there should have been none. Something thin and prismatic flashed at the edge of your vision, so quick it could have been a trick of the stars, a shard of reflected festival light, a fracture of color gone before the mind could name it.
Then it was gone.
The album clicked open in your hands.
You paused.
Reca went still.
The cover unfolded not like an album at all, but like some absurdly ornate storybook mechanism deciding at last to reveal its true purpose.
Panels of dark material parted into delicate crystalline structures that rose and unfurled with impossible precision, tiny translucent towers and archways forming a miniature castle in your lap, each surface catching starlight and festival glow and splitting it into faint iridescent edges.
At the center, encased within the little architecture like the heart of a fairy-tale reliquary, a flower bloomed open—faceted petals like prism glass, thin and luminous, folding back one by one with a soft chime so fine it barely existed.
And in the center of that crystal flower sat a ring.
For one whole second, even you had to look at it.
Not because it was shocking. Nothing really shocked you anymore. But because it was offensively beautiful.
The band itself was delicate without looking fragile, bright metal catching cold light, the stone set into it clear and strange, not diamond exactly, but something with the same crisp brilliance as the flower holding it—something like captured starlight filtered through glass. It was the sort of object designed very specifically to make normal people forget how to breathe.
You looked at it with the same expression you might use for a mildly interesting spreadsheet.
Reca, who had very obviously been preparing for at least some level of visible impact, stared at your face in rising disbelief.
Slowly, without comment, you reached into the crystal flower and picked the ring up.
He inhaled sharply like that alone had redeemed the universe.
“There,” he said, pointing at you with righteous vindication. “See? Proof. She does respond to romance. We got there.”
You turned the ring once between your fingers, watching the stone catch a passing shard of light.
Then you spoke, “How dramatic.”
He froze.
That was all you said.
How dramatic.
Not beautiful. Not what is this. Not a gasp, not surprise, not even a vague approximation of moved.
Just a dry, cold assessment like he had pulled an overdesigned presentation deck out of his bag instead of a ring hidden in a transforming crystal castle.
He put a hand over his chest like he had been physically struck. “That’s your reaction?”
“It’s accurate.”
“I unveiled a fantasy-grade miracle object under the stars.”
“You unfolded a mechanical metaphor.”
“That ring emerged from a glass flower in a miniature castle!”
“Yes.”
“In a romantic hilltop setting!”
“Yes.”
“You cannot just say ‘how dramatic’ like I accidentally knocked over a curtain.”
You looked down at the ring once more, then calmly slid it onto one finger—not with ceremony, not with fluster, just to test the fit.
It fit.
Reca made a small, strangled sound.
Then he stood.
Not casually. No, that would have been too human. He stood with full theatrical commitment, one foot braced slightly forward on the stone, shirt shifting in the hilltop wind, chin lifted, one hand swept back through his hair as if he had decided to pose for an oil painting called Tragic Beautiful Idiot Proposes on a Scenic Overlook.
Under the stars and the spill of festival light below, he did in fact look unfairly good—sharp-featured, bright-eyed, the kind of man who would make bad decisions look seductive by sheer commitment to presentation.
He pointed at himself, then at you, then at the ring.
“Usually,” he said, with grave and escalating offense, “a person would be moved.”
You looked at him.
“Or surprised,” he continued. “Or charmed. Or at least visibly affected in some measurable way. There should be some kind of reaction. A pulse change. A blink. A soul leaving the body. Something.”
You looked back at the ring.
Then at him again.
“You practiced that pose, didn’t you.”
He recoiled like you had stabbed him. “That is not the point.”
“It really looks rehearsed.”
“It looks good.”
“It looks narcissistic.”
“It looks romantic.”
“It looks like you caught your reflection and got distracted.”
He made another wounded noise, dramatic enough to echo faintly off the stone. “You are impossible. I’ve created the ideal environment. Scenic overlook. Night sky. Festival lights. Gift presentation. Jewelry. A strong visual line. I’m literally doing everything.”
You turned your hand slightly, watching the ring catch the stars.
Then, because there was no reason not to, you kept it on.
That seemed to make his entire body light up with vindicated outrage.
“Aha,” he said, pointing. “There. There! She kept it. That’s acceptance. That is not nothing.”
“It means you bought a thing.”
“It means you accepted the symbolic thing.”
“It means it fits.”
“God,” he said, closing his eyes briefly like the heavens themselves had become testing ground for his patience, “you are so emotionally evasive it should qualify as a combat discipline.”
“Your problem is expectation.”
“My problem,” he said, leaning down until he was eye-level with you again, “is that I just gave you a ring with enough presentation value to destabilize weaker minds, and you are treating me like I handed you a receipt.”
“It was a very elaborate receipt.”
That made him laugh despite himself, sudden and helpless and bright.
Then he recovered and moved in.
Slowly this time. Smoothly. Deliberately romantic in a way so obvious it became almost funny again, one hand coming down to brace lightly on the stone beside you, the other lifting as if to tilt your chin, the whole gesture steeped in the atmosphere he had worked so hard to build.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Work with me. I literally presented you with a ring. Give me something.”
You looked at him blankly.
He leaned in another inch. “A proper reaction. A fluster. A reward. A kiss.”
Nothing.
He narrowed his eyes.
You remained unresponsive.
He made the tiniest petulant sound and leaned closer still, almost clinging now, forehead nearly brushing yours as if proximity alone could manufacture cooperation. “Do you understand how much effort I’m expending? I climbed a hill. I concealed a prop transformation. I framed the stars. I am carrying this relationship on pure aesthetics.”
“You’re needy.”
“Yes,” he said instantly. “Correct. Reward that.”
You didn’t.
He stayed there, hovering in the dramatic near-kiss limbo he had clearly intended to resolve far more satisfyingly.
Then you sighed again, almost bored, and turned your head just enough to press the briefest peck against his cheek.
Hardly even a kiss.
Just a tiny, dry little contact. No blush. No softness. No hesitation. No romantic surrender. Just the most minimalist possible acknowledgment, delivered with all the emotional fanfare of approving a document.
You pulled back immediately.
Reca went completely still.
Then he preened.
It happened in stages. First the stunned blink. Then the slow dawning triumph. Then the shameless, radiant vanity of a man who had just received worship and knew exactly how to weaponize it.
“There,” he said softly, almost reverently. “See? See? We’re making progress. We are—”
Then his face changed.
Not darker, not angrier—aghast.
He put a hand to his chest again, this time with genuine scandal. “Wait. That was it?”
You stared at him.
“That was barely a kiss,” he said, appalled. “That was administrative affection. That was a clerical peck. I have suffered for hours and all I get is a procedural cheek acknowledgment?”
“You survived.”
“I transcended.”
You pushed at his shoulder to get him out of your space.
He let himself be shoved back with outrageous overacting, stumbling half a step before righting himself and immediately whining, “Now, now, no need to be embarrassed.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“You kissed me and panicked.”
“I kissed your face to shut you up.”
“Same emotional neighborhood.”
He caught your wrist before you could shove him again and tugged you toward him with infuriating ease, until you had to brace a hand against his chest just to stop the forward motion.
His grin came back crooked and bright.
“Oh, definitely embarrassed.”
Then he bent his head and kissed your neck.
Not deep. Not enough to cross cleanly into vulgarity. Just a slow, deliberate press at the side of your throat, warm enough to register through skin and pulse and all the atmosphere he’d spent the evening cultivating. His voice followed right after, low near your ear.
“Or,” he murmured, “are you feeling shy with the interloper watching?”
Everything changed.
It did not happen loudly.
No dramatic sound. No visible rupture. Just the immediate, total death of warmth.
The air on the overlook seemed to sharpen.
The festival lights below remained bright, the stars overhead unchanged, the wind still moving over stone and grass—but the mood dropped out so fast it felt like missing a step in the dark.
You went still.
Reca straightened.
And from the darker edge of the overlook, where shadow from the brush and stone cut deeper away from the festival glow, another figure stepped into clarity with the calm, unhurried inevitability of someone who had never for a second considered remaining hidden once the point had been made.
Zandik looked entirely unamused.
Not surprised.
Not caught.
Not inconvenienced.
Simply there.
Coat immaculate despite the terrain, posture easy, expression composed in that cold, unreadable way that somehow managed to communicate disdain more efficiently than anger ever could.
The hilltop wind touched the edges of his clothing and did nothing to soften him. He stood with the detached patience of a man observing an experiment that had progressed exactly as predicted.
Reca, still too close to you, clicked his tongue softly. “There he is.”
You did not look at Zandik first.
You looked at Reca.
Then you moved.
Not quickly enough to seem alarmed. Not slowly enough to be uncertain. You simply shoved Reca back by the chest and put clean distance between the two of you, your entire posture altering with such absolute clarity it might as well have been a blade drawn in silence.
When your gaze finally cut to Zandik, it was a glare sharp enough to bruise.
No softness.
No quiet acceptance.
No open affection.
Just cold, distant irritation so immediate and unhidden that even the night seemed to recoil around it.
Then you looked away from him entirely, like he had already exhausted your interest.
“Leave already,” you said to Reca, voice flat. “I’ve got business to attend to.”
Reca stared at you for one beat.
Then pouted with the full force of a theatrically heartbroken man watching a curtain fall on his best scene.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s cruel. I bring you up a hill, I unveil jewelry, I get one bureaucratic cheek kiss, and now I’m being dismissed because your stalking problem finally walked onstage.”
You said nothing.
He sighed, visibly aggrieved.
Then he smiled.
It was still recognizably his smile, still bright at the edges, still playful enough for deniability—but something in it went faintly off-center, a quiet little slant into madness that flashed and disappeared too quickly to hold onto. He lifted two fingers in a mock salute toward you, then glanced past you toward Zandik with that same smile lingering.
His mouth moved.
Be careful around that guy.
No voice. Just the shape of it.
Then he tapped the device at his wrist.
Light flared once—small, controlled, clean.
And he was gone.
The silence afterward was different from the silence before.
Not the almost-comfort of a night overlook. Not the paused breathing of a romantic setup gone wrong. This silence had edges. It sat between you and Zandik like a dissected thing.
You bent once, picked up the crystal castle remains and the opened album mechanism, folded what could be folded, and tucked the ring fully into your bag instead of leaving it visible on your hand.
Only then did you turn to Zandik properly.
Your expression remained cold and distant.
Not a trace of the small tolerance you had given Reca. Not a scrap of indulgence. Whatever softness usually belonged here had been erased so completely it was almost insulting.
“Do you have business with me?” you asked.
The question was even. Controlled. Frosted over.
You stood with Reca’s coat still around your shoulders, bag at your side, the stars bright overhead and the festival lights turning the campus below into a spread of artificial gold. Somewhere in the distance, life continued—committee calls, music tests, movement, celebration-in-progress. Up here, everything had narrowed to the cold line of your stare.
It was a complete reversal.
Because with Zandik, when you allowed it, you were openly affectionate in a way that startled even yourself sometimes—casual touches, quiet ease, the sort of unmistakable warmth you never wasted on anyone else. You treated him like your actual boyfriend when you were willing to. Not a joke. Not a public performance. Not a game of sarcasm and dragged-out rituals.
And that was exactly why this felt so much worse.
Because now there was none of it.
Nothing but distance.
Nothing but displeasure.
Nothing but that thin, hard expression that made your face look carved from some colder thing than ordinary human patience.
You didn’t appreciate being followed around twenty-four seven.
It was unpleasant being stalked.
And you still hadn’t forgiven him just yet for overstepping his boundaries.
𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭 