Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A frigid breeze rustled the loose sheets of paper tucked beneath your arm as you willed your hand to stop shaking long enough to unlock the doors of Iron & Glass Community Art Center, swearing under your breath as you pushed one open with one shoulder and hastily slammed it shut behind you. The drafty old building offered little respite from the cold, but at least you were out of the wind and could feel your face starting to defrost. After flicking on the lights and unceremoniously dropping your things on your already overcrowded desk, you adjusted the thermostat and set up the space heaters in each studio before finally heading to the kitchenette to brew a pot of coffee. Despite having just paid the previous month, you were already dreading seeing the utility bill for this cycle, knowing that the abrupt dip into freezing temperatures would be especially taxing on the ancient HVAC system.

Rifling through the cupboards, you grimaced as you remembered that you had used the last of the beans yesterday. Fuck . Pulling out your phone, you added another item to your neverending to-do list so that you wouldn’t forget again, and resigned yourself to a cup of cinnamon-flavored black tea. Returning to your office, you set your mug off to the side to cool and began sorting out the haphazard piles on your desk, making sure to mark the forms you had printed off that morning with a bright pink sticky note emblazoned with PRIORITY! in thick black Sharpie. You knew you should start with those, but decided to tackle your inbox instead, letting out a groan as you scrolled through the messages that had come in since you had forced yourself to put your phone away the previous night. 

After what felt like twelve hours, you were startled out of your email-induced stupor by the sound of the front door slamming, followed by a series of curses directed at said door, before your coworker, Ava, swept in, depositing a paper cup on your desk with a flourish. 

“It’s cold as fuck in here,” she said by way of greeting, setting her own cup down before dropping into her chair and unzipping her bag. 

“I know,” you replied apologetically, “I turned up the thermostat but it’s going to take a while to warm up. The space heaters are on though so hopefully that helps a bit—” you broke off as she tossed a bag of coffee at you.

“We ran out yesterday,” she shrugged when you gave her a look.

“I was going to get more today, it’s on my list,” you told her, unable to keep the defensive note out of your voice. 

“Yeah, but you have like, four million things on your to-do list already,” she pointed out, one corner of her mouth quirking up before adding, “plus, it gave me an excuse to stop by while Talia was working.”

You tried for a moment to recall whether you had heard that name before but came up empty.

“Which one is Talia again?” you questioned, unable to hide your smile at the lovestruck look on Ava’s face.

“She’s the love of my life,” she sighed dreamily, “and the creator of that exquisite cardamom vanilla latte you need to drink before it meets the same fate as that cup of tea.”

You grimaced at the abandoned mug on your desk, feeling slightly guilty, before taking a sip of your latte. 

“Holy fuck. She might be the love of my life now, too,” you admitted, cradling the warm paper cup appreciatively. “You saved the receipt though, right? I can’t have you spending your own money on stuff for this place—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ava interjected, pulling out her phone. “I just sent you the receipt. The lattes were free though, Talia said she needed customer feedback before she could make it a seasonal special.”

You snorted disbelievingly.

“Yeah, pretty sure she just wanted to give you free drinks,” you said, adding a note to process the reimbursement to your checklist for the day, “but if she actually wants feedback, please tell her it’s fantastic and should be available year round.”

Ava grinned and glanced back down at her phone, thumbs flying over the touchscreen before she set it down on her desk with an air of accomplishment.

“Done,” she announced, opening her laptop.

“You got her number already?” you asked, impressed.

In response, Ava’s mouth quirked up mischievously as she rotated her cup so that you could see the phone number scrawled on the side, punctuated with an adorably lopsided smiley face. 

“I expect regular updates on this,” you told her seriously, to which she broke into a full grin.

“Is that an official demand from my supervisor?” she teased, and you shook your head.

“No, it’s an official request from your lame friend who lives vicariously through you,” you replied, and she frowned.

“You’re not lame,” she said, “there are plenty of people who would love to date you, you just won’t give them the time of day.”

“Like who?” you muttered, “Creepy Craig?”

The furrow between Ava’s brows deepened.

“Who the fuck is Creepy Craig?” she demanded, and you picked up the stack of forms you had brought in that morning.

“The guy who lives on my floor whose printer I had to borrow this morning to print off these stupid forms,” you answered, making a face. “He said I was welcome to come over “ anytime ” so…” you trailed off, biting back a laugh at the disgusted expression on Ava’s face.

“Okay, well, normally I’d ask if there’s any potential there but considering the name Creepy Craig, I’m gonna guess not,” she commented.

“Definitely not,” you said emphatically. “And then he started talking about how we should have dinner together sometime since we’ve been neighbors for months and still barely know each other, so I had to shut that down immediately.”

“So what did you tell him?” she asked, and you winced as you mentally replayed the encounter. 

“Um…well, I didn’t want to feel like I owed him something so I offered to trade a commission in return for the use of his printer,” you admitted sheepishly, hiding behind your cup as Ava shot you a look of supreme disappointment.

“First of all, that doesn’t sound like a fair trade at all,” she admonished you, “second of all, you’re busy enough without doing custom pieces for fucking Craig the creepy neighbor!”

“I know,” you groaned, “I just panicked. But it’s fine, I’ll just sketch something really quick tonight and hopefully our printer will be fixed by the end of the week so I won’t have to ask him again.”

Ava stared at you, entirely unconvinced.

“It’s fine,” you repeated, trying to convince yourself. 

“What did he ask for?” she questioned eventually, and you pulled out your phone, scrolling to find the note you had added that morning with the name of the character he had requested. 

“Valeria Stormweaver?” you told her, shrugging, thoroughly unprepared for the scoff you got in return. 

“Of fucking course he plays Soulforge Chronicles,” Ava muttered scornfully, noticing your confused expression and continuing, “it’s a fucking Skyrim rip-off but the only clothing options for women are like, leather bikinis and shit. It’s trash. Here, this is what she looks like.”

Standing up, she carried her laptop over to your desk and turned it so that you were eye-level with a 3d rendering of an extremely curvaceous blonde armed with a broadsword and clothed in little more than a fur loincloth and strip of fabric struggling to contain her comically large breasts. 

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, wondering if you could get away with drawing her in a modern AU so that she could at least wear a crop top instead, “she might as well just be topless, one swing of that sword and those things are popping right out anyway—” 

You broke off at the sound of a knock, heat flooding your cheeks as you took in the sight of a man hesitating in the doorway of the office, the corners of his mouth turned downward in a critical expression. All at once, Ava slammed her laptop shut, expression torn between humiliation and hysterics, as you bolted upright so quickly you knocked your knee into the underside of your desk. Eyes watering with pain, you attempted to compose yourself before opening your mouth and asking, in a voice several octaves higher than normal,

“Hi! Can I help you?” at the same time as the man in the doorway cast a cool glance about the room, one eyebrow lifting slightly as he said, 

“My apologies for the interruption.” 

Shooting a panicked look at Ava, who had hastily retreated back to her desk and was slouching so low in her chair that her forehead was barely visible over the top of her computer, you screamed internally before forcing your face into a bright smile.

“No apologies necessary, we were just—” you broke off, searching for a reasonable explanation as to why you were ogling a hyper-realistic depiction of the formidably breasted Valeria Stormweaver before clearing your throat and starting again. “Sorry, is there something I can help you with?”

The man stared at you in silence for a moment, giving you time to take in the extraordinarily mismatched eyes beneath his furrowed brows. One was seafoam green, the other an ochreous eclipse within a charcoal sclera, accentuated by rivulets of scars that ran the length of the left side of his face. The effect was so mesmerizing that it took you a moment to realize his mouth had tightened irritably under your scrutiny, and you hurriedly wrenched your gaze away, focusing instead on the tiny golden daggers that adorned the lapels of his black button-down shirt, connected by a delicate chain upon each pommel. 

“My daughter is interested in taking classes here,” he replied finally, stepping over the threshold and clasping his hands behind his back as he continued his appraisal of your office. “I wanted to visit first before agreeing.”

You were suddenly all too aware of how disorganized your workspace was, and made a mental note to invest in a desk organizer of some sort.

“Well, good thing we’ve made such a great first impression,” you joked weakly, attempting to dispel some of the uncomfortable tension in the room.

He didn’t even attempt to look amused in return, and you felt your cheeks grow even hotter with embarrassment. 

“Dude,” Ava whispered from behind her laptop as you contemplated fleeing the scene to move into the network of drainage tunnels beneath Zaun, live amongst rats for the rest of your life, and never speak to another human being ever again.

Unfortunately, this otherwise faultless plan was thwarted by the fact that the doorway was effectively blocked by the man staring down his aquiline nose at you, so you shelved it for another day and tried to ignore the sweat dampening your palms.

“Um, would you like a tour of the center?” you offered, relief flooding through you as he inclined his head slightly.

“If you would be so kind,” he answered, and you nodded far more enthusiastically than the situation called for.

“Of course!” you chirped, spotting the mug on your desk and adding, “would you like a tea or a coffee or anything first? I don’t have any brewed but I can make some really quick if you’re not a tea person—”

“Just the tour, if you please,” he interjected, tugging up one sleeve of his perfectly tailored overcoat slightly to check his watch. “I’m on a tight schedule.”

You nodded again, decidedly less enthusiastically this time.

“Right. Right, yeah, of course. It won’t take long,” you mumbled, quickly brushing past him so he didn’t catch the way your mouth turned down at the corners.

What an absolute disaster of a day this had turned into. From having to barter with Creepy Craig to use his inkjet while he hovered just behind you, infiltrating your breathing space with the scent of Funyuns poorly masked with Old Spice to basically getting caught looking at Soulforge Chronicles porn by the haughty parent of a potential student, all before 10a.m. Despite the very official title of ‘ Executive Director , Iron & Glass Community Art Center’ present in your email signature, you certainly didn’t feel like the executive director of anything except maybe a movie about being the biggest idiot alive, starring yourself. With some difficulty, you shoved the self-pitying thoughts down and closed your eyes for a moment to reset, determined to prove to this man that this was a respectable organization, and you were serious about the work you did. When you opened them, you glanced over at him, following his gaze as it swept over the various pieces displayed on the walls. 

“What classes is your daughter interested in?” you asked, coming to a stop beside him as he peered at a self-portrait by one of your students.

“All of them,” he replied, leaning in closer to take in the details in the background. “Her preferred medium is mixed media, but she was very excited to see that you offer digital art classes as well.”

You noticed that his expression had softened slightly as he spoke, and you felt some of your earlier annoyance at his brusque dismissal of your beverage offerings ebb away.

“Oh, that’s great! Actually, Ava, who you met back in the office, teaches all of our digital art classes and she’s incredible,” you told him, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t met Ava so much as witnessed her slamming her laptop shut and scurrying away. “Her fall class collaborated on an experimental video installation that was on display at The Bridgewalker Gallery, it was amazing.”

He said nothing, but his full attention was on you now as you opened the door to one of the studios, stepping aside so that he could pass through.

“This is the digital art classroom,” you said, a note of pride making its way into your voice as you began the tour in earnest. “All of the Macs have the full Adobe Suite, as well as Final Cut Pro. We have a bunch of different digital and analog cameras, which students are free to borrow to work on projects outside of class, and we also have open studio hours each week so that they can come in to edit or whatever else they want to focus on. There’s a soundbooth in this closet, and we have a partnership with Echo Chamber if any of our students want to use their facilities to record music or ambient noise or anything to soundtrack their work. We’re working on figuring something out with the university so that students can audit their digital art courses as well but it’s caught up in red tape right now so I don’t know exactly when we’ll have that option available…” you trailed off, watching as he circled the room before offering a small nod of approval.

Given his stoicism up until that point, that tiny inclination of his head felt like a victory, and you allowed it to embolden you as you ushered him back through the doorway and to the studio next door.

“This is where I teach most of my classes — drawing, painting, sometimes printmaking, although I haven’t had enough interest in that recently to dedicate a weekly time slot to it,” you told him, straightening a few of the easels set in a semicircle around the room. “I also have open studio hours so that students can work on projects independently, or just come hang out. They’re not required to produce anything in return for using the space, so long as they’re respectful of everyone else.” 

He frowned slightly.

“Isn’t that distracting for the other students?” he questioned, and you shook your head, opening your mouth to respond before he continued, “Jinx is extremely talented, but she needs structure. She needs to be surrounded by peers who are as dedicated to their craft as she is and want to learn. Not just…‘ hang out ,’ as you say.”

Scowling at the disdainful inflection in his voice, you crossed your arms over your chest defensively.

“As I was about to say, both myself and all of the other teachers here would intervene if a student was preventing anyone from focusing on their work. It’s happened before. But it’s more important to me that we provide a safe space for everyone to gather, whether or not they choose to participate in the classes. If structure is the most important thing to you, maybe you should look into the Academy of Fine Arts in Piltover rather than a community art center in the Lanes,” you responded, unable to hold back the irritation in your tone.

You thought you saw the scarred corner of his mouth curve upwards into a barely perceptible smile at the jab, but it was quickly replaced by what seemed to be his default expression of poorly concealed disinterest.

“Perhaps I will,” he said smoothly. “Thank you for the recommendation.” 

God, you couldn’t wait to bitch about this guy with Ava once this disastrous tour was over.

“No problem,” you forced out, as if his thanks had been genuine. “Do you want to see the rest of the studios or—” 

You fell silent as he gave a single, definitive shake of his head.

“No, I believe I’ve seen everything I need to,” he replied, and you offered an attempt at a smile that you were certain made you look like a pained ventriloquist's dummy. 

“Okay, well, thanks for stopping by!” you told him, unsubtly herding him back toward the entrance. “Feel free to call or email if you have any questions or anything…” you trailed off, hoping he never took advantage of the offer. 

“I take it you’d prefer a call or an email over an in-person visit then,” he commented snidely, pausing by the main doors and turning back to look at you.

“You’re welcome to visit anytime,” you said evenly, unwilling to let him ruffle you any further. “This space is for everyone.” 

He was silent for a moment, his mismatched gaze flickering over your face before he stuck out one elegant hand, yours rising automatically to clasp it in a firm shake. 

“Thank you for your time,” he murmured, before pulling away and disappearing out the door with a dramatic swish of his overcoat. 

Or at least, that’s what you thought he was going for. The door, however, had other plans and remained firmly stuck in place while he yanked unsuccessfully at the handle. Biting back a smile, you allowed yourself a moment to revel in this obnoxious, imperious man being thwarted by a cantankerous piece of wood before brushing past him with a murmured pardon. Tugging the handle up, you dragged the door open, blinking as a blast of cold air hit you head-on.

“Sorry, it does this sometimes,” you apologized, stepping aside to allow him past you.

“It’s a fire hazard,” he admonished you, pushing the wind-mussed hair off his forehead irritably. “You should get that fixed.”

With that, he strode away before you had a chance to reply, and you resisted the urge to make a face at his retreating back before turning back inside, pulling the door shut tightly behind you.

“What a fucking asshole,” you announced as you hobbled back into the office, your knee throbbing as you flung yourself down into your chair. 

Ava looked up from her laptop, amused.

“I take it he’s not going to be signing his daughter up for classes?” she asked, and you shrugged.

“Sure didn’t seem like it. He was being such a snob about everything, I told him he should just enroll her in the Academy—” you started, before Ava hissed at you, forming a crucifix with her fingers. 

Letting out an undignified snort of laughter, you held your hands up in surrender.

“Sorry,” you told her, attempting to assemble your expression into one of contrition as she fixed you with a serious look.

“You should be. I told you never to speak the name of that cursed place,” she replied sourly. 

“Sorry,” you repeated, taking a sip of your now cold latte. “Anyway, I doubt we passed his inspection so at least that’s one less thing I have to deal with.”

To your surprise, Ava looked slightly put out by this assessment.

“Shame,” she remarked, “I really wanted to ask him where he got that cool collar pin from.”

It had been really cool, but you would rather accept a dinner invitation from Creepy Craig than admit it, so you gave an unimpressed shrug.

“Probably some expensive Piltie boutique with a name like Brass & Brawn Provisions or something stupid like that,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“That sounds like the name of a sex shop,” Ava pointed out, and you felt your face heat with embarrassment.

“Thanks for that,” you muttered, “ really don’t want to imagine that guy in a sex shop.”

Opening your laptop, you attempted to refocus on your inbox, oblivious to the way Ava exaggeratedly mouthed, “Sure.”

Despite its disastrous beginnings, the remainder of the day leading up to your drawing class was unexpectedly productive. You managed to catch up on your inbox, at least temporarily so, and finish the tax exemption renewal forms that you had printed that morning. In a sudden burst of motivation, you and Ava even attempted to repair the door yourselves before admitting it was probably left to someone with a full toolkit rather than one Phillips-head and a tape measure. 

Undeterred by your failure as a handyman, you wrapped up your work for the day and began setting up your classroom, greeting students as they began to trickle in and took places behind their respective easels. You were just about to begin a brief lecture on the techniques you would be focusing on for that evening’s assignment when the studio door opened, admitting a sharp-featured girl with two waist length blue braids. She clutched a sticker-adorned sketchbook to her chest almost protectively, chewing nervously on her lower lip as all eyes turned toward her. 

“Hi,” you said brightly, taking a small step toward her. “Are you here for class?” 

She nodded, and you gestured to the unclaimed easel closest to her.

“You can set up right here,” you told her, relieved to see the tension in her shoulders dissipate slightly as the rest of the class fell into conversation while she settled in.

After making sure she had all the supplies she needed, you introduced yourself, urging her to let you know if she had any questions.

“I’m glad to have you here—” you broke off uncertainly, realizing you hadn’t caught her name.

Her mouth quirked up in a fleeting smile so similar to her father’s that you were entirely unsurprised when she told you,

“It’s Jinx.”

Chapter Text

Undeterred by your failure as a handyman, you wrapped up your work for the day and began setting up your classroom, greeting students as they began to trickle in and took places behind their respective easels. You were just about to begin a brief lecture on the techniques you would be focusing on for that evening’s assignment when the studio door opened, admitting a sharp-featured girl with two waist length blue braids. She clutched a sticker-adorned sketchbook to her chest almost protectively, chewing nervously on her lower lip as all eyes turned toward her. 

“Hi,” you said brightly, taking a small step toward her. “Are you here for class?” 

She nodded, and you gestured to the unclaimed easel closest to her.

“You can set up right here,” you told her, relieved to see the tension in her shoulders dissipate slightly as the rest of the class fell into conversation while she settled in.

After making sure she had all the supplies she needed, you introduced yourself, urging her to let you know if she had any questions.

“I’m glad to have you here—” you broke off uncertainly, realizing you hadn’t caught her name.

Her mouth quirked up in a fleeting smile so similar to her father’s that you were entirely unsurprised when she told you,

“It’s Jinx.”

Well, you could hardly hold the fact that her dad was one of the most pompous and insufferable men you had ever had the misfortune of dealing with against her, so you managed an echo of her expression in response, hoping it didn’t look too forced.

“ Great to meet you, Jinx,” you said, before returning to the front of the classroom, wondering all the while if you were going to have to see him again before the day was over. 

The scratch of graphite on paper echoed in the quiet studio as you demonstrated the techniques utilized in that evening’s greyscale exercise, the familiar smell of pencil shavings and that particular dusty warmth that space heaters always produced filling the air. Once the class was immersed in their work, you slumped into your desk chair, pulling up your dreaded to-do list to see what was left. Resigning yourself to another late night of working on commissions to supplement the meager salary you took from the center, now made later by the addition of Valeria Stormweaver, you contemplated sleeping in your office to avoid wasting time on the commute back to your apartment. As long as you were up early enough to make a trip back home to shower and change before Ava showed up, you would be able to spare yourself from being lectured on the dangers of overworking yourself. And, as a bonus, you wouldn’t have to worry about running into Creepy Craig in the hallway, where he seemed to habitually linger in hopes of trapping you in stilted conversation.

Mind made up, you tucked your phone back into your pocket and started to weave through the easels, pausing to offer feedback and encouragement to each student on their progress so far. You paused behind Jinx's workstation, impressed by how she'd approached the value study. The piece was strikingly monochromatic, showing a careful attention to light and shadow in the suggested form of the vase, transformed into something far more complex with intricate textural details. She turned to look at you apprehensively, awaiting your assessment, and you offered her a reassuring smile before inspecting the drawing closer.

“I love this,” you told her softly. “The sense of depth in the material of the vase is really well done, especially the highlights here.”

“Really?” she replied, perking up slightly. “I don’t usually do stuff like—” she broke off, waving her hands in the general direction of the easel, “this.”

“What, greyscale?” you asked, and she shrugged.

“Greyscale, still life stuff,” she said, returning her pencil to the drawing pad. “Actually, most of my work is kinda the opposite of this. But I want to get better at some of the more traditional techniques.”

You watched as she added a few decisive strokes to the piece, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“Well, you’re off to a great start, even if this isn’t your usual style,” you responded earnestly, “which I would love to see, too.”

“I could show you some of my sketchbook after class,” Jinx nodded enthusiastically, “if that’s okay? I mean, if you have time?”

“I’d love that,” you replied, meaning it, and she offered you a small smile in return. 

“Cool,” she said, and you smiled back.

“I’ll let you get back to it. Let me know if you need anything, okay?” you told her, and she gave you a thumbs up before her brows drew together in concentration, her full focus returning to her work.

You made another quick circuit of the room before returning to your desk, trusting that your students were comfortable enough to ask for your help if they needed it, and let them continue to progress on their studies as you pulled up Procreate to start on one of the commissions in your queue. The rough sketch was nearly complete by the time you glanced at your phone again, startled to see class was nearly over, and you stood, grimacing at how stiff your upper back muscles felt after spending so much of the day hunched over screens. As students began to pack up their work, returning the materials they had used in the shelves along the wall, you thanked each of them for coming and reminded them of the following evening’s open studio hours for anyone that wanted to work on projects outside of class. Jinx lingered by the storage area as you finished up, inspecting the supplies with mild interest, waiting until you had paused beside your desk to approach.

“I love the stickers,” you said as she set her sketchbook down, giving you a quick smile before opening it and indicating that you were free to look.

Each page was densely packed, most of them centered around a realistically rendered focal point before exploding into wild interpretations, each piece a riot of colors—​​neons bleeding into jewel tones in ways that shouldn't work but somehow did. She had been right that the exercise that evening was the antithesis of her signature style, but you could see the technical proficiency she had displayed in the rendering of the vase evident in the rest of her work as well. You were about to tell her as much when there was a single, sharp knock on the doorframe, causing the words to stick in your throat when you saw who was standing in the hall.

“I’m almost done,” Jinx told her father, who nodded once in response to her and once in acknowledgment when he glanced at you. 

Her earlier apprehension returning, Jinx watched you closely for a reaction, teeth worrying at her lower lip again.

“Jinx, these are amazing,” you said enthusiastically, turning a page and taking in the next piece for a moment. “They kind of remind me of Marina Velcroft’s work, the way you combine these more structured pieces with all of these graffiti-style elements. Your color choices are even more unconventional though, which I love.”

She gave you a shy but pleased smile, gathering up her sketchbook as you came to a blank page. 

“Thanks,” she replied softly. “I don’t think I’ve heard of her.”

“I think you’d really like her work,” you told her, “I have one of her books here if you want to borrow it.”

She nodded. “That would be awesome.”

“Great,” you smiled, doing your best to ignore the man leaning against the doorframe as you made your way to the storage shelves, running your finger over the spines of the book collection until you found what you were looking for. “Here,” you said, offering it to Jinx. 

“An unauthorized collection of street art & sundry works, compiled & commented upon by the artist,” she read aloud from the cover, flipping it open to a random page and scrutinizing it for a moment before hugging it to her chest with her sketchbook. “This looks really cool. Thank you.”

“Of course,” you responded. “We have open studio tomorrow night if you want to come work on anything. There aren’t any assignments like in class but I’m always happy to help come up with projects if you don’t have something in mind.”

She nodded excitedly before seeming to realize something and turning to look at her father, whose angular features softened slightly as he returned her gaze.

“Can I?” she asked, and he inclined his head fractionally.

“Of course,” he told her, sounding almost indulgent, and she beamed. 

“Great!” you exclaimed, grabbing a copy of the center schedule from your desk and handing it to her. “All of our other classes are listed there, too. And some upcoming field trips we have planned.”

She scanned the sheet of paper eagerly before proferring it to her father, who gave it a cursory look and murmured his thanks in your general direction, not bothering to make eye contact.

“Thanks!” Jinx echoed, much more enthusiastically. “See you tomorrow!”

“See you then,” you replied before adding, “great work tonight.”

She smiled at you once more and slipped past her father into the hallway, seemingly oblivious to the way he lingered on the threshold.

“I’ll be right there,” he called toward her retreating back, though she gave no indication that she had heard him.

He turned back to you, traces of fond exasperation quickly giving way to an impassivity as he met your gaze.

“So,” you said, growing uncomfortable as his silence stretched on. “I suppose we should be flattered that you chose us over the Piltover Academy for the Fine Arts.”

The words came out sounding more irritable than you intended, exhaustion fraying your patience.

“Jinx chose you,” he corrected coolly, “and I will respect her decision regardless of whether it’s the same one I would have made.”

“How charitable of you,” you commented dryly, crossing your arms over your chest. “So was there something I could do for you or did you just want to make sure I knew we weren’t your first choice?”

The corner of his mouth curved up slightly, though there was no warmth in it. 

“I know you’re quite… lax in how things are structured here,” he replied smoothly, pausing just long enough to give you time to take affront, “but I assumed there would be some sort of paperwork for me to fill out in order for Jinx to be formally enrolled.”

"There is," you told him, moving to your desk to retrieve a single sheet of paper, "though we’ve intentionally kept it pretty simple. Or lax , as you put it. Basic contact information, emergency numbers, any allergies or medical conditions we should know about. That's it."

You held out the form but didn't release it when he took it, making him meet your eyes. "We don't require guardian signatures or proof of residence or financial documents. The center is meant to be accessible to everyone, regardless of their situation."

The implications hung in the air - that some students might not have guardians to sign, or stable addresses to list, or the means to provide financial records.

"I see," he said after a moment, sounding remarkably less haughty than he had moments before. "That's...unconventional."


"Yeah, well," you shrugged as you let go of the form, returning to lean against your desk. "Our attorney probably wanted to strangle me by the end of the process. I kept pushing back on every requirement, asking what was actually legally necessary versus what was just... traditional bureaucracy." 

He considered you, a flicker of interest in his expression. "You deliberately sought out the minimum legal requirements."

"The absolute minimum," you confirmed. "I'm sure it's not up to Piltover's exacting standards of documentation."

His mouth curved slightly again, and this time there might have been a hint of genuine amusement in it. "No, I suppose not. Though perhaps that's not entirely a criticism."

You found yourself caught off guard by what almost seemed like approval in his tone.

"Well," you said after a beat, falling back on professional courtesy, "just return that whenever is convenient. Jinx is welcome to start attending classes immediately."

He studied the form for a moment before reaching into his jacket and withdrawing a pen. To your surprise, he moved to your desk and began filling it out right there.

"Silco," he told you as he wrote, and you blinked at him.

"What?"

"My name," he clarified, not looking up from the form. "Since we'll likely be seeing more of each other, given Jinx's...enthusiasm about your program."

“Right,” you replied stupidly, floundering for a moment. “Well, I’m really looking forward to having her here. She’s incredibly talented.”

“She is,” he murmured as he handed the form back to you. 

His tone was devoid of the sort of proud arrogance you would have expected from him in response to such a remark, and you found yourself grudgingly appreciative that he didn’t seem to take any credit for her abilities, as so many parents were wont to do. It would have seemed like a neutral observation were it not for the affection contained within those two simple words. Glancing down at the sheet of paper, you confirmed that everything was filled out, unsurprised to see that his understated elegance extended itself to his efficient yet graceful penmanship. 

“Well, if everything is in order, I won’t take up anymore of your time for today,” he said, tucking his pen back into his overcoat. “Thank you for your assistance—”

He stopped abruptly, and you realized you hadn't ever given him your name. Offering it in response, you extended your free hand. His palm met yours - cool and dry, his grip precise like everything else about him. You found yourself noting how his hands possessed a particular grace that would be challenging to capture on paper - the elegant architecture of bone and tendon, the way each movement seemed carefully choreographed. The kind of hands that would require dozens of studies to get right, and even then you might not quite capture the eloquence of their controlled motion.

After a single, firm shake, he turned and disappeared into the hallway, leaving behind only the fading echo of his footsteps against the worn floorboards. You fought the urge to follow him, commending yourself for having enough self-restraint to not check whether he was thwarted by the front doors again, then turned to the task of tidying up the classroom. Once you had done a cursory inspection of the rest of the center, you rummaged through the kitchenette for something filling enough to qualify as dinner, settling on some stale crackers and a granola bar alongside a cup of mint tea. 

Grabbing your emergency pillow and blanket from your office closet, you made yourself comfortable on the sofa and set to finishing the first of your commissions for the evening. Your retinas were burning by the time the piece was completed, and you set your iPad down to give yourself a tiny break, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes until phosphenes appeared. Slumping backwards, you heaved a sigh, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling for a moment before opening your to-do list and resignedly shifted the remaining work to the next day’s tasks, too exhausted to berate yourself over it. There was a nagging thought in the back of your mind that you had something else you needed to complete before passing out, but sleep overtook you before you could figure out what it was.

You woke to the sound of Ava's sharp intake of breath, followed by a very loud, very pointed sigh. Right. That nagging feeling you had ignored last night had been trying to tell you to set an early alarm to avoid this very situation. Fuck.

"Please tell me you did not sleep here again."

You peeled your face off the sofa, wincing at the stiffness in your neck. "I didn't sleep here again?"

"You're a terrible liar." She thrust a coffee cup at you with more force than necessary. "This is getting ridiculous."

“Actually, I got more sleep than I would have if I had gone home because this way I didn’t have to deal with the bus delays and getting trapped by Creepy Craig in the hallway, so…” you tried, taking a sip of coffee to avoid her withering gaze.

“This isn’t sustainable,” she said, entirely unconvinced by your attempts to mollify her. “And I don’t just mean you avoiding your apartment so you don’t have to see that asshole, although that’s gotta stop, too. You need to dial it back before you burn yourself out completely.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, grabbing your phone and suppressing a groan at the number of emails already waiting for you. “It’s not forever, it’s just the end of year craziness. I’ll dial it back once the fundraiser’s over, okay? Promise.”

She narrowed her eyes, giving a skeptical hum.

“Fine. But I’m not above blackmailing you into taking some time off,” she told you eventually, and you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, I know,” you mumbled, taking another long sip of coffee before forcing yourself off of the sofa and setting the mug down so that you could put away your makeshift bed.

“Go home,” Ava commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Take a shower, eat an actual meal, and come back when you’re at least semi-human again. I’ve got everything covered here.”

“But—” you protested weakly before she cut you off with a sharp look.

“Wasn’t a question,” she said, all but shoving you toward the office door. “See you in a few hours.”

You relented, quickly gathering your things. “Thanks. And thank you for the coffee.”

She nodded, following you out into the hall, waiting until you were nearly at the door before calling after you, “Oh, and if Creepy Craig tries to talk to you, just tell him you have explosive diarrhea and have to go!”

“Fucking hell,” you muttered, turning back to yell, “not going to be doing that.”

“Why not? It would definitely get him to leave you the fuck alone,” she replied, laughing at the revulsion in your expression. 

“Sure, but at what cost?” you asked, and she shrugged.

“Fine, but don’t come whining to me when you get trapped in an hour-long conversation about Soulforge,” she told you, ducking back into the office before catching the glare you sent her way. 

Wrenching the door open, you shivered, bracing yourself against the wind chill as you made your way to the bus stop. By some stroke of luck, your route was running on time today and you made it back to your apartment without incident. Sure, you had to tiptoe past your neighbor’s door in order to ensure he didn’t hear your arrival home, but that seemed a much smaller price to pay than pretending you were suffering from extreme gastrointestinal distress. Choosing to ignore that issue for the time being, you instead took a long shower and ate a bowl of instant oatmeal, after which you almost felt like a functional human being again.

Almost.

Chapter Text

Despite the hot shower and actual breakfast having done wonders for your mood, your upbeat attitude lasted precisely three minutes after returning to the center and discovering a shipment of boxes stacked neatly on your desk.

“What’s this?” You asked Ava, gesturing at the pile.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “They got dropped off a little while ago. I thought maybe it was stuff you had ordered.”

You thought for a moment, trying to recall whether you had purchased anything online recently for the center, but nothing came to mind. The exterior of the boxes were blank apart from the Iron & Glass mailing address, offering no clue as to what they might contain. Frowning, you set your bag down and grabbed a box cutter from the cup on your desk, starting in on the top of the stack.

“What the fuck?” you said, peeling back the cardboard to reveal the contents. 

Ava hurried over, her eyes going wide.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, “This is like…a billion dollars worth of Copic markers. Where’d you find money in the budget for these?”

 “I didn’t,” you answered thinly.

Ava seemed oblivious to your growing consternation as she tore into the rest of the packages excitedly, exclaiming as what looked like half an art supply store was unearthed.

“There’s no note,” she said, brows furrowed with confusion as she finished laying the materials across your desk. “No sender information at all.”

“I already know who sent them,” you replied tightly. “Mr. Fancy Collar Pin.”

Ava seemed to deflate at this revelation, a quiet“oh,” leaving her mouth as she watched you apprehensively.

“I mean…I know you don’t like him,” she said after a long pause,“but isn’t this a good thing? I mean, we could never afford this stuff.”

“Yeah, and that’s exactly the problem!” you burst out, feeling almost sick as you contemplated how much the materials must have cost. “We can’t accept a donation like this for my class when we’re still using space heaters to keep the studios warm, the printer’s still broken, and I have a list a mile long of basic supplies other classes need.”

You ran your hands through your hair in frustration, sending Ava a look that bordered on desperation.

“I mean, what am I supposed to tell the other teachers? ‘Sorry about your ancient equipment, but look at these fancy new markers I just got?’” you asked, failing to keep the growing agitation out of your voice.

“I mean, fair,” Ava conceded, “that’s how I felt when we got all those Macs for my class—”

“Yeah but that was from a tech grant,” you cut in. “Everyone understood those funds had specific allocations, it wasn’t like you were taking resources away from anyone else.”Ava hummed noncommittally, watching as you sank into your office chair, barely able to see over the stacks of supplies. 

“So what are you going to do?” she asked finally, and you let out a frustrated groan.

“I don’t know. I mean, part of me wants to return all of it—” you responded, deliberately ignoring her alarmed expression, “but that’s not really fair to the students. So I’m just going to keep this stuff in here until I can have a conversation with him about proper channels for donations, I guess.”

The corner of Ava’s mouth quirked up slightly.

“The word conversation implies you’re going to let him get a word in edgewise,” she pointed out drily, and you crossed your arms over your chest defensively.

“I will!” you insisted, unconvincingly, before adding, “otherwise, how else is he going to explain what the fuck he was thinking?”

She snorted, and you couldn’t stop a grin from breaking over your face.

“Guess that saying is true,” she commented, beginning to pack everything back into the pile of boxes.

“Which one?” you asked, standing up to assist her.

“No good deed goes unpunished.”

Jinx arrived early to open studio, the muffled sound of death metal announcing her arrival from the hallway. You gave her a small smile as she approached your desk, a massive pair of headphones clamped over her ears that she hastily yanked off, wincing as a guttural scream blared from the speakers. Looking apologetic, she paused the song, her gaze immediately drawn to the iPad in front of you.

“What are you working on?” she asked in lieu of a standard greeting, and you hesitated for a moment before flipping it around to show her. 

She glanced up at you, surprised.

“Big Soulforge fan, huh?” she remarked, and you scoffed, embarrassed. 

“Hardly,” you replied, twirling your Apple Pencil absently as you debated over whether to give her the backstory or not. “Basically I offered to trade my neighbor some art in exchange for use of his printer, since ours is busted. I wasn’t expecting him to choose a subject so…” you trailed off, unsure of how to phrase it.

“Stacked?” she suggested, and you let out a snort of laughter.

“I was going to say scantily clad,” you said drily, “but yeah. I’m trying to figure out a way to give her more clothes without sacrificing the original character design—”

“The original design sucks,” Jinx cut in bluntly, “I mean, how is she supposed to fight in that get-up? I think you should give her a suit of armor instead.”

“That would be much cooler,” you agreed, turning the iPad back to face you, “but probably not what Creepy Craig had in mind.”

“Creepy Craig?” she repeated, raising one sharply defined brow in a far more endearing echo of her father’s perpetually judgmental expression. “Yeah, he’s probably expecting as little clothing as possible.”


“Probably," you sighed, closing the Procreate file. "But enough about my questionable commissions. Did you want to work on anything specific tonight?”

Jinx shrugged, hefting her sketchbook. “I was thinking about what you said about Marina Velcroft's style. Maybe trying something like that but with my own spin on it?”

“That sounds great.” You gestured toward the supplies. “Set up wherever you're comfortable. I'm around if you need anything.”

She nodded and headed toward the corner closest to the space heater, already slipping her headphones back on. You watched her get settled, noting how much more confident she already seemed in comparison to the previous day.

The next few hours passed quietly, interrupted only by occasional questions from the handful of students who had shown up. You alternated between working on the commission and making rounds, offering guidance when asked but mostly letting everyone work independently in companionable silence.

It wasn't until you noticed the other students starting to pack up that you realized how late it had gotten. Jinx remained absorbed in her work, head bobbing in time to her music, seemingly oblivious to the time.

“Hey," you called softly, approaching her easel slowly so as not to startle her. “We’re wrapping up for the night. Is someone coming to pick you up?”

She pulled off her headphones, checking her texts. “Oh! Yeah, my dad said he'd be here by nine.” Her expression turned apologetic. “Sorry, he’s not usually late—”

“All good,” you assured her, starting to gather the few supplies that had been left out. “I'll be here for a while anyway. I told myself I couldn’t leave until I finished this stupid Valeria drawing so who knows, might end up sleeping in my office again.”

Her face scrunched up in concern. 

“You slept here?” she asked, distressed, and you immediately regretted the admission.

“Sometimes it’s just easier,” you shrugged, affecting a casual tone, “especially when I’m trying to finish commissions. Less distractions.”

“And less creepy neighbors?” she questioned, a knowing look in her pale blue eyes.

“Yeah, that too,” you admitted, caught off-guard by her perceptiveness.

Feeling oddly exposed, you busied yourself with straightening up your desk as Jinx packed up her bag, both of you turning toward the door as Silco announced himself with a single, sharp knock.


Despite the late hour, he was still irritatingly put together; not a crease to be found in his perfectly tailored suit or a single lock of silver-threaded hair out of place.

“My apologies for the delay,” he said, looking genuinely contrite. “There was an unexpected situation at work.”

“It's fine,” you told him, your tone suggesting it was anything but. “Though I'd appreciate a word before you leave.”

He must have caught something in your voice because he turned to Jinx. “Wait in the car?”

She hesitated a moment, her gaze flitting between the two of you curiously before nodding.

“Good luck with the drawing,” she said, giving you a sympathetic look and adding, “and the creepy neighbor.”

“Thanks,” you smiled, ignoring the questioning glance Silco sent you. “Have a good night.”

She waved, already cramming her headphones back on before she had crossed the threshold, leaving the sound of muted industrial music in her wake.

Once she was gone, you crossed your arms. “Care to explain the delivery this morning?”

“Ah.” His expression gave nothing away. “I trust everything arrived intact?”

“That's not—” you broke off, trying and failing to keep your tone level. “You can't just... we have procedures for donations. Guidelines that have to be followed. I can't accept expensive supplies for my class when we have about a million more pressing needs.”

“I wasn't aware—” he began, frowning, but you held up a hand to cut him off.

“No, you weren't. Because you didn't ask. You just assumed you could solve problems by throwing money at them without considering the implications,” you snapped, noting with satisfaction that whatever retort he had been forming never made it past his sullen mouth. 

You stared at one another in silence for a long moment, only continuing when you were certain he wasn’t going to try to speak up again.


“I’m sure you were trying to help,” you said, though you weren’t sure of that at all, “but you can't just decide what's best for the center without any discussion. If you want to help, there are appropriate channels—”

"My daughter," he cut in finally, the words sharp enough to slice through your building momentum, “didn't want to bring her own supplies to class unless everyone had access to the same materials.” His mismatched eyes fixed on yours, challenging you to find fault with this explanation. “I was merely trying to solve a problem.”


Your anger evaporated almost instantaneously, heart sinking as the revelation seemed to reverberate in the space between you. 

“I…” you started, then stopped, your arms dropping to your sides. “That's really thoughtful. Of her,” you managed after what felt like a millennia, wincing at how weak it sounded.

He considered you with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “Perhaps I should have consulted you first.”

“It's not that we don't appreciate the gesture,” you blurted out, desperate to salvage both your point and your dignity. “It's just... the center has had issues with resource distribution before and I’ve worked really hard to prevent that as much as possible so it’s just—” you broke off, realizing you were starting to ramble. Taking a deep breath, you tried again. “I can't just accept resources based on one person's…” you trailed off lamely, not wanting to say ' whim ' but unable to find a better word.

“Based on one person's attempt to ensure their child feels welcome in your program?” he supplied coolly, and you felt your face heat with embarrassment.

“That's not what I—” you started, but he mirrored your earlier gesture, cutting you off with a raise of one elegant hand.

“No, you've made your position quite clear,” he told you, and you caught a flash of something like genuine frustration in his expression before it smoothed back into practiced neutrality. “I simply failed to consider that my attempt to solve one problem might create several others. A habit I'm trying to break.”

You opened your mouth to respond, then closed it again, certain you would only worsen the situation.

“If that’s all,” he said after a moment, already turning toward the door. "I don’t want to keep Jinx waiting. My apologies again for the delay in picking her up.”

“Wait,” you called after him, surprising yourself. He paused, shifting back to face you. “I...thank you. For trying to help. Even if the execution was…”

“Presumptuous?” he offered wryly.

“I was going to say ‘unexpected,’” you replied, and were rewarded with the slight upward quirk of his mouth that you were starting to recognize as his version of a smile.

“How diplomatic of you,” he remarked, and then he was gone, leaving you rooted to the spot as you wondered how you had managed to screw things up so spectacularly.


After what felt like hours, you returned to your desk and slumped into your chair, pressing the heels of your palms against your burning eyes. The quiet of the center pressed in around you, broken only by the occasional clank of the ancient radiator and your own uneven breathing.

“Fuck,” you whispered to the empty room, voice catching in your throat. And then, because apparently one disaster wasn't enough for the day, you felt tears start to well up. “No, absolutely not,” you told yourself firmly, but your body had other ideas.


The tears spilled over anyway, hot tracks down your cheeks that you wiped away angrily. You weren't even sure why you were crying—exhaustion probably, or stress, or mortification at how spectacularly you'd misread... everything. Maybe all of it at once. You'd been so certain, so righteous in your assumptions, and now...

“Get it together,” you muttered, letting out a shuddering exhalation as you tried to compose yourself. “You have work to finish.”

You pulled up Procreate with trembling hands, determined to at least accomplish one thing today. The lines kept blurring through your tears but you forced yourself to continue, knowing you couldn't afford to put it off another day. It was well past midnight when you finally finished, leaning back in your chair with burning eyes and an aching neck. And then, because the universe apparently hadn't finished punishing you, reality hit:

You had no way to print it.

“Oh god,” you groaned, dropping your head onto your desk. You couldn't email it to Craig because that would mean giving him your email address, another way for him to contact you. You couldn't text it to him because that would mean giving him your number, which was even worse. And you definitely couldn't go knock on his door at this hour to use his printer, even if you'd been willing to deal with his inevitable attempts at conversation.

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled up in your throat. 

“I hate everything,” you told your desk, voice muffled against the wood.

The center's familiar creaks followed you to the office sofa, where you curled up for the second night in a row.

You woke to Ava's sharp intake of breath, bracing yourself for another lecture. But when you peeled your eyes open, her expression shifted from exasperation to concern.

“Have you been crying?”

You touched your cheeks, feeling the salt-stiff tracks there, knowing it was pointless to lie. “Maybe.”

She set her coffee down and perched on the edge of the sofa. “What happened?”

You drew yourself up to a seated position, tugging the blanket closer around you to ward off the early morning chill.


“Well, I completely went off on him about the art supplies,” you said, burrowing deeper into your protective cocoon. “Just... completely tore into him about throwing money at problems without understanding them.”

Ava winced. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. And of course I managed to make it so much worse by getting all self-righteous about his attitude and his assumptions about the center, when the whole time…” you let out a hollow laugh. “Want to know the best part?”

“Probably not, but continue,” she replied apprehensively.

“The whole reason he sent the supplies? Jinx didn't want to bring her own materials unless everyone else had access to the same ones. She was worried about making other students feel bad.”

“Oh,” Ava breathed, looking pained. “So he was just trying to…”

“Be a good dad? Yeah.” You slumped further into the sofa. “And I absolutely eviscerated him for it. God, you should have seen his face when he explained. I wanted to fucking die.”

“Well, that explains the tear tracks,” she murmured softly, squeezing your shoulder. “Though I have to say, for someone who supposedly hates him, you seem pretty torn up about hurting his feelings.”

“I don't…” you started, then caught her knowing look. “It’s not just that,” you tried again.

“Right,” she nodded, unconvinced. “That's why you slept here crying about it.”

“I slept here because I was working on this stupid fucking commission til after midnight and the bus had already stopped running and I can't—I can't even print it or email it or text it because then he'll have my contact information, and now I have no way to—” your voice cracked.

“Oh, is that all?” Ava waved dismissively. “Talia can print it in the Cloudbrew office. She'll bring it to The Last Drop tonight when you come out with us.”

Your face scrunched up in protest.

“I'm not really up for—” you started.

“Nope,” she cut you off. “You're coming. You need a break, and I need my best friend back. The one who actually leaves the center occasionally?”

You opened your mouth to resist, then caught the genuine worry beneath her teasing. When was the last time you'd done anything she wanted to do, instead of just expecting her to handle everything while you worked yourself to exhaustion?

“Okay,” you agreed quietly. “You're right. I'll come.”

Her brilliant smile made you feel even guiltier about how absent you'd been lately.


“Good. Now please go home before you permanently merge with the sofa,” she told you, and you scowled.

“I’m doing an installation piece,” you replied as you rubbed your sore neck, slipping into a tone you generally reserved for lectures, “it’s a commentary on how living in a capitalistic society has essentially turned us into furniture in the offices of our lives.”

Ava gave an unimpressed hum.

“Well, here’s some commentary for you: you look like garbage and you need to go install yourself in the shower.”

You'd never been to The Last Drop this early in the evening. The usual grit and neon of the Lanes had softened in the twilight hour, lending the industrial facade an almost ethereal quality. Inside, the weekday crowd was sparse enough that you could actually appreciate the space — the wood-paneled walls, the gleaming copper that adorned the bar, the vintage jukebox in the corner.

Ava called your name from a booth tucked beneath the balcony, waving enthusiastically despite having seen you just an hour before. She was sitting close to a woman you recognized from her excited descriptions, whose dark curls were gathered into an artfully messy bun, her delicate features accentuated by a collection of piercings that glinted in the low light. You caught the way Ava's fingers lingered near Talia's on the table, not quite touching but clearly wanting to.

“You must be the one in need of printing services,” Talia greeted you as you slid into the seat opposite the two of them. “Though I have to say, based on Ava's stories about your neighbor, I was expecting something a bit more... risqué.”

You groaned, accepting the mystery drink Ava pushed toward you. “Please tell me you didn't actually look at it.”

“Only enough to make sure it printed properly,” Talia assured you, sliding a folder across the table. “Though I have to say, the armor was a nice touch.”

“One I can’t take credit for,” you answered, tucking the folder safely into your bag gratefully. “A student suggested it. Thank you, seriously. You're a lifesaver.”

“Happy to help,” she replied warmly, her eyes drifting to Ava who was watching her with poorly concealed adoration. 

Trying to give them a semblance of privacy, you took a sip of your drink, grimacing slightly as the alcohol hit the back of your throat.

“Bad?” Ava asked, noticing your reaction, and you shook your head quickly.

“No, just…strong,” you said, grinning slightly before adding, “not as strong as the drinks you usually make, though.”

Ava glanced toward the door for a moment, her brow furrowing, before turning back to you apprehensively.

“Don’t look now or you might wish it was,” she cautioned, throwing up her hands in exasperation as you promptly ignored her directive and swiveled around to see who she was frowning at.

As soon as you did, you met Silco’s gaze, his damaged eye a dying ember in the dim light. Panicking, you waved somewhat frantically before you could stop yourself, then realized he might take that as an invitation to come over, and spun back around to face Ava and Talia, who were watching you with equal parts alarm and poorly-concealed amusement. 

“Help,” you whispered, giving Ava a pleading look as you sat completely still, somehow convinced that if you didn’t move, he wouldn’t be able to see you as you attempted to merge yourself with the booth.

Because he was a Tyrannosaurus Rex, apparently. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was wrong with you? And why did this man render you incapable of behaving like a sane person?

“Relax, he’s not coming over,” Ava murmured, sending an imperceptible glance his way while taking a sip of her drink, entirely unruffled. “He’s just talking to one of the servers.”

Your shoulders slumped slightly with relief, only to tense back up as you caught the look on Ava’s face.

“What?” you demanded, already certain you wouldn’t like the answer.

“I mean…” she shrugged, “I know you don’t want to, but who knows the next time you might get a chance to apologize for yesterday?”

“Here? Now ?” you shot a desperate look at Talia, hoping she might offer you an escape route, but she just smiled encouragingly. “I'm not nearly drunk enough for that.”

“Then drink up,” Ava said cheerfully, pushing your glass closer. “Besides, he's already seen you. And you’ll feel so much better after!”

“Fuck. Fine.” You growled, grabbing your drink and downing half of it, pressing the cool surface against your flushed cheek before standing. “If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, assume I've died and split my belongings amongst yourselves.”

“Dibs on your iPad,” Ava called after you as you hurried after Silco’s retreating back.

You caught up to him near the steps leading up to the balcony, your embarrassment warring with your determination to make this right. “Excuse me? Sir? I mean...Silco?”

He turned, one eyebrow lifting slightly at your approach. “Yes?”

“I was hoping I could speak with you for a moment? About yesterday?” you fought the urge to fidget under his steady gaze. “I want to apologize. I made some assumptions that I shouldn't have, and I was…really unfair to you.”

He considered you for a moment then indicated for you to follow him up the stairwell, continuing down a darkened hallway until he reached a door at the end of it.

“What is this?” you asked, as he withdrew a set of keys and unlocked it with practiced ease.

“My office,” he replied patiently, as if explaining a simple concept to a young child.

He stepped over the threshold, leaving you to piece it together in the hallway.

“This…this is your bar?” you said, staring at him as he moved behind an ornate wooden desk decorated with several sculptures and an ashtray painted Jinx’s chaotic style.

“Yes,” he answered simply, reaching for an etched glass decanter from the bar cart behind him and pouring a measure of liquor into a matching tumbler. 

The silence stretched between you until finally, he spoke again. “I imagine you’re wondering how a Piltovan came to own an establishment in The Lanes.”

You said nothing, an uneasy feeling settling in your stomach as he settled into a high-backed leather chair, fixing you with a level gaze.

“Let me guess,” he continued, the scarred corner of his mouth twisting up in a humourless smile, “I simply decided I wanted this particular venue and, how did you put it? 'Threw money at it?' Which the previous owner naturally accepted, being a lowly Zaunite unaware of the value of his own property. Does that sound about right?”

“And…” you managed, your throat growing drier by the moment, “is it?”

“Wrong on all counts, I’m afraid,” he told you, his expression a mockery of pity, as if he couldn’t quite believe anyone could be so incredibly stupid. “Particularly in regard to my citizenry.”

“So you're…” you began, unable to finish the question.

“Born and raised in the Lanes,” he confirmed, studying you with careful attention. “Though apparently I've developed quite the convincing Piltover affect.”

You sank into one of the chairs facing his desk, mortification washing over you in waves. Every interaction you'd had, every assumption you’d made, every cutting remark you’d loosed with absolute conviction it was being directed at some corporate Piltie…all of it played back in your head with horrifying clarity.

“I…” you started, then stopped, completely at a loss for words.

“Please,” he said, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now, “don't let this revelation inhibit your typically... forthright nature. Perhaps you could enlighten me as to what exactly led to such certainty regarding my origins?”

He watched you closely over the rim of his glass, something akin to a smile playing on his lips. You were at once acutely aware that you were being led into a trap, but at a complete loss as to how to sidestep it. Perhaps this was your penance—letting him witness your uncharacteristic uncertainty after you'd been so quick to judge.

“Well, the way you dress for one,” you answered finally, as if this should be self-explanatory.

“And you've spent enough time in Piltover to know that my way of dress is in keeping with their fashion sense?” he challenged, and you faltered.

“I mean... no, I guess not. But it's not in keeping with Zaun either. At least, not in my experience,” you retorted.

“Ah yes, the wealth of experience you've gained despite hardly ever venturing outside the center.” His voice was mild, but something in his tone made anger flare in your chest—though you refused to acknowledge whether it was because he was entirely wrong about you or, worse, he was entirely right.

“Well, there's also your attitude,” you snapped, a scowl forming at the way one brow lifted in amusement.

“My attitude?” he repeated, and you nodded stubbornly.

“Yeah, you were a complete snob,” you told him bluntly.

“Do all of your apologies include a list of grievances directed at the recipient?” he asked smoothly, still looking highly entertained. “Or do I alone have the honor of that distinction?”

The words hit like a splash of cold water, dousing your indignation as you remembered why you'd sought him out in the first place. Your self-righteousness crumbled, leaving only regret in its wake.

“You're right,” you admitted, too distraught to savor the momentary satisfaction of seeing genuine surprise flicker across his features. “I'm sorry. I've behaved extremely unprofessionally from basically the moment we met and I just seem to keep making it worse.”

You looked down at your lap, anxiously wringing your hands as you awaited his response. When it didn't come, you lifted your eyes to meet his, finding him watching you with an unreadable expression. The silence stretched between you, heavy with all your mistakes. In some ways, you would have preferred anger—at least that would have given you something to push against, something other than this careful scrutiny that made you feel completely exposed. To your horror, tears began to well up, spilling down your cheeks before you could prevent them.

“Fuck, sorry,” you muttered, your voice hoarse. “I'm sorry. I'm just tired. And it's been a really shitty past couple of weeks. And I know it probably sounds like I'm making excuses for how I've acted toward you, and I'm not trying to, I just want you to know that I'm not usually like this.”

He shifted in his chair, clearly unsettled by your display of emotion. His hand moved slightly, an aborted gesture of comfort, before he reached into his vest pocket instead and withdrew a precisely folded handkerchief.

“Perhaps,” he said carefully, offering it to you, “I bring out a particular brand of... candor in you.”

You stared at the gold ‘S’ embroidered in the corner of the crimson fabric, briefly distracted by the delicate needlework before shaking your head.

“It looks too expensive to cry on,” you muttered, and he let out a mildly exasperated sigh.

“I assure you it will survive contact with tears,” he said dryly. “That is rather the point of a handkerchief.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “Somehow I doubt you've tested that theory much yourself.”

“On the contrary,” he replied, mouth curving up. “I’ve found myself moved to tears quite frequently as of late. And I can assure you the handkerchief has proven remarkably resilient to the deluge produced by being mistaken for a Piltovan.”

You let out an undignified snort of laughter at that, finally relenting and taking the monogrammed square with a murmur of thanks. 

“Can we... start over?” you asked hesitantly, after you had finished wiping the tear tracks from your cheeks. 

“Oh, I don't think that's necessary,” he replied, and your heart sank momentarily before he continued, “after all, my precious Piltovan ego would be damaged beyond repair if you suddenly began treating me the same as everyone else.”

You groaned, but couldn't quite suppress your smile. “You're never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No,” he said, his expression turning serious. “Though I find myself wondering if perhaps we both made certain... hasty judgments.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, sagging in your chair. “I really am sorry. About everything. The assumptions, the attitude, the way I reacted to the supplies…”

“Which, as you pointed out quite thoroughly , I should have discussed with you first.” He was quiet for a moment. “I'm not accustomed to... collaboration. When I see a problem, I solve it. Usually through rather direct means.”

“Like buying half an art supply store?” you questioned, arching a brow.

His mouth quirked up. “For instance.”

“I do understand why you did it,” you said softly. “And I do really appreciate that Jinx was thinking about the other students. I just…”

“Have to consider the center as a whole,” he finished. “Yes, I'm beginning to understand your position.” He reached into his jacket, withdrawing a small case. “Perhaps we could discuss a more appropriate way for me to be involved with the center's development?”

He slid a matte black business card across the desk, its surface embossed with elegant silver text that read Darkwater Holdings , followed by a phone number and email address.

“I…” you started, then stopped, suddenly uncertain.

“I assure you, all of my ventures are perfectly legal,” he said dryly. “Though your expression suggests you might have heard otherwise.”

“No! I mean... I haven't heard anything. About you. Or your ventures. Which I'm now realizing is kind of weird considering…” you gestured vaguely at the office.

“I prefer to maintain a certain privacy,” he said simply. “Though I find myself willing to be slightly more...visible, where the center is concerned.”

You picked up the card, turning it over in your hands. “Why?”

“Because Jinx loves it there.” A fondness seeped into his voice almost imperceptibly. “And, despite your concerning tendency toward rash judgments and questionable approach to donor relations, it’s clear you’re extremely loyal to the center’s mission. Loyalty, I’ve found, is always worth investing in.”


You found yourself unable to form a suitable reply, distracted by the way the low lighting caught in his mismatched eyes, tempering the sharp angles of his face. Even the tributaries of scars that began at his gray-threaded temple and carved through his stony features were softened somehow, lifting his sullen mouth into an infinitesimal smile. Your gaze strayed downwards to his crisp shirt collar, adorned today with an intricate pair of silver dahlias.


Somewhere beyond his office, bass thrummed through the walls from whatever song was playing in the main bar, but in here the sound was muffled enough that you could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall behind him, the soft creak of leather as he leaned back in his chair. You swallowed, suddenly nervous for a very different reason than when you had first sought him out earlier.

“I should…” you motioned awkwardly toward the door, suddenly very aware of how long you had been gone. “They’re probably wondering where I disappeared to.”


“Of course.” He stood, pushing his hair back with one hand. “You’ll let me know when is convenient for us to meet?”

You paused, not quite trusting your voice.

“About how I might be able to assist with some of the center’s more pressing needs?” he prompted, and you nodded hastily.

“Yeah. Yes,” you managed, getting to your feet before adding, “I’ll text you once I have a look at my schedule.”

He followed you toward the door, and you were suddenly hyper aware of his presence behind you, how the narrow space meant you could feel the heat of him even without touching, could smell his cologne — citrus and vetiver and something spicy you couldn’t quite identify. Putting as much distance between the two of you as you could manage without being obvious, you waited until you were in the relatively safe borderlands of the hall before turning back toward him.

“Thank you,” you managed, “For... hearing me out. And for not holding my assumptions against me.”

“Mm,” he hummed, the sound seeming to reverberate somewhere within your ribcage. “Though I do reserve the right to remind you of them. Occasionally.”

You grasped for a retort, but the amusement flitting at the corner of his mouth made the words die in your throat.

“Fair’s fair, I guess,” you said lamely, desperate to make an exit before you managed to make a fool of yourself yet again that evening. “Night.”

If he replied, you were already too far down the hallway to hear it, heart thumping wildly as you slid back into the booth, eyeing the multiplied drinks on the table.


Ava leaned forward. “How'd it go?” 

“I mean, it was a bit humiliating,” you admitted, taking a sip of your cocktail. “Especially the part where I found out he’s definitely not from Piltover and actually owns this bar.”

“Yeah, we sort of figured that out when the server brought over another round after you went upstairs and told us they were compliments of the owner,” she replied, looking momentarily sympathetic before she brightened. “But on the plus side, free drinks!”

“Well, not free,” you corrected her, “they did cost me my dignity.”

“Surprised there was any left to spend after willingly drawing Boobleria Stormweaver for a guy named Creepy Craig,” Ava remarked, and you let out an indignant huff.

“Rude,” you muttered, taking another sip.

“Seriously though,” she said, reaching across the table to lay a hand on your forearm. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, giving her a small smile. “Yeah. Actually, he asked if we could meet to discuss how he could get involved in the center.”

“Really?” she asked, her eyes widening with interest. “And what did you say?”

“That I’d check my calendar and get back to him…?” you responded, shrugging.

“Playing hard to get,” she nodded sagely, “Strong move.”

“I’m not—” you broke off, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

You caught Talia’s eye and exchanged a fond, if mildly exasperated glance, which Ava seemed completely oblivious to.

“You should tell him that we really need a massage chair,” she suggested, and you stared at her skeptically.

“And why do we need that?” you challenged her, pulling the stirrer from your now empty drink and easing the maraschino cherry off one end.

“Staff morale,” she answered, as though this was obvious, before grinning mischievously and adding, “although maybe it would be better for morale if he was the one giving you a massage?”

You lobbed the garnish at her, the silence stretching just a beat too long to be innocent before muttering, “absolutely not.”


An answer that, in the court of Ava's relentless interpretation, was basically a full confession.

Chapter Text

For the first time in weeks, you didn't mind the walk up to your apartment. Even Craig's muffled gaming noises from next door couldn't dampen your mood as you unlocked your door, oddly energized despite the late hour. You dropped your bag on the kitchen counter and pulled the commission out to drop off early the following morning, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the manilla envelope until you were already at work.

Hesitating a moment, you reached back into your bag and grabbed your wallet, carefully drawing Silco’s card out. The elegant black cardstock caught the light as you turned it over in your hands, and that's when you noticed it — the subtle scent clinging to the paper. Citrus and vetiver, and that underlying spiciness you couldn’t quite place.

Before you could stop yourself, you lifted the card to your nose, inhaling deeply.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you muttered, catching yourself. You set the card down on the counter, then picked it up again almost immediately.

You were just trying to figure out what that base note was, you told yourself firmly. This was purely analytical. Just…satiating your curiosity, nothing more. And even if it was, so what? It wasn’t illegal to appreciate a nice cologne, just like it wasn’t illegal to appreciate Silco’s unique collection of collar pins. It didn’t mean anything.

Right. Just like it didn’t mean anything that you kept replaying how that scent had intensified as he followed you out of his office. Or that your face was growing warmer just thinking about the amused look he had given you as you had struggled to formulate a response to his parting words.

"Nope," you said aloud, shoving the card back into your wallet. "Not doing this."

But as you got ready for bed, you couldn't quite ignore how your fingers itched to retrieve it. 

Getting up before your alarm for once felt like a minor miracle, though you suspected that had more to do with actually sleeping in your own bed than any real improvement to your routine. The early morning light filtering through your blinds seemed softer somehow, the usual chorus of car horns and distant sirens outside your window less grating. You couldn't remember the last time you'd woken up without feeling like you were already running late, without that familiar weight of accumulated exhaustion pressing down on you.

You readied yourself for work in record time, quietly sliding the commission beneath your neighbor’s door as you passed his apartment. It wasn’t until you were in the stairwell that you realized you had been holding your breath, and let it out in a shaky exhalation that fogged the glacial air seeping in from the exit. Despite the bitter cold, you felt an odd warmth blooming in your chest as you walked to the bus stop, which you guessed was something like relief at finally having that particular item crossed off of your endless to-do list.

Deciding it was high time you pick up Ava’s coffee for a change, you made a slight detour on your way to the center, the espresso and caramelized-sugar scent of Cloudbrew Coffee a balm to your wind-bitten skin. 

Talia was behind the counter when you arrived, her dark curls escaping from a messy bun as she steamed milk for someone's latte. 

“Ava's already been by,” she informed you with a knowing smile as you approached the register. “I’m a little worried about her heart rate at this point.”

“Maybe just a single shot in hers then,” you suggested, pulling out your wallet. “And thanks again for the printing rescue last night. I really didn’t want to have to go to the library for that one.”

She waved away your attempt to pay. “Please, after the entertainment you two provided last night? Consider it covered.”

“I can't let you—” you started to protest, but she cut you off with a mischievous grin.

“But if you really want to pay me back, I'd love a drawing of Valeria Stormweaver. I was thinking in a bikini, draped over a muscle car—”

“Absolutely not,” you laughed at her disappointed sigh.

“Worth a try,” she said, momentarily feigning disappointment. “I’ll have these right out.”

“Thanks,” you smiled, waiting until her attention was turned toward writing your names on to-go cups before slipping a ten dollar bill into the tip jar. 

You leaned against the wall near the end of the bar, easing Silco’s business card out of your wallet, a tremor in your hands as you entered his number. Biting your lip, you typed out what you hoped was both a polite and professional message, trying not to overthink it.

Thank you for the drinks last night, and for taking the time to hear me out. I know it’s late notice, but I do have some time tomorrow afternoon if you would be able to meet sometime between 1-4? If that doesn’t work, totally understand — let me know when is convenient for you and I’ll see what I can make work.

You hit send as Talia called out your name, tucking your phone away and gathering the drinks with a murmur of thanks. Setting them in a carrier, you grinned as you noticed Ava’s name was surrounded with a tiny constellation of stars. Your pocket buzzed as you were halfway to the door and your pulse jumped as you fought the urge to immediately read the message, forcing yourself to wait until you made it to work.

Just barely managing to honor that agreement, you sat the carrier down on the bench in the lobby as soon as you were inside, already reaching for your phone as the center door swung shut behind you. 

Let’s do tomorrow at 2p.m. 

You took a steadying breath, attempting to compose yourself before replying.

Perfect. I'll even bring coffee as additional penance for my grievous assumptions.


A minute passed by, then a calendar invite for the meeting materialized in the thread, listing an address downtown as the location. You instantly confirmed your attendance, then took a sip of your drink as you waited for him to respond. The ellipses appeared, and for the second time that day, you had to remind yourself to breathe. 

Attempting to bribe your way back into my good graces?


I don’t think I was ever in your good graces to begin with.

I appreciate the offer but there’s no need. We have a Keurig on premises.


Well, now I’m DEFINITELY bringing coffee. 

Too refined for K-cups? And you said I was a snob.

You read the message in his sardonic tone, clearly picturing the wry twist of his mouth. Trying unsuccessfully to fight back a smile, you felt your cheeks grow warm as you typed back.

Ha ha. I’m bringing you something too so would you like to tell me your usual order or should I just guess and risk adding to my growing list of incorrect assumptions?

I wouldn't want to deprive you of the opportunity to be wrong about something else entirely.

...I'm going to take that as "surprise me" and definitely not overthink it for the next 24 hours.

I look forward to your deductions. See you tomorrow.

You were still grinning at your phone when you pushed open your office door, nearly walking into Ava who was clearly lying in wait.

“Well, well,” she said, eyeing your expression with unholy glee. “Someone's in a good mood.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” you replied airily, but you couldn't quite manage to wipe the expression off your face.

“You’ve been standing in the hallway for like fifteen minutes just grinning at your phone,” she told you, lifting her drink from the carrier. “That wouldn't have anything to do with a certain bar owner, would it?”

You deliberately avoided her gaze, heat creeping up your neck.

“I was looking at memes,” you lied, busying yourself with arranging your things.

“What memes? You haven’t replied to any of the ones I sent you,” she replied suspiciously, and you floundered for a moment.

“Just…funny ones,” you said weakly, before trying a different approach. “I think Talia really likes you, you know,” you added, nodding at the decorations on Ava’s cup.

“Of course she does,” she answered, almost impatiently, before setting her drink down and leaning across your desk with a dead serious look. “Now stop deflecting and answer the question.”

“Oh my god, fine,” you relented, shrinking back. “I have a meeting with him tomorrow to discuss center involvement. Happy?”

“Effervescent , even,” she said serenely, and you rolled your eyes.

“Glad to hear it,” you told her drily. “Now if you’re done interrogating me, I’m going to get some work done.”

Or at least try to, you added to yourself, your mind already drifting back to his messages even as you halfheartedly attempted to stop it.

You arrived at his office at 1:55 the following day, carefully balancing two coffees as you pulled open a door embossed with the same elegant script as his business card. The receptionist glanced up as you entered, announcing he would be with you momentarily before returning to his phone call. Before you could respond, Silco appeared from down the hallway, dressed in another impeccably tailored suit, his collar pin today a pair of silver ferns reaching up toward his throat.

“Right on time,” he remarked, stepping aside to let you pass. “And bearing gifts, I see.”

“Peace offerings,” you corrected, as he ushered you into his office, a minimalist space with sleek modern furniture and little in the way of personal effects.

You set both drinks on his glass and chrome desk, arranging the small collection of cream and sweeteners you'd brought alongside them. “Americano with an extra shot,” you explained, trying not to sound like you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deliberating over the choice. “I brought additions, if you want them.”

“Ah,” he said, gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the chairs opposite him before examining the cups with mild interest. “And here I typically order a quadruple shot frozen caramel latte with extra whipped cream and chocolate drizzle.”

You gave him a flat look. “You've never had that drink in your life.”

“Wrong again,” he replied, reaching for one of the raw sugar packets. “Though I admit it was entirely at Jinx's insistence. She was quite determined that I try her favorite beverage.”

A traitorous warmth bloomed in your chest at this glimpse of him indulging his daughter's whims, but you kept your tone light. “And your verdict?”

“I'll stick with this,” he answered, stirring the sugar into his americano with precise movements before sinking into his chair. 

You watched him, momentarily distracted, before giving an infinitesimal shake of your head as if to clear it. Pulling out a slim folder of documents you'd spent a majority of the previous afternoon meticulously collecting, you handed it to him.  “I wanted to start by giving you a clear picture of where we are now, and what we're working toward.”

He accepted the papers with a nod, mismatched eyes skimming the first page as he took a measured sip of his coffee. You found yourself suddenly fascinated by the sharp line of his jaw and the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

“The—the main issue we're facing is that most of our approved grants have such specific allocation requirements that we're left relying on monetary donations for basic operational costs. Which would be fine, except—” you stumbled slightly, your mouth suddenly dry.

“Donations are unreliable,” he finished. “Particularly in this area.”

“Yeah. I've been pursuing unrestricted grants, but we're running into issues with historical data. The center's record-keeping was... let's say minimal under the previous director. It's hard to quantify our impact without that baseline.”

His expression sharpened with interest. “You need to demonstrate value to potential investors.”

“I mean, we know we're making a difference," you said, unable to keep the frustration from your voice entirely. “I see it every day. But translating that into the kind of data these grant committees want…” you heaved a sigh. “It’s been difficult.”

“What data are you collecting now?” he asked, shifting forward slightly in his chair.

“Attendance records, program statistics, some basic demographic information. We do student surveys, but they're mostly qualitative feedback.” You answered, gesturing toward the folder. “The specifics are all there, but again, it’s not as comprehensive as it should be given our scope.”

He nodded, considering. “Start with the stories you can quantify. One successful student who found employment through their portfolio is a proof of concept. Five becomes a pattern. Track job placements, commissions, sales at student exhibitions. Small numbers still demonstrate impact if you can show consistent growth.”

You blinked, somewhat surprised by his grasp of the situation. “The grant committees usually want years of data though.”

“Then give them projections,” he replied, as if it were obvious. “Use market analysis of similar programs in other cities. Compare your three-month growth rate to their three-year outcomes. Show them what you could accomplish with proper funding.” He leaned back, regarding you. “Numbers can tell whatever story you need them to, if you frame them correctly.”

You made a note to follow up on several of those suggestions, though you carefully didn't examine the ethics of his last statement too closely. “That's... actually really helpful.”

“You sound surprised,” he observed, and you took a hasty sip of your drink to buy yourself some time to formulate a response.

“I guess I haven’t really thought about it like that before,” you said after a moment, catching the slight furrow between his brows before explaining, “as an investment, I mean. To me, it always just feels like…asking for help.”

He was silent for a moment, considering this.

“Perhaps it would be less difficult for you if you approached it as a business proposal rather than a request for assistance,” he suggested, and though his tone wasn’t unkind, you felt slightly foolish anyway. “I’ll review the documents this evening and send over my thoughts. In the meantime, perhaps we should discuss the most pressing operational needs?”

Your breath caught slightly as he fixed you with an intent stare, seafoam green and burnt sienna made all the more brilliant in the light of a pale winter sun filtering in through the office window.

“Right,” you said blankly, “right, yeah. I have a list of those arranged in order of priority, but I’ll have to email it to you. I would have brought it with me but—”

“I am aware of your printer situation,” he cut in smoothly, and you frowned, confused. “Jinx told me about the… agreement between you and your neighbor,” he added, noting your expression.

“Oh,” you shifted slightly, embarrassed.

“We happen to have a spare here. It’s waiting for you in reception,” he said simply, taking a sip of his coffee, and you blinked.

“I can't—” you started to protest, but he shot you a look.

“For someone who oversees a nonprofit,” he commented drily, “you are remarkably resistant to acts of charity.”

“But—” you tried again.

“If it makes you more comfortable, consider it a loan.” He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that now-familiar mix of amusement and challenge. “Unless you'd prefer to continue trading artwork with questionably motivated neighbors?”

You fought the urge to sink lower in your chair. “So I take it you aren’t interested in any mildly inappropriate illustrations of video game characters in return for use of your printer?”

He fixed you with an unimpressed stare, giving you enough time to mentally kick yourself before answering.

“I’d prefer you focused your time and energy on matters that benefit the center rather than on anatomically improbable artwork,” he told you, and you felt your cheeks heat with embarrassment at his unimpressed tone before one corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “And besides, she’s not my type.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “I'm not even going to bother trying to guess what your type might be. If my track record is anything to go by, I'd undoubtedly get it wrong.”

“Undoubtedly,” he agreed, amusement glinting in his eyes. “Though I suppose there's something to be said for maintaining an air of mystery.”

“As if you need any help with that,” you muttered, then felt your face heat as you realized you'd said it out loud.

He seemed to bite back a reply, mercifully choosing not to acknowledge your comment and instead tapping one elegant finger against the folder on his desk. 

“I noticed you have the center’s annual fundraiser listed here under upcoming events. I presume there are outstanding preparations that need to be addressed?” he questioned, and you hesitated a moment before nodding.

“Well, since you asked,” you replied, a bit sheepishly, “I was wondering if The Last Drop might be willing to be one of our event sponsors. Essentially, you would cover the cost of alcohol and a bartender for the evening. Ava usually does it to keep costs down but I’m not sure the savings are worth the potential damage.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”

“Well, she’s great at so, so many things. But her idea of a proper pour is…” you floundered for a moment. “Let’s just say she has a very liberal approach towards responsible serving guidelines.”

“You seem to be speaking from personal experience,” he noted, clearly amused.

“She has a substantial amount of blackmail material from our last volunteer appreciation party,” you admitted, wincing. 

“Does she now?” he asked, his interest visibly piqued. “It must be quite something to serve as effective leverage.”

“It is,” you confirmed, “but no, I will not be divulging the specifics.”

“A pity. Understanding the potential...liabilities...I could help mitigate would certainly factor into my decision to sponsor your event,” he remarked, a teasing glint in his green eye.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s your only motive,” you said, glowering at him.

He tutted softly, the sound a gentle admonishment that made your skin prickle. “Well, if you insist on keeping me in the dark, I suppose I'll have to rely on my own powers of deduction.”

Leaning forward, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin, mismatched eyes narrowing as he regarded you.

“Based on our previous encounters,” he mused, voice a low, contemplative murmur, “I would surmise that, after overindulging in one too many of Ava's...creative concoctions, you found yourself embroiled in a...spirited debate with a potential donor. One that perhaps escalated beyond the realm of mere words.”

He raised a brow, the arch of it a silent question. You squirmed in your seat, the heat of his scrutiny making your collar feel suddenly tight.

You crossed your arms defiantly. “You’re not going to goad me into telling you.”

“You may as well confess,” he said, his voice seeming to curl around you in the quiet of the office. “It's not as though I require further evidence of your...shall we say, unconventional approach to professionalism.”

“You're not a very nice man,” you told him, the words coming out more petulant than you intended.

“Is that any way to speak to a potential benefactor? And here I thought we had moved past your antagonistic tendencies,” he chided, his amusement deepening as you fixed him with a sour look.

“Fine,” you bit out, heat crawling up your neck, “It's possible that I may have suggested we add interpretive dance classes to our curriculum. And also offered to teach said classes. And gave a demonstration of interpretive dance for the uninitiated, despite having zero experience to speak of.”

“I see,” he replied, now looking almost indecently entertained. “And how was this…performance received?”

“With a standing ovation, actually,” you retorted, grimacing at the memory before concluding, “by which I mean everyone stood up to leave as quickly as possible.”

He exhaled a soft laugh. “I suppose it’s too much to hope for an encore performance?”

You buried your face in your hands, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. “I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough in front of you already,” you mumbled.

“And if I insisted on it as a condition of sponsorship?” he pressed, a teasing lilt to his voice that accentuated the way it seemed to catch on certain words, lending his consonants an almost musical quality.

“Then I’d do it,” you told him, your blunt honesty seeming to catch him off guard before you continued, “but I’d make sure to get that condition in writing and hand a copy to every attendee so they knew you put me up to it.”

“Something I’m sure they would thank me for, after witnessing your artistic brilliance,” he replied smoothly, one corner of his mouth curving up as you glared at him.

“You know, I think I’ll ask someone else to sponsor us,” you snapped, suddenly irritable at how entertaining he seemed to find your predicament. 

“Quite unnecessary,” he assured you, seeming to realize he had pushed you slightly too far. “Of course, I’m happy to provide what you need for the fundraiser. Though surely there wasn’t really any question of that?”

You let out an annoyed huff. “I mean, you did just threaten to blackmail me into performing interpretive dance at the most important event of the year for us, so…” you trailed off, challenging him to disagree. 

“Yes, I’m quite terrible,” he agreed mildly. “However, although I won’t hold you to it, I do find your willingness to put yourself out there for the sake of your cause, even at the risk of ridicule, to be oddly noble.”

“That’s a rather nice way of putting it,” you quipped, waiting until he raised his cup before continuing, “Ava just calls it a humiliation kink.”

The effect was instantaneous. He choked mid-sip, setting his drink back down on the desk so suddenly some of it splashed out of the top, narrowly avoiding the papers strewn across the surface. 

You savored the moment, the rush of power that came with knowing you'd finally managed to catch him off guard. But before you could press your advantage, he recovered, his expression smoothing back into its usual inscrutable mask.

“Well,” you said brightly, rising to your feet, “I shouldn't take up any more of your time today. Thank you for all of your help.”

He stood as well, circling the desk to usher you out the door. “Of course,” he replied, his tone even and professional. “I’ll be in touch once I’ve had a chance to review those documents.”

You nodded, feeling a small twinge of disappointment at his sudden formality. But as you stepped into the hall, deliberately ignoring the alluring scent of his cologne, he spoke again.

"I've arranged for Deckard to transport you back to the center with the printer," he told you, his mismatched eyes locking with yours in a gaze that seemed to anticipate your protestations. "I won't have you carting my equipment across town on public transportation."

You opened your mouth to argue, but something in his expression made you pause. And suddenly, you understood. He wasn't just being stubborn or controlling. He was trying to help, in his own infuriatingly high-handed way. He knew you'd resist if he framed it as a favor to you, so instead, he made it about his own interests.

It was manipulative, and more than a little patronizing. But as you met his gaze, seeing the quiet resolve there, you found yourself oddly touched by the gesture.

“Thank you,” you said at last, your voice softer than you'd intended. “I appreciate it.”

His expression flickered, something like surprise and maybe even a hint of pleasure crossing his features before he schooled them back into neutrality. “It's the least I can do, given your…enthusiastic dedication to the center.”

You bit back a smile at the reference to your earlier confession, shaking your head as you turned to leave. “Until next time, Silco.”

“Until next time,” he echoed, and you could feel his gaze on you as you walked away, a prickling heat between your shoulder blades that lingered long after you'd exited the office.

The ride back to the center was quiet, the hum of the car's engine the only sound as Deckard navigated the midday traffic. You leaned your head against the window, watching the city blur by as you idly tapped your fingertips against your knee.

When you arrived, Deckard insisted on carrying the printer inside, waving off your attempts to help. “I've got it,” he assured you, hefting the box with ease. “Just get the door, would you?”

You complied, wrestling with the temperamental handle for a moment before it finally gave way. As you stepped into the lobby, Deckard close behind, you found yourself pausing, a question nagging at the back of your mind.

“Deckard,” you said slowly, turning to face him. “The printer...was it actually a spare?”

He froze, his expression carefully blank as he seemed to consider his answer. For a moment, you thought he might lie, might try to maintain the polite fiction Silco had spun.

But then he sighed, setting the box down on the bench in the entryway. “He sent me out to buy it yesterday morning,” he admitted, offering you a sheepish grin. “Right after your meeting was confirmed.”

You stared at him, a warm, fluttering sensation taking root in your chest even as you let out an incredulous laugh.

As Deckard bid you farewell and disappeared back into the car with a wry shake of his head, you found yourself smiling — a small, secret thing you couldn't quite suppress.

Because infuriating as he was, manipulative and high-handed and utterly impossible…

You couldn’t wait to see him again.

Chapter Text

The printer sat in its new home beneath your office window, a sleek, matte black machine that contrasted sharply with the careworn furnishings. You were still processing the meeting — his unexpectedly thorough knowledge of grant proposals, the way he'd shifted from clinical assessment to teasing and back again with practiced ease, how his careful enunciation lilted on certain words—

“Wow,” Ava's voice cut through your thoughts. "Guess the meeting went well, huh?”

You followed her gaze to the new addition to your workspace, and shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess,” you replied, crouching to connect cables with slightly more focus than the task really necessitated. “He actually had some really helpful suggestions about how to approach the historical data gaps for grant proposals.”

“That’s great,” she said, though clearly uninterested in statistical analysis, “but I was more referring to the twelve hundred dollar inkjet that got chauffeured back with you.”

“Twelve hundred ?” you balked, twisting around to stare at her. 

“At least,” she confirmed, stepping closer to inspect it. “The matte black is nice. Very classy. Very Silco.”

“Well, don’t get too attached,” you told her, pointedly ignoring her last remark. “It’s just a spare he’s loaning us until ours is fixed.”

She made a skeptical noise. “Nice try. I heard your conversation out in the hall. That’s no spare.”

You sighed, getting to your feet. “Okay, fine. But he told me it was so until he admits otherwise, that’s how I’m treating it.”

Ava fixed you with a knowing look. “And you realize he only told you that because he knew you wouldn’t accept it otherwise?” she asked, and you scowled.

“Yeah, which is pretty manipulative,” you pointed out, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Well, he wouldn’t have to be manipulative if you weren’t so stubborn,” she said, daring you to disagree.

You crossed your arms defensively, unable to provide a real counterargument. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“On this? His,” she answered bluntly, forging ahead before you could interject. “Sorry babe, but he’s right — you suck at accepting help. The fact that he figured out a way around that is actually pretty perceptive of him.”

“Deceptive,” you corrected, but there was no real conviction behind the word. You knew she was right, even if you wouldn’t directly admit it.

“I feel like a little deception is a fair trade for this bad boy,” she said, jerking her head at the printer.

“You're acting like he did this specifically for me,” you pointed out, ignoring her skeptical look.

“Didn't he?” she pressed. “It took one comment about you having to trade artwork with Creepy Craig to print out some forms for him to buy a ridiculously expensive inkjet.”

“That’s different,” you said indignantly, “a printer is something we need for basic operations, not a luxury item. And the only reason he got it for us was because he said I should be using my time and energy on matters that benefit the center, not—” you broke off, trying to recall his exact words, “– anatomically improbable artwork .”

Ava grinned, and you realized too late that the fact that his specific phrasing had stuck with you was another point in her favor. 

“Shut up,” you muttered, and she threw up her hands in exasperation.

“Only you would find a way to be upset about this,” she told you, sounding more amused than accusatory, “I mean, come on ! I know you like to handle everything yourself and blah blah blah but you can’t honestly tell me you’d rather deal with Creepy Craig than Silco—”

As if summoned by his mention, your email notification chimed. You groaned as you saw the sender.

“I mean, he’s not my type, obviously —” Ava was saying, oblivious to the clench of your jaw as you read the message, “—I mean, I’m not even into men but I can say he’s objectively hot, so I know you think he is—”

She glanced at you, breaking off as she noticed how your posture had stiffened.

“Speaking of,” you said irritably, turning your phone so that Ava could see the sender address. “He wants the digital file of the commission. Because apparently sliding the physical copy under his door this morning wasn't enough.”

“You're not actually going to—” Ava started, but you were already angrily typing.

“It's fine. I attached a note saying I won't need to borrow his printer anymore,” you replied, viciously hitting send. “So hopefully that's the end of that.”

Your satisfaction faded as you looked up to find Ava watching you with that same knowing expression from earlier. 

“What now?” you asked warily. 

“Oh, nothing,” she said, her innocent tone belied by her growing smirk. "Just thinking about how you completely ignored my comment about Silco being hot.”

“Is he? I hadn’t noticed,” you answered, busying yourself with the printer manual. 

“Right,” she hummed. “What kind of collar pin was he wearing today?” 

“Silver ferns,” you replied without thinking, before your mouth snapped shut. “I mean—I think. Something like that. I wasn’t paying attention,” you stumbled, watching as Ava’s face broke into a gleeful grin.


“Yes you were!” she exclaimed triumphantly, as you buried your face in your hands, letting out a frustrated groan. “Now just admit it: you think he’s hot.”

“Fine!” you said, the word muffled against your palms. “He’s hot. He’s really fucking hot. Not that it matters because he’s also Jinx’s dad and, as of today, an official donor, so—”

“So…? Ava interjected, shrugging. “It’s not illegal to think a student’s dad is hot. And I thought he said the printer was a loan, so that doesn’t qualify as an official donation.”

“It’s not appropriate,” you told her, though it felt more like a reminder to yourself than anything. “And I’m not talking about the printer, I’m talking about him agreeing to be one of the sponsors for the fundraiser.”

Her eyes lit up. “So what you're saying is, I’ve been replaced?”

“I mean, yes, but now you can actually enjoy the event—” you started defensively, but she was already grinning.

“Well, since you've so callously replaced me for the fundraiser,” she said, affecting a wounded tone that didn't quite mask her enthusiasm, “perhaps you could find a replacement for me on Saturday too? There's this craft fair Talia mentioned, and she actually has the morning off…”

“The aquarium trip?” you asked, though you already knew the answer. She nodded, her expression shifting to something more genuinely apologetic.

“I know I said I'd help chaperone,” she rushed to add, “and I wouldn't ask, but she never gets weekends off and—”

“Ava.” You cut her off gently. “It's fine. Go. I can handle it.”

“Are you sure? Because I can try to do both—”

“Absolutely not,” you interrupted, leaving no room for argument.

She beamed at you, relief evident in her posture. Then her expression shifted to something distinctly mischievous.

“You know,” she mused with affected casualness, “you could always ask Silco to fill in…”

You fixed her with what you hoped was a quelling stare. “I am not going to ask the man who just spent a small fortune on that printer to give up his Saturday morning to help me chaperone a field trip.”

“Why not? Jinx is probably going, right?” she questioned, and you shrugged.

“I’m not sure. I’ll ask her tomorrow,” you said, making a mental note of it.

“And if she is,” she prompted, “you’ll ask him?”

“Don't you have a class to teach?” you deflected, turning back to the printer setup with renewed focus.

“Fine, fine.” You could hear the grin in her voice as she gathered her things. “But think about it!”

You waited until her footsteps had faded down the hall before allowing yourself to do exactly that, a warmth blooming in your chest as you imagined his elegant profile illuminated by the ethereal blue glow of the tanks, the way the crowded corridors would force you to lean in slightly as you spoke with him…

Your phone buzzed again, Creepy Craig's name appearing in your inbox once more. You swiped the notification away with perhaps more force than necessary, pushing away thoughts of both your neighbor and Silco to focus on the stack of work waiting for your attention.

Still, the idea lingered.

You were just starting on your long-overdue portion of the center newsletter when your phone lit up with a text, your pulse quickening at the name on the screen.

I've been reviewing the documentation you provided. Your three-month data presents a more compelling narrative than you might realize.

There was absolutely nothing flirtatious about the message, yet you found your skin growing warm as you read it.

Oh? I'm interested in hearing your thoughts.

His reply came quickly:

The success rate of your student exhibitions alone provides sufficient evidence of program efficacy. Have you considered presenting the data as a comparison of value generation vs. operational costs?

You chewed on your lower lip, halfway through a response when a new email appeared at the top of the screen. Seeing Craig's name, you almost ignored it, but something about the subject line — “Great news about your art!" — made your stomach clench.

The content was worse than you'd imagined.

Hey neighbor!

Hope you don't mind but I uploaded that Valeria piece you did to my Soulforge server and everyone loved it! I've attached a spreadsheet of commission requests from the group — I know times are tough at that community center of yours, so I figured you'd appreciate the work. Let me know which ones you want to take on first!

Cheers,

Craig

Your hands were shaking slightly as you opened the attachment. The spreadsheet was a mess of requests for various video game characters in various states of undress, with suggested prices that made you feel physically ill.

Your phone buzzed again:

I hope I haven't overstepped by suggesting alternative approaches to your grant proposals.

Without letting yourself overthink it, you quickly sent a reply.

Not at all. I’d love to discuss that idea further but I could use your advice on something else at the moment, if you're willing. You seem to have a particular talent for verbal eviscerations and I find myself in need of one.

After uploading screenshots of the email and attached spreadsheet, you added,

I'd write my own response but I'm a bit too angry to be coherent at the moment.

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before his response came through:

Might I suggest:

“Dear Craig,

I find myself troubled by several aspects of your message, not least of which is the presumption that my financial circumstances are any of your concern. However, as you've taken such a keen interest in matters of compensation, allow me to illuminate a few points:

1. The suggested rates are less than what I would charge for a simple smiley face. I trust this was merely ignorance rather than deliberate insult.

2. Your unauthorized distribution of my work, while technically legal, demonstrates a concerning lack of professional courtesy.

3. Most pressingly, your assumption that I would be grateful for the opportunity to draw progressively more sexualized versions of the same character suggests you have fundamentally misunderstood both my artistic interests and the nature of our neighborly association.

I trust this clarifies my position on any future business proposals.

Regards—”

You found yourself grinning as you read, imagining the words read aloud in his careful enunciation. The heat of your anger at Craig’s email was replaced by another type of heat entirely as you read the message again, your memory supplying the subtle lilt created by the slip and catch of his tongue on certain consonants. Oh, God, you really needed to get a handle on yourself. 

This is perfect, though I don't think I have the nerve to actually send it. Did you come up with that off the top of your head?

Of course. Surely you don't think I keep templates prepared?

The ellipsis appeared again before a second message:

Though perhaps I should.

You laughed softly.

Well, I appreciate you sharing your expertise. And thank you for letting me vent about this.

His response was almost immediate:

You need not thank me. Though I trust you understand that under no circumstances will it come to you accepting any of that work.

You stared at the message, your heart doing something complicated at the assurance he so easily provided. Though you had no intention of completing a single one of those demeaning and insultingly priced commissions, you hadn’t expected to be so affected by the implicit security that simple vow offered. Digging your teeth into your lower lip, you deliberated for a moment before going with a decidedly safe answer.

I appreciate the concern, but I can handle this idiot.

I have no doubt. However, should you require a more... direct intervention, you need only ask.

The ellipsis made your pulse quicken. Unable to resist, you typed:

And what exactly would a direct intervention look like?

The typing indicator appeared and vanished several times before his response came through.

Perhaps it's best if I keep that particular strategy in reserve.

You grinned at his purposefully mysterious tone.

Now I can't tell if you're being dramatic for effect or if you actually have something in mind.

I suspect any answer I could provide would pale in comparison to whatever scenario you're currently imagining , he replied, and you could practically hear the amusement in his careful phrasing. You do have quite the gift for... creative assumptions.

Apparently my creativity only extends to assumptions, as I've been trying to finish this program update for our newsletter for two hours and made zero progress , you admitted.

Ah. Perhaps I should leave you to it, then.

You glanced guiltily at your barely-started draft.

I just realized I got us completely off track from your grant proposal idea. I apologize.

Not at all. I'll summarize my findings and email them to you so that you can focus on your work.

Something in your throat tightened at the thought of ending the conversation.

That would be great, thank you.

You set your phone down, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in your chest as you turned back to your laptop screen. The cursor blinked accusingly at you from the same paragraph you'd been staring at for the past hour. Before you could force yourself to focus, your phone lit up again, and you were reaching for it before you'd even registered the movement.

Though should you wish to discuss the proposal after you've completed the newsletter, I will certainly still be awake.

A tiny spark of anticipation raced up your spine, your thumbs flying to compose a response.

Oh? And why’s that?

Well, I did consume three shots of espresso rather late in the afternoon.

And that's enough to keep you up?

I should think so.

A moment passed before another message appeared:

Particularly given that I typically only drink tea.

You stared at your phone for a moment as the implications sank in, remembering how carefully you'd deliberated over his coffee order, the way you'd scrutinized his reaction when he took that first sip. The memory of his subtle grimace — which you'd attributed to the temperature at the time — now took on an entirely different meaning.

You didn't have to drink it just to be polite , you typed, mortified. Why didn't you say something?

And deprive you of the satisfaction of correctly deducing my preferences? That would have been unconscionably cruel.

You pressed the back of your hand to your mouth, unable to stifle the smile breaking over your face. The fact that he'd willingly suffered through multiple shots of espresso just to spare your feelings made something warm unfurl in your chest.

You're terrible.

Quite. Though I do hope you'll forgive this particular deception.

I suppose I can overlook it. This time.

How charitable of you. Now, I believe you had a newsletter to finish?

You glanced at the sad draft on your laptop, then back at your phone.

Right. In case the espresso's worn off by the time I'm done — thank you. For everything.

Likewise. Goodnight.

Your brow furrowed as you stared at the two words, unsure of what he was meant to be thanking you for. Making countless assumptions about him and then using them to justify your self-righteous accusations? Bringing him a beverage he never would have ordered of his own volition? Allowing him to provide you with an outrageously expensive printer? God, when you put it like that, it was honestly a wonder he was speaking with you at all.

You were overthinking it. He wasn’t really thanking you for anything in particular — he was just being polite. 

And you really needed to get a grip.

As students began packing up their supplies after that evening’s class, you watched Jinx working intently, her hand flying across the paper as she added splashes of electric blue seemingly at random, though you were starting to recognize the method to her particular brand of madness.

“That's really coming together,” you commented, approaching her workspace. She glanced up with a quick smile before immediately returning to her work, adding another streak of color with laser focus.

“Thanks. I'm attempting to implement your suggestions regarding limited palette impact,” she said, affecting an exaggerated version of her father's formal cadence before breaking into a grin. “Though I might have gone a little overboard with the neon.”

“I don't think so,” you assured her, noting how the apparently chaotic bursts of color actually created a dynamic sense of movement through the piece. “It feels intentional, not excessive.”

She hummed noncommittally, scattering markers across her desk as she searched for a particular shade. You watched her for a moment, feeling unreasonably anxious. Seeming to notice the change in your demeanor, she glanced at her phone, then back at you, a small furrow appearing between her brows.

“Sorry, I know it’s getting late. My dad will be here in just a minute,” she told you, starting to gather her materials.

“Oh! No, it’s not that,” you started, then paused, considering your words. “I wanted to check something with you, but I want you to know there's absolutely no pressure.”

Her hands stilled as she attempted to fit her sketchbook back into her bag, curiosity overtaking her expression.

“I was thinking of asking your dad if he'd be interested in helping chaperone the aquarium trip this weekend,” you said, keeping your tone casual. “But I wanted to run it by you first — I know sometimes having a parent around can make things awkward.”

Jinx’s face lit up in a way you weren't expecting.

“Oh my god, yes! We used to go there all the time when I was younger. He probably still remembers all the names I gave the fish," she replied, rolling her eyes.

The fond exasperation in her voice made you smile. “So you're sure you'd be okay with it? You wouldn't feel like he was hovering?”

“Nah, he's actually pretty good about giving me space. Besides,” she added, continuing to shove supplies haphazardly into her bag, “somebody needs to make sure he doesn't spend the whole weekend working.”

You nodded, your anxiety ebbing away.

“Well, in that case, I'll ask him,” you decided, hoping your voice sounded steadier than it felt. “Thanks for letting me check with you first.”

She shouldered her backpack, a knowing look still playing around her features. “No problem. Though…” she hesitated at the door, “fair warning — he's going to pretend to think about it for like, an unnecessarily long time, but he's totally going to say yes. He's kind of dramatic like that.”

“Is he?” you asked drily. “I hadn't noticed.”

Your obvious amusement seemed to encourage her. “Oh my god, you should see him when I leave a bag of chips open in the pantry. He'll be like, lurking in the kitchen at midnight with just the little light on, all 'one cannot simply leave perfectly good sustenance to the ravages of time' and 'proper storage protocols exist for a reason, Jinx' —” she cut herself off abruptly, something protective flickering across her features as if she'd revealed more than she meant to. “I mean. You know. He just…has a certain way of doing things.”

“That he does,” you agreed diplomatically, biting back a smile at this glimpse of Silco being just as precisely measured in private moments with his daughter as he was with everyone else, even on matters as trivial as unsatisfactory handling of snacks.

“Anyway,” Jinx said after a beat, “I should go. I’m gonna see if I can convince him to go to Jericho’s for pancakes. He always acts like breakfast for dinner is beneath his dignity but he caves every time.”

You nodded seriously. “Best of luck with your negotiations.”

She grinned, already halfway out the door. “You, too!”

As soon as Jinx's footsteps faded down the hall, you pulled out your phone. Better to ask now – the trip was less than two days away, and you didn't want to seem presumptuous about his availability on such short notice.

You opened your messages, then hesitated. His email about the grant proposals was still sitting unanswered in your inbox, lost in the chaos of the day. Probably better to address that first.

I just wanted to apologize for not responding to your email yet — today was unexpectedly busy. Your strategy for presenting the data is incredibly insightful. Thank you so much again for all of your assistance with this.

His response was immediate:

Such high praise from my most ardent critic. I trust there couldn't possibly be an ulterior motive.

Heat crept up your neck. Was your attempt at flattery really that transparent?

I'm genuinely impressed with your ideas! But also yes. On a note completely unrelated to how brilliant you are, I have a favor to ask.

The typing indicator appeared almost instantly:

Ask away.

You took a deep breath. All your carefully prepared phrasing seemed utterly pointless now that he'd caught you out.

The center is doing a field trip to the aquarium on Saturday morning and I need another chaperone. Any chance you'd be interested? Already checked with Jinx and she's cool with it.

Your teeth dug into your lower lip nervously as the typing indicator appeared, disappeared, then:

What time?

Bus leaves the center at 9. Should be back around 1.

I'll be there.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face.

Thank you. And thanks for getting back to me so quickly.

Jinx rather forcefully demanded I check my phone the moment we sat down to dinner. I don't know what could have prompted such insistence.

Don't you?

She seemed quite concerned that a delayed response might cause you undue anxiety. Though I would have said yes regardless of her intervention.

Your breath caught at his directness. Before you could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal how flustered you were, he added,

I look forward to Saturday.

You stared at those five words far longer than they warranted, warmth blooming in your chest as you remembered Jinx's earlier prediction. She'd been right about him saying yes.

You just hadn't expected him to be so transparent about waiting for you to ask.

You'd arrived early enough on Saturday morning to set up breakfast in the center's lobby, trying not to think about the previous night's ill-advised attempt at stress baking. The defeated looking blueberry-flavored lumps that had emerged from your oven now sat off to the side alongside the more reliable offerings — granola bars and fruit and an assortment of juices. Your own untouched coffee sat cooling on the welcome desk, forgotten as you tried to arrange everything in an appetizing way.

The sound of the front door opening made you glance up, and your carefully maintained composure stuttered at the sight of Silco and Jinx entering together. He'd traded his usual suits for a crisp oxford beneath a charcoal sweater that somehow managed to look both casual and exactly as expensive as everything else he wore. Your eyes caught on his collar pin — two silver and onyx ravens connected by a delicate chain — before drifting to the drink carrier from Cloudbrew balanced in his free hand. His other arm cradled a sleek metal tumbler that practically radiated careful preparation.

Jinx bounded ahead of him, already working on what appeared to be a frozen caramel concoction topped with enough whipped cream to feed a small army.

“How are you drinking that?” you asked, unable to help yourself as you noted the frost collecting on the plastic dome lid. “It's freezing outside.”

“Some of us have superior constitutions,” she replied loftily, in what you were beginning to recognize as her impression of her father's manner of speaking.

“Some of us have questionable judgment,” Silco corrected, extending the drink carrier toward you to reveal a maple sea salt oatmilk latte — exactly what you'd brought to your meeting. Heat crawled up your neck as you accepted it.

“Thank you,” you managed, unsurprised by his close attention to detail but unprepared for how deeply it affected you. “You didn't have to—”

“Oh! Did you make these?” Jinx interrupted, already reaching for one of the muffins before you could stop her. You watched helplessly as she took a substantial bite, her expression shifting from enthusiasm to something decidedly more complicated.

“Well,” she said after a heroic effort to swallow, patting your arm sympathetically, “baking isn't for everyone.”

“Jinx!” Silco admonished, though you caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“What? You try it then,” she challenged, offering him the muffin, and you rushed to intercept it.

“Oh no, I think we've punished your taste buds enough on my account,” you said quickly, chucking the remainder of it in the trash before nodding at his tumbler. “Speaking of, I take it the Cloudbrew tea selection wasn't up to par?”

Jinx let out a shout of laughter. “Oh, you have no idea. He only drinks this super fancy green tea that has to be imported from Ionia and steeped at exactly one hundred and fifty-five degrees for precisely two minutes and fifteen seconds or it's completely ruined .” The last words were delivered in such a perfect imitation of his careful enunciation that you had to press your lips together to contain your smile.

“I see no reason to apologize for having standards,” he replied with dignity, taking a measured sip.

“There's having standards and then there's whatever this is,” Jinx continued, clearly enjoying herself. “I mean, he has to pre-warm the cup. And use this special bamboo whisk thing. And the water can't be from the tap because that would be unconscionable —”

“I believe that's quite enough commentary on my beverage preferences,” he cut in smoothly, though his tone held more amusement than reproach

“God, no wonder I got your drink order wrong,” you quipped. “I never stood a chance.”

“The game was quite rigged, I'm afraid,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that lilting cadence that made your skin prickle.

Jinx cleared her throat. “Well! I'm gonna go... somewhere that isn't here,” she announced, backing away with an exaggerated waggle of her eyebrows as she took a noisy sip of her frozen latte.

Her words broke whatever spell had settled between you, and you quickly busied yourself greeting the first students trickling through the door. You turned your attention to making sure everyone got something to eat before the bus arrived, surreptitiously tucking your failed baking experiment out of sight. Still, you remained acutely aware of his presence as he observed your practiced orchestration of teenage chaos, the weight of his mismatched gaze a warmth against your skin that had nothing to do with the coffee in your hands.

Once everyone was settled with breakfast and accounted for, you herded the group toward the waiting bus. Jinx immediately plunked down in a seat next to Rowan, another one of the students in your drawing class, the two of them instantly becoming absorbed in conversation. You caught the way Silco's expression softened as he watched her, clearly pleased to see her growing more comfortable amongst her peers.

He hesitated for a moment in the aisle, his gaze falling on the empty seat beside you before settling on the pair across from you instead. You tried to ignore the slight twinge of disappointment, knowing there was absolutely no reason for him to sit directly next to you when there was a perfectly good double seat available.

He crossed an ankle over his knee as he sat, the fabric of his trousers pulling across one lean thigh as he angled himself toward you. You took a sip of your drink to ease the sudden dryness in your throat, nervously fidgeting with the folder in your lap.

“So,” he asked, “what's the itinerary for today?”

“It's actually not very structured,” you replied, shuffling through your notes.

“How shocking,” he said with a sardonic lift of his brow.

You pointedly ignored the remark. “The idea is to give students a chance to explore some of the color theory and lighting techniques we've been working on in a different environment. The aquarium offers some really interesting challenges with the way light moves through water.”

“I see. And my supervisory duties?”

“Minimal,” you assured him. “Mostly just making sure no one tries to climb into the touch pools or attempts to liberate any sea creatures.”

“Presumably that's happened before?” he questioned, and you gave him a sheepish smile.

“Well…Ava may have tried to adopt several hermit crabs last time but since she isn't joining us today, we shouldn't run into too much trouble.”

His mouth curved slightly. “Well, perhaps we could use the downtime to discuss the grant proposal. I had some additional thoughts after sending that email.”

You tried not to feel too pleased about his obvious preparation for spending time with you. “I'd like that.”

Once the bus pulled into the Seagate Aquarium parking lot, you stood to address the group, bracing yourself against the seat as the engine idled.

“Before we head in, just a few quick things to keep in mind,” you began, noting with appreciation how the students quieted almost immediately. “Remember we're sharing this space with other visitors, so be mindful of volume and foot traffic, especially in the tunnel exhibits. For techniques — pay attention to how light behaves differently underwater, how colors shift and scatter. The way shadows move here is unlike anything we typically work with in the studio.”

You lifted your messenger bag. “I've got extra supplies if anyone needs them, and both…” you hesitated for a fraction of a second, “...Silco and I are available if you run into any issues. Otherwise, we'll meet back in the entrance hall at 12:30.”

The slight catch in your voice when you said his name didn't go unnoticed — you could tell by the infinitesimal tilt of his head, though he kept his gaze fixed forward.

As the students began gathering their things, Silco rose smoothly from his seat and made his way down the aisle. You followed a moment later, only to find him waiting at the bottom of the steps, one elegant hand extended toward you.

The gesture was so natural, so perfectly aligned with his usual controlled grace, that you accepted it without hesitation. His palm was cool against yours, grip precise as ever as he steadied your descent. It wasn't until after he'd released you, when you caught the subtle flex of his fingers at his side, that you realized it might have been more than simple courtesy.

You busied yourself inspecting the exhibit maps in the lobby, trying not to think about the lingering sensation of his touch and the way your skin seemed to remember the exact pressure of each finger. After ensuring everyone was properly equipped for their projects, you waited until the last of the students had dispersed before joining Silco at the entrance to The Ocean’s Edge. He turned toward you with a questioning look, and you gave him a reassuring smile that you hoped masked your nervousness.

“Everyone’s good,” you confirmed. “Want to go look at some sharks?”

He gave a slight inclination of his head. “Lead the way.”

You threaded through the crowds toward the massive tanks, keenly aware of his presence at your back, your breath hitching at the faint but unmistakable scent of his cologne. The kelp forest exhibit stretched upward in front of you, ribbons of green swaying in artificial currents. You found yourself drifting toward the lower viewing area where several swell sharks rested among the fronds, their spotted patterns creating perfect camouflage against the sandy bottom.

“I know you’re probably not supposed to call apex predators cute,” you commented, watching one curl itself into a protective circle, “but they’re so fucking cute .”

“Hardly apex,” Silco replied, though his tone held more amusement than correction. “Cephaloscyllium ventriosum rarely exceed three feet in length.”

You rolled your eyes. “Let me guess, you have all the scientific names memorized?”

“Your assumptions about me grow more complimentary by the day,” he remarked, one corner of his mouth curling up, “though flattered as I am that you'd credit me with such an impressive memory, the information is merely displayed here.”

He tapped an informational display about the tank inhabitants just to the right of you that you had completely missed in your fascination with the creatures themselves.

“I mean, your memory is pretty impressive,” you began carefully, looking at the signage rather than meet his gaze. “You remembered my coffee order after seeing it written on the side of a cup exactly once.”

“I thought it prudent to take note of certain preferences, should I find myself at risk of incurring your wrath again,” he said wryly, and you laughed.

“My wrath ?” you repeated, raising your eyebrows incredulously. “A bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not at all,” he responded easily. “You can be quite fearsome, particularly where your students are concerned. I consider myself quite fortunate to have made it through our initial meetings relatively unscathed.”

“Relatively?” you questioned.

“My dignity is still recovering from being mistaken for a Piltie,” he clarified, and you grinned.

“Remind me to send it a get well soon card,” you joked, hesitating for a moment before continuing. “I know I can be…pretty protective over the center and the students. Sometimes to a fault. Or several, when it comes to you.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured, his gaze drifting to where a leopard shark glided past. “That particular quality is one I've come to admire. You rather remind me of Jinx in that regard.”

He shifted slightly closer as another group of visitors pressed past, though his eyes remained fixed on the tank. “Our last visit here together was during a week of her suspension from middle school. She had taken rather dramatic exception to a classmate’s…unkind observations about my appearance.”

A shadow passed across his features, though his tone remained wry. “Perhaps I shouldn't have rewarded such questionable behavior with an afternoon at the aquarium.”

“Maybe it's a pattern,” you said softly. “I behaved pretty questionably too, and you've rewarded me.”

His mismatched eyes found yours. “Have I?”

“The printer. Chaperoning last minute. Even bringing me coffee,” you listed quietly, aware of how close you were standing. “You keep doing me favors despite how badly I misjudged you.”

Something shifted in his expression, the usual careful reserve giving way to something darker, more intent. The moment stretched between you almost tangibly, until movement in your peripheral vision made you glance up. One of your students was approaching, absorbed in his sketchbook but drawing closer nonetheless.

“We should…” you started, taking a small step back.

“Yes,” he agreed, and you noticed his voice had gone slightly rough. “I believe you mentioned wanting to discuss the grant proposal?”

You nodded, suddenly breathless. “Yeah. I had a couple questions about your data strategy…”

As you discussed his suggestions for how to frame the success rate of your current programs, you found yourself drawn toward the new deep sea exhibition. The lighting shifted dramatically as you entered, bioluminescent creatures creating ghostly patterns in the darkness. You were so focused on a particularly mesmerizing display of vampire squid that you didn't realize how close you'd drifted to Silco until your shoulder brushed against his arm.

“Sorry,” you murmured, though you didn't move away immediately. The contact seemed to crackle across your skin even through layers of clothing.

“No need to apologize,” he said softly, his voice dropping into a lower register that made your pulse jump.

“We should probably head back,” you said finally, though you made no immediate move to step away. “It's almost time to meet up with the group.”

He hummed in agreement, the sound vibrating through the scant space between you. Another moment passed, then another, until you forced yourself to take that first step. The loss of his proximity was immediate, though you could still catch traces of his cologne, that elusive spiciness causing your breath to hitch.

As you made your way back toward the lobby, you found yourself cataloguing small details you wished you hadn't noticed — the way he drummed his fingertips against his chin while deep in thought, the elegant curvature of his ears, that one stubborn strand of hair he kept pushing back from his forehead. Your hands itched with the inexplicable urge to brush it back yourself.

The gift shop was already crowded with your students when you arrived. You wandered the displays while they made their selections, pausing at a case of handcrafted jewelry. A delicate shark tooth pendant caught your eye, the silver work impossibly intricate. You traced the price tag with one finger before letting your hand fall away.

Turning back toward the group, you caught Silco watching you, his expression unreadable. He looked away almost immediately, attention drawn to where Jinx was enthusiastically describing something to her classmates, and you felt your cheeks heat with embarrassment at having been caught in such an indulgent moment.

The bus ride back was quieter, students worn out from the morning's activities. Silco had pulled out his phone almost immediately, apologizing as he attempted to catch up on what he'd missed.

“The hazards of taking a morning off,” he'd said wearily, though his tone suggested he didn't entirely regret it.

You assured him it was fine, secretly grateful for the distraction. It gave you the chance to study him without fear of being caught — at least by him. You weren't quite as successful at hiding your attention from everyone else.

“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” Jinx stage-whispered from behind you, causing several nearby students to poorly disguise their laughter.

“Jinx,” Silco cautioned, glancing up from his phone, a look passing between them.

“What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking,” she replied, shouldering her bag with an exaggerated eye roll. “Also, in case you were too distracted to notice, we’re here,” she added, grinning mischievously as she swept past you in the aisle.

So much for maintaining professional dignity.

“My apologies,” Silco murmured as the last of the students filed off the bus. “She can be rather…blunt in her observations.”

“It's fine,” you managed, waving off his concern even as your cheeks burned. 

Something flickered across his features at your dismissal, gone too quickly for you to interpret. You got to your feet, hit with a sudden urgency to disembark ahead of him so that there would be no reason for him to assist you, uncertain that you could let go of his hand if he offered it once more. He followed you, his movements as deliberate as ever, and the doors creaked shut as you looked up at him.

“Thank you again for coming,” you told him softly. “I hope it hasn’t created any issues at work.”

“It was my pleasure,” he replied, the uncharacteristic hesitancy in his expression hinting that there was more he wanted to say before Jinx called for him from the car.

You watched him go, already animatedly responding to something she was saying that had him hiding a smile.

After ensuring the last of your students had transportation to wherever they were headed next, you made your way back inside the center. The remnants of breakfast still littered the welcome desk — abandoned fruit peels and granola bar wrappers that needed clearing away, along with your pitiful baking experiments. You sagged against the door instead, letting your head fall back against the wood as your carefully maintained composure finally crumbled.

All day you'd managed to keep it together — discussing grant proposals with measured professionalism, herding students with practiced efficiency, even maintaining your dignity (mostly) through Jinx's knowing commentary. But now, alone in the quiet lobby, you couldn't stop the memories from flooding back: the way he'd steadied you on the bus steps, his touch as precise and measured as his words. How easily you'd gravitated toward each other in the darkness of the deep sea exhibit. The gentle press of his shoulder against yours, neither of you moving away. That one stubborn strand of hair you'd wanted so badly to brush back from his forehead.

"Fuck," you whispered to the empty lobby, your voice catching on the word just like his did on certain consonants. "You are so incredibly fucked."

Chapter Text

You'd been reorganizing the supply closet for the past hour, a task that absolutely could have waited until Monday but provided a convenient excuse to avoid your apartment. The third email from Craig sat unanswered in your inbox, his latest attempt at negotiation making your skin crawl:

Hey neighbor!

Just wanted to let you know that TidalWave93 already sent a $25 donation to the center through your website. He's really excited about his commission and was hoping to get a rough timeline from you. The whole server's so hyped about this!

Let me know when you think you can start!!

-Craig

The casual presumption in his tone made you want to throw something. You were half-considering fishing the inedible blueberry muffins back out of the trash to do just that, quelled only by your reluctance to clean up the mess it would create. You'd already moved on to alphabetizing a shelf of completely organized markers when your phone buzzed. Your irritation faded slightly when you saw Ava's name on the screen:

SO??? How was the aquarium? Did anything interesting happen in the deep sea exhibit? 👀

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. Aren't you literally on a date right now?

Yes and we both want details! Talia is almost as invested in this saga as I am at this point 

Relief washed over you at the prospect of having something to do besides hide in the supply closet or return to your apartment. Maybe we could grab dinner tonight and I'll tell you all about it?

Her response was immediate: YES!! Talia's already looking up restaurants

You set your phone down, some of the tension easing from your shoulders. The supply organization could probably wait. You'd had an idea during that brief moment in the gift shop — a project you didn’t really have time for, but thought might be worth pursuing anyway. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pulled up your messages with Silco.

Would you have a few minutes sometime to discuss a potential program idea? I’d really value your input.

His response came almost immediately. I'm about to drive across town, so I have a few minutes for a call if you’d like to discuss it now.

You hesitated for just a moment before hitting the phone icon beside his name, your heart doing that annoying little skip when he answered on the first ring.

“How has your day been since we last spoke?” you asked, aiming for lightness. “All of two hours ago?”

“I am currently attempting to put out the last of several fires," he replied, a hint of weary amusement in his voice, “and grateful for a temporary distraction.”

You outlined your idea, the words coming faster as you went. “So at the aquarium gift shop, I noticed they had this featured collection from local artists, and it got me thinking — what if we set up partnerships with businesses for student merchandise designs? The businesses would cover production costs upfront, keep a small percentage for overhead, and the rest would go directly to the artists.”

“Go on,” he encouraged, sounding genuinely interested.

“The students would get real-world experience in marketing their work, the businesses get custom merchandise and community goodwill, and we get concrete evidence of our programs leading to economic opportunities.” You paused, suddenly uncertain. “What do you think?”

“I think it's excellent,” he said without hesitation. “In fact... there may be an opportunity to pursue this rather soon. The Piltover Chamber of Commerce is holding their annual gala next weekend.”

“Oh?” you tried to keep your voice steady, already guessing where this was going.

“They've been… rather persistent in courting my attendance these past few years,” he continued, a trace of irony coloring his precise enunciation. “The success of my enterprises in the Lanes seems to have convinced them that extending social invitations might lead to more…mutually beneficial arrangements. I'd be happy to make some introductions, should you be interested in joining me.”

Your stomach clenched at the thought of navigating Bluewind Court's elite social circles. But after everything he'd done to help, you couldn’t say no. “That would be great,” you managed, hoping the strain in your words wasn’t noticeable.

There was a brief pause before he asked, “I meant to ask earlier, but it slipped my mind. Have there been any developments with your neighbor situation?”

You scrunched your eyes shut, debating how much to share before settling on the truth. “Yeah. He's still pushing about the commissions. Apparently someone already made a donation to the center, thinking that entitles them to artwork.”

“I see.” The practiced neutrality in his voice somehow made his frustration more apparent. 

“It's fine,” you assured him quickly. “I'm having dinner with Ava and Talia tonight. If he's lurking in the hallway again when we get back, we'll handle it.”

“That hardly seems a sustainable solution.” The measured precision of his words did little to mask the tension beneath them. “My offer from earlier still stands, should you—”

“No, it's fine — I'll handle it. It's just not a high priority right now,” you interjected, biting into your lower lip.

“He’s making you uncomfortable in both your workplace and your place of residence,” he said carefully, each word weighted with deliberate control. “I would think that would make it a very high priority.”

“It's not that big of a deal,” you insisted, fidgeting with a marker cap. “I just need to work up the courage to tell him to fuck off and then hope I never see him again, which should be easy considering I'm barely ever home anyway.”

The silence that followed was heavy with everything he wasn't saying. You opened your mouth to offer some kind of reassurance, but he spoke first.

“I've just arrived so I’m afraid I’ll have to let you go,” he told you, his voice distantly courteous in a way that made your chest constrict. “Feel free to send over a program proposal for review. And do give Ava and Talia my regards.”

“I will,” you promised, your own voice sounding strange in your ears. “Thanks for letting me run this by you.”

“Of course. Have a pleasant evening.”

The line went dead, and you pressed your forehead against the cool metal of the supply shelf, fighting back tears you couldn't quite explain. Your hands were shaking slightly as you set your phone down, that familiar suffocating pressure building in your throat — the same one that appeared whenever someone tried to shoulder even a fraction of your burdens. It would be easier if you could just be angry at his persistence, but the genuine concern beneath his careful words made something twist painfully beneath your ribs.

You forced yourself to take several deep breaths, focusing on the sharp scent of dry-erase markers until the tightness in your throat eased. The simple fact was that you'd managed on your own for this long. You'd keep managing. You had to.

The spot Talia had picked out for the evening was really more of a wine shop that doubled as the cellar for the full-service restaurant above. Tucked beneath street level, Rootstock was packed to the brim with wines from Ixtal to Demacia, countless varietals lining the exposed brick walls. Candles burned on each wooden hightop, illuminating the claret liquid in the glass Talia offered after you sat.

“Thank you,” you told her, glancing down at the menu she slid over to you. “Did you order already?”

Ava nodded. “They’re small plates so we got one of pretty much everything to share. If there’s anything else you want though, you just order at the counter.”

Moments later, a server arrived with a seemingly endless number of dishes, the table appearing to sag beneath the weight of its bounty. 

“So,” Ava began, spreading a liberal amount of walnut & cremini pate onto a crostini, “how was it?”

“First,” you said, taking a sip of wine, “I want to hear about your date. How was the craft fair?”

The look they exchanged made something warm bloom in your chest. For all your own complicated feelings today, watching them together felt like witnessing something rare and precious taking root.

“Show her the axolotl,” Talia urged, and Ava produced a tiny crocheted creature from her bag, all plush pink and bright fuschia, with two adorably wide button eyes.

“Is this not the cutest thing you’ve ever seen in your life?”  Ava asked, beaming. “And I got her—”

“—this perfect little void cat,” Talia finished, pulling out a small black cat with bright green eyes. “We've decided we're going to learn how to make them.”

“We spent two hours watching tutorials,” Ava admitted. “I've almost figured out how to make a chain stitch.”

“She's already bought like 3 patterns,” Talia said, reaching for a slice of dried pineapple from the charcuterie board. 

“Maybe if I get good at it, we can start offering crochet classes!” Ava suggested, and you grinned, her exuberance infectious.

“That would be amazing,” you agreed, nodding. “Actually, I had an idea for a new program today, too…”

You watched their enthusiasm build as you outlined your idea for partnering with local businesses on custom merchandise designs, Talia barely letting you finish your spiel before she was jumping in.

“I literally just had a meeting with my boss about how we need to update our inventory,” she said, her dark curls bouncing as she turned to look at Ava excitedly. “This would be perfect! I mean, I’ll have to double-check with him but I’m sure he would be more than happy to run a pilot program.”

“Really? That would be incredible,” you replied gratefully. “I was going to work on the proposal tomorrow, so I’ll send you a copy to go over with him once it’s ready.”

“Perfect,” Talia told you, and raised her glass. “To new endeavors?”

“To new endeavors,” you and Ava echoed, your glasses meeting hers as the three of you exchanged a smile, feeling buoyant with possibilities.

“Okay,” Ava announced briskly, setting her drink back down. “We’ve told you about our date, we’ve discussed work, and we’ve all had at least half a glass of wine so I think you’ve kept us waiting long enough. Now. Tell. Us. What. Happened.”

You laughed at the way she had gritted out the last four words, then caught her expression and sobered, realizing she was dead serious. “Okay, god. And I thought we were having a nice conversation,” you muttered.

“Considering how impatient she’s been to hear about this all day, that was shockingly restrained,” Talia remarked, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “But she’s right, we have waited long enough. Spill.”

You took a long sip of wine, knowing you were going to need it. “Well, first of all, he showed up this morning with my exact coffee order. Even though I never told him what it was. He just memorized it from the cup I brought to our meeting.”

“Wait,” Talia asked, her eyes widening in surprise. “He remembered your exact order from one time?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, and she exchanged a knowing glance with Ava.

“I mean…there are people who come into the shop five days a week and I still don’t know their order by heart,” Talia told you, and you considered this for a moment, absently tearing tiny pieces off a baguette.

“He also drank the triple-shot Americano I brought him even though I found out after the fact he only ever drinks tea,” you continued, “like this super specific green tea that has to be steeped at just the right temperature and prepared using all these special tools—”

“And how exactly do you know these tea specifications?” Ava asked, grinning slyly.

“Jinx told me! She was making fun of how particular he is about it,” you answered, watching their expressions closely as you went on, “so he really just drank what I brought him to be nice.”

“Yeah, he seems like a guy who does things just to be nice,” Ava nodded, skepticism dripping from her words.

“He does! I mean, the printer, agreeing to chaperone even though I know he had to rearrange his schedule—” you broke off at Ava’s expression.

“And what do these things all have in common?” she questioned, arching a brow. “Sound it out if you have to.”

Your cheeks burned as you whispered, “they’ve all kinda been…for me.”

“Exactly. I mean, I don’t think he gave up his Saturday just so that we could go on a date,” she said, sending a smile toward Talia as she added, “although I am very thankful he did.”

“I mean, he might have!” you protested weakly, “he did tell me to give you both his regards—”

“Ooh, his regards!" Ava cut in with a teasing grin, before fixing you with a pointed look. “Remember how just last week you were calling him a fucking asshole?”

You cringed. “Yeah, well, I was pretty clearly very fucking wrong about that,” you said, a vehemence to your words you hadn’t anticipated.

Ava and Talia swiveled in tandem to exchange the smuggest grins you had ever seen. 

“Clearly,” Ava commented after a moment, watching you take a nervous gulp of wine. “Please, continue.”

You described the morning activities, trying not to provide too much detail about things you probably shouldn't have noticed, like the way his trousers pulled tight across his thigh when he crossed his legs, the errant lock of hair that he continually pushed back off of his forehead.

“Hold please,” Ava interrupted when you got to the bus ride. “He helped you down the steps?”

“Just being polite,” you mumbled, deliberately avoiding her gaze as you remembered how his fingers had flexed at his side after he released your hand, too protective over the memory to share it with anyone else.

“You’re holding out on us,” Talia said with a shrewd arch of her brow, noting your hesitation.

“There was…there was a bit of a moment in the new deep sea exhibit,” you admitted, heat creeping up your cheeks as they shared a gasp, waiting for you to continue. “It was really dark and I didn’t notice how close we had gotten until my shoulder brushed against his arm and, um, I apologized and then he told me there was no need to but…he didn’t move. Like, he just stood there waiting for me to.”

You swallowed, finally looking up when neither of them spoke. “I don’t know. I’m probably reading into it too much,” you concluded, embarrassed.

The silence stretched for a moment before Ava broke it. “You're reading into it too much,” she said flatly. “The way a man who supposedly only drinks precisely prepared imported tea choked down triple-shot espresso just because you brought it to him.”

“And memorized your coffee order after seeing it once,” Talia added. “And helped you down the stairs. And stood unnecessarily close to you in dark rooms.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to list it all out like that,” you mumbled into your wine glass.

“Oh, we're not done listing,” Ava assured you. “We haven't even gotten to how he spent his entire Saturday chaperoning teenagers—”

“For the center!” you insisted, though you knew it was futile.

“Right. The center. Not at all because you asked him to.” She raised an eyebrow. “People don't do that kind of thing unless they're really invested in community arts education or really invested in the person asking.”

“And somehow I don't think he was previously this passionate about youth outreach,” Talia mused.

“Speaking of outreach,” you said quickly, seizing the chance to change subjects, “I might have an opportunity to pitch the merchandise program to other businesses soon.”

“Oh?” Ava questioned, topping off Talia’s glass.

“Yeah, at…um…the Piltover Chamber of Commerce gala. Next weekend,” you forced out, grabbing another piece of baguette to shred up.

They stared at you.

“With Silco,” you added unnecessarily.

“He asked you to be his date to a gala ?” Ava squawked, eyes almost comically wide.

“Not his date! His…business associate. For networking,” you replied, flustered.

“Networking,” Talia repeated skeptically. “At a formal event. Where he'll presumably be wearing a suit and helping you navigate Piltovan high society all evening.”

“I don't even own anything appropriate to wear,” you groaned, desperate to redirect their attention. “I mean, what the fuck does one even wear to a gala?”

“Oh my god.” Talia's eyes lit up. “There's this amazing consignment shop in the Promenade. We can go after work sometime this week, I know we’ll find something perfect for you.”

You gave her a grateful smile. “That would be amazing, thank you.”

“Of course!” she beamed, already pulling out her phone. “They usually get new pieces in on Tuesdays, so if we go Tuesday or Wednesday after work we can find you something to wear and we can go over the proposal.”

“Assuming you can focus on writing it,” Ava teased. “Instead of thinking about someone in formal wear.”

“I hate you both,” you declared, but couldn't help smiling as they clinked their glasses together in response.

The night air had dipped into freezing temperatures by the time you left Rootstock, Talia giving you both quick hugs before heading to her car.

“Come on,” Ava said, linking her arm through yours. “I'll drive you home.”

You settled into the passenger seat, the comfortable silence lasting until she pulled up to your building.

“Okay,” she started, turning off the engine. “What aren't you telling me?”

You stared down at your hands. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you've been weird all night. Like you're trying really hard to seem fine.” She turned to face you fully. “Did something happen? Besides the aquarium stuff?”

The pressure that had been building in your chest all evening suddenly felt overwhelming. “I called him after I got back to the center. To tell him about the program idea.”

“And?” she prompted gently.

“And it was fine until…” your throat constricted painfully. “He asked if anything else had happened with Craig. And when I said yes, he tried to help, again, and of course I refused, and then he got all weird and formal with me, but not in his usual way. It was like I was some colleague he couldn’t wait to be done speaking with.”

Ava was quiet for a long moment. “I mean... I think I understand why he was upset,” she said finally. “You're clearly stressed out by the Craig situation, and he wants to handle it for you, but you won't let him.” She turned to face you fully. “And it's not because he doesn't think you can handle it yourself — no one who has met you would ever think that. But you don't have to. It's okay to let him help you.”

“I know that. Logically, I know that,” you replied, voice barely above a whisper. “But every time someone tries to help, I just…freeze up. Like I'm going to somehow owe them something, or they'll realize I'm not worth the effort, or—”

“Hey.” She squeezed your hand. “First of all, you're worth every effort. And second…I don't think he's keeping score. He’s allowed to want to do nice things for you just because.”

You thought of the printer sitting in your office, his careful deflection when you'd tried to refuse it. The coffee this morning. The way he'd steadied you on the bus steps without comment.

“Come on,” she said softly, interrupting your reverie. “I'll walk you up.”

You were quiet on the climb to your floor, her words echoing in your head. She waited until you'd unlocked your door before pulling you into a quick hug.

“Think about what I said, okay?” she stepped back, holding your gaze. “Don't deny yourself the chance to be cared for just because you're used to handling it alone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Where’d you get that one, daily positivity quotes dot com ?”

“Fuck you,” she laughed. “I’m being serious.”

“Okay, okay,” you replied, sobering. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” she smiled. “See you Monday.”

“See you Monday,” you echoed, waiting until she disappeared into the stairwell before reluctantly unlocking your door.

You tossed your bag on the counter, immediately grabbing your phone. Your face fell at the lack of messages from him, though you supposed you had no real reason to expect one. As you were about to get into the shower, a notification buzzed, and your heart leapt before you saw it was a new email from Craig.

Hey, are you mad at me or something? I was just trying to get you some work since I know things are probably tight at the center. Not sure what I did to make you ignore me like this…

Burying your face in a towel, you let out a frustrated scream. Clearing the message with as much force as you could muster, you stepped into the tub, your aggravated tears indistinguishable from the hot water. After ten minutes of rehearsing increasingly dramatic ways you might tell Craig to fuck off if you could ever find the courage to do so, followed by five minutes of actually showering, you made your way to bed.

Your phone buzzed as soon as you slid under the covers and you somehow knew it was Silco before even looking at the screen. 

I trust you've made it home safely. Not that I doubt the capabilities of your security detail, but I find myself rather concerned by your earlier comment regarding your neighbor's proclivity for hallway surveillance.

Something caught in your chest at his careful attempt at levity, Ava’s parting advice echoing in your head as you responded.

Made it back fine. Though Craig just sent another email...

You took a screenshot the message before you could overthink it. There was a long pause after you sent it, and you could clearly envision the way his mouth would tighten as he read it, his expression hardening.

If you'd like assistance drafting a response, I have some experience in crafting appropriately diplomatic rejections.

Please, you replied. I keep typing and deleting.

His suggested response came through a minute later:

"I appreciate your interest in my work, but I am unable to take on additional commissions at this time due to existing obligations. If TidalWave93 would like his donation refunded, I'm happy to process that during the next business day."

Perfect, you sent back. Though the refund bit might be a little pointed.

On the contrary, I find it admirably restrained. Though should he request the refund, I'll ensure a donation of triple the amount is made to offset any loss.

That's really not necessary, you typed quickly. You've done more than enough already.

There was a significant pause before his response appeared. Only as much as you will allow me to.

The words made something flutter beneath your ribs, and you pressed your free hand against your sternum as if to still it. Rolling over, you buried your face in your pillow, trying to gather your courage before responding. After deliberating for a moment, you carefully typed out a reply.

Yeah, I'm quite difficult that way, aren't I?

Quite, he replied, and you could practically hear that subtle lilt in his voice that became more pronounced when he was amused. Though you'll find my patience and persistence as plentiful as your determination to be difficult.

Your hands trembled despite your attempt at a casual response. Is that a challenge?

That depends entirely on you , he answered. Try not to stay up too late overanalyzing.

Heat crept up your neck at how easily he saw through you, feeling raw and exposed but not entirely disliking it. 

You're impossible. Goodnight.

Goodnight. Sweet dreams.

You immediately switched to your conversation with Ava, sending a screenshot of the exchange followed by: WHAT DOES THIS MEAN???

Her response was instant: OH MY GOD

Before you could type a response, another message appeared: OH MY GODDD he is absolutely gone for you. Look at how he's practically DARING you to keep being difficult because he knows he can outlast your stubbornness. This man is PLAYING THE LONG GAME.

You really think so? 

He's literally telling you he's willing to wait as long as it takes for you to let him in. I cannot with you two, I'm dying.

You stared at her messages, wanting desperately to believe her interpretation while simultaneously terrified of getting your hopes up. 

Also, SWEET DREAMS???!?!? I BET HE’S HOPING HE’S IN THEM!!!

You were intensely grateful she couldn’t see the expression on your face as that possibility sinks in, a warmth unfurling in your stomach at the thought. GOODNIGHT !, you typed back, biting back a smile at the flurry of thoroughly inappropriate emojis she sent in return. Still smiling, you plugged your phone in for the evening and let sleep take you.

You were just about to brew a pot of coffee the next morning when the knock came. For a moment you considered pretending not to be home, but Craig's voice carried through the door.

“Hey, I know you're in there. Can we talk for a minute?”

Steeling yourself, you opened the door just enough to see him. He looked perfectly ordinary in his t-shirt and jeans, brown hair slightly mussed — the kind of person you'd pass on the street without a second glance if not for the slight desperation in his expression and the way he leaned forward into your space.

“Morning,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “I was actually just getting ready to head out—”

“This will only take a second,” he insisted, a wheedling note in his voice that made your skin crawl. “I just... I don't understand what changed. We used to talk all the time, and now it seems like you’re going out of your way to avoid me.”

“I've just been really busy with work,” you replied, which wasn’t entirely untrue. “Speaking of which, I actually have a meeting to get to…”

“On a Sunday?” his brow furrowed skeptically.

“Non-profit life,” you explained with a forced laugh, taking a step back. “Never stops.”

“Hang on—” he tried again, but you were already pulling the door closed with a mumbled excuse about needing to get ready.

All hopes of a peaceful morning spent drinking coffee and reading on the sofa thoroughly dashed, you quickly dressed and grabbed your laptop bag, nearly sprinting from your apartment to the stairwell. Instead of heading to the center, you found yourself walking over to Cloudbrew, lured by the promise of a maple sea salt latte. The familiar scent of espresso, butter, and caramelized sugar wrapped around you as you settled into a corner table, pulling up a blank document for the program proposal.

Your phone buzzed just minutes after you sent a copy of it to Silco, your heart racing at the sight of his name in your notifications.

Do you ever take a day off?

Says the man who spent his Saturday morning chaperoning a field trip and his afternoon putting out fires.

There's a brief pause before his response. I’m asking about you.

You hesitated before carefully typing a response. I wanted to finish this today since Mondays are usually really busy for me and I teach in the evening.

I see. Are you at home at the very least?

You bit down on your lower lip. Probably best not to lie, even if you knew he wouldn’t like the answer. Cloudbrew. I needed a change of scenery.

And this change of scenery has nothing to do with your neighbor's continued attempts at communication?

You sighed, thumbs hovering over the keys before admitting: He showed up at my door this morning.

The ellipses appeared and disappeared several times before his response came through: And what did he want?

To ‘talk’, AKA accuse me of ignoring him. I tried to tell him I was just really busy, which isn’t even a lie, but he wouldn’t leave it be so I told him I had a meeting and came here.

The pause before his next message was even longer, and you found yourself anxiously making confetti out of a brown paper napkin as you awaited his reply.

I’m finishing up some work at The Last Drop at the moment, but I would like to discuss the proposal with you, if you’re amenable. If you’re at a good stopping point, perhaps I could drive you home so that we can discuss it on the way?

Your breath hitched at the thought of seeing him, pulse quickening as you composed an answer.

That would be great. I can walk over there to meet you.

Are you sure? It’s freezing outside.

I’ve been hunched over my laptop like this 🦐for two hours, I could use a little walk.

If you insist. See you soon.

You gathered your things with trembling hands, pulling your coat tighter before leaving the sugar-scented warmth of the shop. The late afternoon sun illuminated each shaky exhalation of breath as you walked, heart hammering in your chest. He was already waiting outside when you arrived, leaning against a sleek black car that probably cost more than your annual salary. The semi-casual clothes of yesterday were gone, replaced by a deep charcoal suit that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the narrow taper of his waist. You found yourself imagining what lay beneath his perfectly tailored clothing, how it would feel to run your hands down the lean planes of his torso…

Stop that , you scolded yourself, forcing the thought away as you approached, offering him a smile and supremely awkward wave.

“Feeling less shrimp-like?” he asked with a quirk of his brow, dispelling some of the nervous energy you'd built up during the walk.

"Marginally," you managed, noticing how the light caught on his collar pins — a pair of burnished silver scorpions so perfectly suited to him you wouldn't have been surprised to see them move as he opened the passenger side door for you.

“Thanks,” you murmured, folding yourself into the front seat with your laptop bag clutched to your front like a protective layer. 

“I can put that in the back if you like,” he offered, nodding at your bag as he slid into the driver’s seat, and you shook your head quickly.

“It’s fine,” you replied, giving him a small smile. “Thank you.”

He glanced at how you were nervously twisting the keychain attached to your tote, but mercifully chose not to comment, instead asking for your address to put into the GPS.

“So, the proposal…” he said after a moment, and you forced your hands to be still, angling yourself toward him as he continued.

His analysis of the program was just as meticulous as you had expected, but you could barely focus on any of it. You could smell the subtle spice of his cologne and the fresh, herbal scent of the pomade in his hair and it made your chest ache. Even as you desperately attempted to follow his suggestions on how to frame the partnership to potential businesses, you were thinking about leaning across the console and pressing your face to his neck and inhaling him. About kissing the divot just below his ear as you settled a hand on one long, lean thigh, feeling his muscles flex beneath your thumb as you traced idle patterns against the fabric of his trousers. 

By the time he parked in front of your building, you could barely speak for fear of inadvertently revealing your desires. Your skin felt stretched too tight, as if struggling to contain the boundless longing that seemed to expand within the marrow of your bones, the ventricles of your heart. You wanted to get out of the car as quickly as possible, to put some distance between the two of you until your pulse slowed to something resembling normal. You wanted to stay and close that same distance, to find out if his pulse was racing as quickly as yours.

He broke your reverie. “Would you mind if I walked you up?”

“Oh, you don't have to—” you started automatically, but he was already opening his door.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, coming around to your side of the car. The words were polite but there was something almost predatory in his movements, like he'd been waiting for this opportunity.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding, knowing you should probably refuse but unable to make yourself do so. The warmth of his presence at your back as you climbed the stairs was at once reassuring and overwhelming, a balm and a torment in equal measures.

The door to the stairwell wasn't even fully closed before Craig's door opened. He froze when he saw you weren’t alone, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” he muttered, his voice tight. “When you said you had a meeting, I thought you meant, like, work-related. Not…a date.”

Before you could respond, Silco's hand found yours, interlocking his fingers with your own. The heat of his palm against yours sent sparks racing up your arm.

“I fail to see how my girlfriend's schedule is any of your concern,” he said, voice dropping into a lower register that made your breath hitch. His thumb traced an absent pattern against yours as he continued, “Though I'm rather curious about your apparent surveillance of her movements.”

Craig shifted uncomfortably. “I wasn't…I mean, I just happened to notice…”

“Did you?” Silco interrupted smoothly. “Because it seems you've been noticing quite a lot lately. The frequency of her arrivals and departures. Her workplace activities. Her artistic endeavors.” Each word was carved with surgical precision, and you had to fight back a shiver at the quiet threat embedded in each one. “I suggest you find something else to occupy your attention.”

The color drained from Craig's face as he looked between you, finally seeming to register the dangerous edge beneath Silco's perfectly pleasant expression. Without another word, he retreated into his apartment, the door slamming behind him.

Silco released your hand immediately, though you could still feel the phantom pressure of his grip. “My apologies if I overstepped,” he murmured, that elusive lilt returning. “I thought perhaps he might be more receptive to the concept of your being taken rather than simply uninterested.”

“You're probably right,” you replied, trying to ignore how it felt like every nerve ending in your hand was reaching for him. “I mean, I really hope you are.”

“As do I.” He told you, a slight crease appearing between his brows.

The chance to interpret what that tiny furrow meant was lost on you, too caught up in how easily that word had rolled off his tongue — taken . The casual possession in his tone kept replaying in your mind. Would he sound like that if it were real? Even more protective, more…you cut the thought off before it could fully form, but not before imagining his hand tightening around yours again, this time without pretense.

“I know you would have preferred to handle this yourself,” he said softly, misreading your distraction for discomfort. “But I thank you for allowing me to assuage my own concerns about his continued harassment.”

The careful way he framed it — as if you'd done him a favor - made something twist in your chest.

“I suppose we both got something out of it,” you managed eventually, aiming for lightness despite the way your pulse was still racing. “You got peace of mind, and I got…” you trailed off, realizing too late that you didn’t know how to end that sentence without revealing too much.

“A temporary reprieve, at least,” he supplied evenly, though not without a knowing look.

“Let’s hope,” you mumbled, reaching for your keys. “Thanks. And thank you for the ride.”

Your cheeks immediately flooded with heat as your brain helpfully suggested several less innocent interpretations of those words, and you instinctively bit down on your lower lip to tamp the urge to dispel any of them.

“My pleasure,” he replied, his gaze dropping to your mouth for the briefest of moments, just long enough for your breath to catch.

“Good night,” you forced out before fumbling with your keys, practically falling through your door in your haste to escape.

You leaned against the door as soon as it closed, sliding down until you were sitting on the floor, face buried in your hands. “Oh my god,” you whispered to your empty apartment. “Oh my god .”

Your mind kept circling back to the weight of his voice on that word — pleasure — and the way his fingers had felt laced through yours, and how he'd said taken like... like…

Like he wanted it to be true as badly as you did.

You barely made it off the floor and to the sofa before texting Ava.

EMERGENCY 911 SOS

Ava's response was immediate: OMG WHAT HAPPENED WITH SILCO??

How do you know it's about him?

WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE. SPILL.

You sent a flurry of texts detailing the encounter, ending with: HE HELD MY HAND AND CALLED ME HIS GIRLFRIEND (to get rid of Craig) BUT THE WAY HE SAID IT???

EXCUSE ME WHAT WHAT WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE WAY HE SAID IT USE YOUR WORDS

He said "my girlfriend" in THAT VOICE he does and called me "taken" and I think I might actually be dying???

TAKEN???? TAKEN???????? Oh he wants to TAKE you alright 🍆

AVA OH MY GOD

AM I WRONG??? Also we're circling back to THAT VOICE because you've mentioned it before and I need details

I can't explain it, it's just. When he gets all precise and formal but there's this underlying.........thing

A thing. Very descriptive. Thank you for that scholarly analysis.

I'm never telling you anything about him ever again

Oh don’t be like that! You're going to need someone to plan your wedding to Mr. Precisely Formal But There's This Underlying Thing 😇

Going to go scream into a pillow now bye

Have fun thinking about him calling you TAKEN 😈

You can't hide from me, I saw your read receipts

Also can we talk about how this man really said "I thought he might be more receptive to you being taken than uninterested" like WHO TALKS LIKE THAT???
Actually don't answer that
Only your future husband talks like that


Going to sleep now goodbye forever


Fine but tomorrow you're telling me EVERYTHING

And I mean EVERYTHING.

You set your phone down and closed your eyes, already conjuring forth the memory of his hand in yours.

Chapter Text

The first of his messages that morning arrived as you were putting the finishing touches on a digital thank you card to the director of Seagate Aquarium for sponsoring the field trip. Shooting a surreptitious look at Ava, who was hunched behind her laptop working on the card formatting, you slowly picked up your phone to avoid drawing her attention, biting back a smile at his name in your notifications.

Good morning. I trust you've recovered from yesterday evening's encounter?

You smiled at the formal phrasing, so perfectly him even in text form. You quickly typed back:

Mostly recovered, though I’m sure I’ve ruined any chances of being accepted into the Soulforge server.

I do hope you can bear the crushing disappointment of exclusion from such an esteemed virtual community. Truly an incalculable professional loss.

You had to suppress a peal of laughter at that, pressing your hand to your mouth as you composed a response. Somehow, I'll find the strength to carry on, though my dreams of designing more anatomically questionable characters have been cruelly dashed. On a more serious note, thank you again for your insights on the program proposal. Those were incredibly helpful.

There was a brief pause, and you darted a gaze at Ava, who was thankfully still engrossed in her work, brows drawn together in concentration.

My pleasure. I'll summarize them and email them to you later today. You seemed somewhat... distracted during our conversation in the car.

Heat crept up your neck at his observation. Had your wandering thoughts been that obvious? You had thought you had done a fairly good job of paying attention despite being enveloped in the scent of his cologne, listening to the slip and catch of his tongue on certain consonants just barely audible over the low hum of the engine.

Distracted? Me? I have no idea what you're talking about. I was hanging on your every word about intellectual property protection and usage rights.

Of course. How foolish of me to suggest otherwise. Your rapt attention was evident in the way you failed to notice me repeating the same sentence three times over.

Unable to stifle your laugh this time, you hesitated a moment, thumbs poised over the screen as you considered your reply.

Fine, you caught me. In my defense, it had been a long day. But I really did appreciate the insights—and your help with the Craig situation.

Don't thank me yet. I want to ensure that's truly the end of his harassment.

Yeah, I guess I should check to see if TidalWave93 asked for his donation back too.

You glanced at your inbox, relieved to see it absent of any new emails from Craig.

Has he?

Not yet. But if he doesn't, that $25 was definitely worth all the hassle. That'll cover at least half an hour's worth of operational costs. 🙄

Such a substantial investment certainly merits special treatment. Perhaps a wing of the center named in his honor?

The deadpan suggestion made you grin. Brilliant idea. The TidalWave93 Memorial Supply Closet does have a certain ring to it.

Quite distinguished. Though perhaps we should aim higher. The TidalWave93 Center for Anatomically Improbable Art?

You let out another undignified snort of laughter, this one catching Ava’s attention immediately. Stop 😭Ava is probably wondering what I find so hilarious about the thank you letter I’m supposed to be working on right now.

So you find me hilarious, then?

You know I do. Though I'll deny it if you ever mention it to anyone else.

I would expect nothing less. However, I should let you return to your letter as I should attend to some business matters myself. The Last Drop's inventory won't reconcile itself, unfortunately.

You felt a twinge of disappointment at the impending end to the conversation.

Of course. Don't let me keep you from important alcohol accounting.

A surprisingly apt description of my morning. I'll send those notes this afternoon.

Thank you. Again.

You're welcome. Again.

As you set your phone aside, a realization struck you with unexpected force: in the span of just a couple weeks, conversations with Silco had become something you desperately looked forward to, something you missed when they ended. The dependency that had formed—so quickly, so thoroughly—was terrifying when you allowed yourself to truly consider it.

“You have a very specific smile that only appears when you're talking to him, you know,” Ava remarked, meeting your gaze above her laptop.

“I do not,” you protested weakly, attempting and failing to arrange your face into something less sappy.

“You absolutely do. Like, your regular smile is nice and all, but this?” she gestured toward you. “This is different. I haven't seen you laugh this much in…I don't even know how long.”

Warmth suffused your cheeks. “He was just being funny about the whole Soulforge server situation.”

“Uh huh. Seriously though, it's nice. He's changed everything around here. Not just with the center, but with you.”

Her words hit uncomfortably close to the thoughts you'd just been having. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, her expression softening. “You seem... lighter. More present. Less like you're carrying the weight of the entire center on your shoulders alone.” She studied you for a moment. “It's like you've remembered there are other people who care about this place too. Who care about you.”

You, who had spent your entire adult life carefully protecting your independence, who had built walls specifically to prevent this kind of attachment, had somehow allowed him past every defense without even realizing it was happening.

The thought should have sent you running. Instead, you found yourself picking up your phone again, checking to see if he'd sent another message in the minute since you'd set it down.

He hadn't, of course.

“I'm not... I don’t want to be dependent on him,” you said, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

Ava's brows furrowed knowingly. “Would it be so terrible if you were? Not completely, but a little?”

With a frustrated sigh at your own behavior, you forced yourself to set the phone down. “I mean, yeah, kind of. Especially considering I don’t really know what he’s getting out of…whatever this is.”

“What do you mean?” Ava asked, shutting her laptop to fully focus on you.

You gestured vaguely, struggling to articulate the unease that had been building beneath your growing attachment. “Look at the balance sheet here. He's provided a printer, business expertise, fundraiser sponsorship, a gala invite so he can introduce me to potential donors…” you ticked each item off on your fingers. “And what exactly am I bringing to the table? Incorrect assumptions and coffee he only drank to be nice?”

“That's not—” she began, but you were already twisting the edges of your sleeves anxiously as you continued.

“It's an uneven exchange,” you told her, unable to stop now that you'd started. “And in my experience, when someone gives that much without asking for anything in return, it's because they're eventually going to ask for something big. Something you can't say no to because you already owe them too much.”

Ava's expression softened. “You really think that's what he's doing? Setting you up to be indebted to him?”

You hesitated, guilt washing over you. “No. Not really.” ​​

And there was the contradiction that had been gnawing at you—the disconnect between what your instincts said about Silco and what your fears insisted must be true. You recognized, in some quiet corner of your mind, that you were looking for evidence to confirm what life had taught you to expect: that care came with conditions, that nothing was freely given. That the moment you allowed yourself to depend on someone, they would use it against you.

“But that doesn't change the fact that I'm taking far more than I'm giving. And maybe he’s okay with that now, but what happens when he isn’t anymore? When I have to pay it all back somehow and I can’t?”

“Maybe you don’t see it as even because he values things you're not accounting for,” Ava suggested gently. “Like your passion for the center and your community, your honesty, the fact that you don't treat him like everyone else does…”

“Or maybe he's just being nice because of Jinx,” you countered, uncomfortable with her assessment. “The point is, I don't know. And until I do, getting dependent on his…presence in my life seems like a risky proposition.”

“I think you're overthinking—” she tried, sounding slightly impatient.

“We should finish the Seagate letter,” you interrupted, navigating back to the draft. “I really want to send that out today.”

Ava gave you a look that said she knew exactly what you were doing, but mercifully allowed the subject change. “Fine. But this conversation isn't over.”

You pretended not to hear her. “And then we need to finalize the program for the fundraiser and—”

“I get it,” she sighed, opening her laptop back up with an exasperated look. “Work now, feelings later. Your favorite strategy.”

You ignored the jab, already burying yourself in the next paragraph of the thank you letter, seeking refuge in the familiar terrain of center business. There wasn't time to unpack the implications of your growing attachment—not with the fundraiser looming, various grant deadlines approaching, and a dozen other tasks demanding your attention.

Later, you promised yourself. You'd examine these feelings later, when there was time to properly panic about them.

“Remember to consider the negative space,” you instructed, circling the room as your students worked on their compositions. “What isn't there can be just as important as what is.”

Your gaze drifted to your phone, sitting face-up on your desk. The screen remained stubbornly dark, just as it had the last fourteen times you'd checked it. Not that you were counting.

You'd been doing this all day—glancing at your phone while finishing projects, between classes, even during a meeting with the center’s accountant. It had been hours since your morning exchange with Silco, and while you knew he was busy, knew he had actual businesses to run and responsibilities that extended far beyond your text conversations, you couldn't help the disappointment that curled in your stomach each time you saw your empty notification screen.

It was mortifying, really.

“Are we supposed to be shading this part too?”

The question pulled you back to the present, and you shook your head slightly to clear it before turning your attention to the student's work. “Yes, but lightly. See how the shadow falls here?” You demonstrated the technique, grateful for the distraction from your own thoughts.

For the remainder of class, you threw yourself into teaching with renewed focus, only checking your phone twice more before dismissing everyone for the evening. As the students filed out, you found yourself refreshing your messages, just in case something had arrived without triggering a notification.

Nothing.

“Waiting for something important?” You looked up to find Jinx lingering by your desk, her sharp gaze flickering between you and your phone. Heat crept up your neck as you set it down with perhaps more force than necessary.

“Just... center business,” you replied lamely.

Jinx raised an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of her father but mercifully changed the subject. “So I was thinking about that merchandise program you mentioned,” she said, dropping into the chair opposite your desk. “What if you partnered with Shimmer Records? They work with a bunch of up-and-coming Zaunite artists like the Chem Sisters.”

Your interest immediately piqued, personal concerns momentarily forgotten. “That's…actually a brilliant idea. They already have an established audience, and our students could design limited edition merchandise for new releases.”

“Exactly!” Jinx's eyes lit up. “We could do designs for their artists and the label itself. A lot of their bands have really cool aesthetics but their merch is super boring — just basic logos slapped on shirts. We could do so much better. And it would be super easy to track impact—sales numbers, social media mentions, all that stuff you were saying is important for grants!”

You watched her hands move animatedly as she spoke, overcome with a sudden rush of affection and admiration for her unbridled enthusiasm, her unpretentious brilliance. There was something so refreshing about how she approached problems—no self-doubt, no second-guessing, just pure creative energy channeled into practical solutions.

“This is perfect,” you agreed, hesitating a moment before adding, “Jinx—I'm…I’m really glad you found us. Your ideas make this place better.”

The unexpected sincerity seemed to surprise her, a flash of vulnerability crossing her sharp features before she recovered with a characteristic grin. “Well, someone's got to keep things interesting around here.”

You found yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you'd had her confidence at that age—her ability to take up space unapologetically, to trust in her own vision. Maybe, if your parents hadn’t been so thoroughly inadequate at caring for you, you could have flourished in the same way Jinx had with Silco’s support and encouragement. Something twisted painfully in your chest at the thought, and you brushed it aside, forcing yourself to focus on the conversation at hand.

“This Shimmer Records idea,” you continued, already mentally mapping out possibilities, “we could start with a pilot project. Maybe approach one of the newer bands first, see how it goes.”

“The Chem Sisters would be perfect,” Jinx suggested, leaning forward eagerly. “They're big enough to have fans but not so huge that they'd be impossible to reach. Plus their whole aesthetic would translate really well to merch designs.”

You nodded, impressed by her strategic thinking. “We probably have some contacts at Echo Chamber that could put us in touch with their management, too—”

The buzz of your phone interrupted your train of thought, and you instinctively reached for it, disappointment washing over you when you saw it was just a group message from Ava and Talia.

We're confirmed for a shopping trip tomorrow at 5pm! Operation Find you a Hot Gala Dress is a GO!

You set the phone down, trying to mask your reaction, but Jinx was too perceptive to miss it.

“My dad might be a little late picking me up,” she mentioned casually. “He has the managers meeting at The Last Drop on Mondays. Sometimes he loses track of time because he doesn't check his phone during those.”

Your head snapped up, embarrassment flooding through you at how transparent you apparently were. “Oh, I wasn't—I mean, that's fine, I'll be here late anyway and—”

“Relax,” Jinx cut in, dramatically flopping back in the chair. “I mean, yeah, it's deeply traumatic watching him try to flirt with you, but I mentally prepared myself for this possibility before the first class I took, so I'll survive. Somehow.”

You stared at her, momentarily speechless. “What do you mean?”

Jinx rolled her eyes, though there was no real annoyance behind the gesture. “The way he talked about you on the way here for my first class? He kept telling me how I would really like you, and he just…I don't know, I could tell you had made a good impression on him.” She shrugged, twirling a charcoal pencil between her fingers. “I mean, I can count on one hand the number of people I've heard him talk about with that kind of respect and still have fingers left over.”

The casual revelation made your chest tighten with something between pleasure and surprise. “That’s…surprising,” you managed eventually. “We actually didn’t get off to the best start, honestly.”

“Maybe that’s why he respects you,” she shrugged. “I mean, I think it gets kinda boring for him being surrounded by people who tell him what they think he wants to hear instead of what they actually think.”

“Oh,” you said lamely, unsure of what to do with this revelation.

“So yeah, it's weird,” she continued, “and I can't promise I won't be disgusted at times when I see him making googly eyes at you, but he was right—I do like you, and so does he.” She made a face. “Even though he’s making you go to this stupid gala, which, ugh—thank you for that rescue, by the way. He usually drags me along and it's beyond awful. The food is like, microscopic dots of gel on giant plates, and everyone talks about stock portfolios or whatever while pretending they don't hate each other. Soul-crushing levels of boring.”

You let out a startled laugh. “Well…you’re welcome, I guess? Any advice for the gala?”

“Just eat a real meal beforehand,” she advised with mock seriousness, briefly imitating her father's precise diction, “and allow my esteemed father to manage the more tedious Piltovan interactions on your behalf.”

She grinned, adding in her usual voice, “Seriously though, the food there is a joke and so is everything else. Just try not to take it too seriously and let my dad handle the boring stuff.”

As if summoned by her words, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, and your heart did that embarrassing little skip at the sight of Silco in his customary dark suit, today's collar pins a pair of sterling elm leaves.

“Handle what, exactly?” he asked, his gaze moving from Jinx to you, lingering slightly longer than strictly necessary.

“The boring Pilties at the gala,” Jinx supplied, gathering her things. “I was just telling her how awful they all are.”

“Ah.” His mouth quirked up slightly. “I see my daughter has been providing her usual unfiltered assessment of Piltover society.”

“I wonder where she got it from,” you replied, gratified to see his half-smile deepen. “I was going to ask though—what should I know about the dress code? Ava, Talia and I are going shopping tomorrow, and I want to make sure I find something that won’t get me immediately escorted from the premises.”

Silco considered this for a moment. “Formal, certainly, though they've relaxed their standards somewhat in recent years. Particularly for…guests from the Lanes.” The slight edge in his tone suggested this was not entirely a positive development. “You'll want something elegant but not overly ostentatious. These events are primarily about displaying wealth without appearing to try too hard to do so.”

"So no gold filigree or Swarovski encrusted gowns," you nodded seriously, “got it.”

“If you're uncertain about your selection,” he added, his tone carefully casual, “you're welcome to send me a photograph for assessment.”

Jinx let out an exaggerated groan. “WOW, dad. SUBTLE.”

A hint of color appeared high on Silco's cheekbones, but he maintained his composure, meeting your gaze with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement that you found impossibly endearing.

“I'm sure I’ll be taking you up on that,” you promised, trying and failing to suppress your smile. “Thank you.”

As they prepared to leave, you found yourself already missing his presence, already looking forward to the next time you would see him. The realization was as thrilling as it was terrifying—this growing attachment, this dependency you hadn't allowed yourself in years.

Later, you promised yourself again. You'd worry about it later.

“Too stuffy,” Ava declared, sliding another hanger along the rack with a dismissive flick. “You'd look like someone's stern aunt.”

You sighed, checking your phone. You'd been at Promenade Consignment for nearly an hour, and despite the impressive selection of formal wear, nothing felt right for the gala. Everything was either too ostentatious, too conservative, or trying too hard to be edgy—none of which seemed appropriate for navigating Piltover high society on Silco's arm.

Not that you were on his arm, officially. The thought made heat creep up your neck.

“Maybe we're overthinking this,” you suggested, running your fingers along a row of cocktail dresses in various jewel tones. “It's just one evening.”

“Just one evening at one of the most exclusive social events in Piltover,” Talia corrected, emerging from behind another rack with determined focus. “With a man who notices everything. Down to your exact coffee order.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I never should have told you that.”

“Probably not,” Ava agreed cheerfully. “But you did, and now we're going to find you something that makes Mr. Precisely Formal But There's This Underlying Thing want to kiss you absolutely senseless.”

You were about to protest, cheeks burning with embarrassment, when Talia gasped softly, her eyes widening as she reached into the far corner of a display. “I think this might be it,” she murmured, carefully withdrawing a garment draped in protective transparent covering.

With reverent hands, she unzipped the bag to reveal a dress in deep emerald silk that caught the light as it moved, shifting between jewel-bright and shadow-dark with each fold. The cut was elegant—sophisticated without being showy, the fabric clearly expensive but not overly extravagant.

“Oh,” you breathed, reaching out to touch the material. “It's beautiful.”

“Try it on,” Talia urged, already guiding you toward the fitting rooms. “The color is perfect, and the design has that timeless quality that works for these kinds of events.”

Inside the small changing room, you slipped into the dress, the cool silk settling against your skin like water. When you emerged, both Ava and Talia fell silent, their expressions shifting from anticipation to something like awe.

“Well?” you asked, suddenly self-conscious under their scrutiny.

“Turn around,” Talia requested softly.

You complied, the dress moving with you, catching the light in a way that made the emerald tones deepen and brighten with each subtle shift. When you completed your rotation, Ava was grinning.

“It's perfect,” she announced. “The color makes your eyes look incredible, and it fits you like it was made for you.”

Talia nodded in agreement. “It's sophisticated enough for Piltover without trying too hard. You look elegant but not like you're trying to be something you're not.”

You turned toward the mirror, and your breath caught. The dress transformed you—not by hiding who you were, but by enhancing what was already there. The cut flattered without revealing too much, the color lending a certain luminosity to your complexion. You looked like yourself, but elevated—exactly what you needed for navigating an evening in unfamiliar territory.

“It's the one,” you decided, relief washing over your features.

Twenty minutes later, the dress was carefully wrapped and bagged, and the three of you had relocated to a small café next door to celebrate your successful mission.

“You should send him a picture,” Ava suggested over her mug of hot chocolate, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Give him a preview.”

“Absolutely not,” you protested, though not with much conviction. “That would be…”

“Exactly what he asked for?” Talia supplied, arching an eyebrow. “Didn’t he say to send a photo if you weren't sure?”

“But I am sure,” you countered, cheeks warming. “Very sure. And even if he says it’s not appropriate for the gala, I’m not going back into that shop so it’ll just have to do.”

“Then send him a photo because you want to see his reaction,” Ava pressed, undeterred. “Come on, I want to analyze his response in real time.”

You rolled your eyes, but found yourself reaching for your phone anyway. “Fine. But I'm just sending one from the fitting room. Nothing fancy.”

Scrolling through the photos Talia had insisted on taking, you selected one that showed the dress to its best advantage without revealing too much. After a moment's hesitation, your thumb hovered over the send button.

“Do it,” Ava urged, leaning forward with anticipation.

With a deep breath, you hit send, adding a simple message: Found something for the gala. Thoughts?

The three of you stared at the phone as if it might explode, conversation halting as you waited for his response. When your screen finally lit up with his name, Ava nearly knocked over her mug in her eagerness to see.

An excellent selection. The color suits you remarkably well. I look forward to seeing it in person.

“That's it?” Ava demanded, sounding disappointed. “No ‘you look beautiful’ or ‘I can't wait to see you in it’?”

You found yourself re-reading the message, warmth blooming in your chest at the carefully chosen words. "He said it suits me remarkably well," you pointed out. “That's actually quite effusive for him.”

“Okay, true. And ‘I look forward to seeing it in person’ is definitely Silco-speak for ‘you look hot as hell’,”Ava agreed, her initial disappointment shifting to analysis mode. “Plus, he responded within like thirty seconds. He was waiting for that photo.”

“You think?” you asked, unable to keep the hopeful note from your voice.

“Absolutely,” Talia confirmed. “And notice he said the color suits you, not the dress. He's complimenting you, not the garment.”

“You're both reading way too much into this,” you protested, though you couldn't quite suppress your smile.

“Are we though?” Ava challenged, reaching for your phone. “Let me see that message again. ‘Remarkably well’ – that's significant. He could have just said ‘well’ or ‘nicely’ but he went with ‘remarkably.’ That's deliberate emphasis.”

“And starting with ‘excellent selection’,” Talia pointed out. “He's complimenting your taste, your judgment. That's meaningful from someone who values precision and discernment as much as he does.”

You shook your head, bemused by their detailed parsing of a simple text. “If you two put this much analytical energy into our grant proposals, we'd be funded for the next decade.”

“Speaking of which,” Talia said, suddenly remembering something, “I spoke with my boss about the merchandise program. He's definitely interested, and wants us to set up a meeting to discuss the logistics.”

Grateful for the change of subject, you launched into a discussion of Jinx's Shimmer Records idea, the conversation flowing easily as evening deepened around you. But even as you discussed logistics and potential partnerships, your thoughts kept drifting back to that message, to the gala, to the man whose carefully measured words somehow managed to say so much more than what appeared on the surface.

By the time you parted ways with Ava and Talia, the emerald dress safely stowed in your bag, a pleasant anticipation had taken root—not just for the gala itself, but for the opportunity to step into something new, something that both thrilled and terrified you in equal measure.

As you made your way home, you found yourself composing another message: Thank you. For the advice and the compliment.

His response came almost immediately: Both sincerely meant. Sleep well.

Two simple sentences that somehow managed to carry you through the rest of the night, a smile playing at your lips long after you'd set your phone aside.

“Hold still,” Ava commanded, wielding the mascara wand with surgical precision. “Unless you want to look like you've been crying all night.”

“Sorry,” you muttered, trying to control your nervous fidgeting. “I just can't believe I let you talk me into this.”

“Into what? Looking gorgeous for a fancy event? Such a hardship,” Talia teased from across your bedroom, where she was carefully smoothing out any remaining wrinkles from the emerald dress. “There. Perfect.”

Your apartment had transformed into an impromptu salon for the evening, makeup scattered across your dresser, shoes lined up against the wall for final selection, and Ava's portable speaker playing a carefully curated getting ready playlist.

“I meant the whole…effort of it all,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely with one hand before Ava swatted it down. “The makeup, the hair, the—”

“The making Silco's jaw hit the floor when he sees you? Yeah, what a tragedy,” Ava interjected, stepping back to assess her handiwork. “Okay, you can blink now.”

You did, watching your reflection as Talia approached with a jewelry box. “I think these would complement the dress perfectly,” she said, opening it to reveal a pair of delicate silver fern earrings.

“They're beautiful,” you responded, grateful for the careful consideration your friends had put into every detail. “Thank you.”

Ava gave a businesslike clap. “Alright, time for the dress. We've got…” she checked her watch, “eighteen minutes before he arrives.”

The next quarter hour passed in a flurry of activity—stepping into the dress, last-minute hair adjustments, Ava forcing you to practice walking in the heels you'd borrowed from Talia despite your protestations. Through it all, you found yourself oscillating between excitement and trepidation, the reality of the evening ahead finally sinking in.

“What if I embarrass him?” you asked suddenly, the words escaping before you could stop them. “Or worse, what if I embarrass myself?”

Ava and Talia exchanged glances before the former stepped forward, placing her hands firmly on your shoulders. “Listen to me. You're brilliant, you're passionate, and you've been running a community art center on sheer willpower and coffee for years. If anyone should be intimidated, it's those Piltie snobs.”

“And Silco clearly adores you,” Talia added, her gentle tone balancing Ava's fierce one. “He wouldn't have invited you if he had any doubts about you being able to handle yourself.”

“But—” you started to protest.

“No buts,” Ava interrupted. “Besides, he's probably looking forward to watching you shake things up a little.”

The thought made you smile despite your nerves. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Talia corrected, handing you a small clutch. “I put your phone, ID, some cash, and mints in there. Everything you need.”

“Except maybe a flask,” Ava suggested with a grin. “Though Silco seems the type to keep one on hand.”

You were about to respond when the doorbell rang, sending your heart into your throat.

“He's here,” Talia whispered unnecessarily, an excited smile spreading across her face.

“Right on time,” Ava noted, checking her phone. “Of course he is.”

You stood frozen for a moment, a sudden wave of something like vertigo washing over you—not quite fear, not quite excitement, but a dizzying blend of both.

“Go on,” Talia urged gently, giving your hand a squeeze. “You look beautiful.”

“Stunning,” Ava agreed, her usual teasing set aside for once. “He won't know what hit him.”

Gathering your courage, you moved toward the door, the emerald dress catching the light with each step. Your hand hesitated on the knob for just a moment before you pulled it open, revealing Silco standing in the hallway.

The air seemed to go thin in your lungs.

He wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo, the crisp lines accentuating his lean frame. A pair of silver cliff-shrikes gleamed against the white collar of his dress shirt, the pointed nod to Zaunite fauna making your chest constrict with a mixture of admiration and affection. But it was his expression that made your pulse jump — the way his gaze traveled from your face to the emerald fabric of your dress, something like appreciation darkening his mismatched eyes before he schooled his features back to polite neutrality.

“You look…” he began, then paused, seeming to search for the right words. “Quite lovely.”

Two simple words, delivered in that precise way of his, yet heat bloomed in your chest at the careful choice. Not ‘beautiful’ or ‘stunning’ — words that might have made you uncomfortable with their intensity. Just ‘lovely,’ with that telltale lilt that somehow conveyed more than the word itself.

“Thank you,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than it felt. “So do you. Nice, I mean. Really nice.”

His mouth curved at one corner, that not-quite-smile you'd come to recognize. “High praise indeed. Shall we?”

You accepted his arm, offering him a small smile of your own.

“We shall.”

Chapter Text

The drive from your apartment to Bluewind Court passed in a blur of nervous anticipation, the emerald dress rustling softly each time you shifted in your seat. Silco drove with the same precise attention he seemed to bring to everything, his hands resting loosely on the steering wheel as he guided the sleek black car up the winding roads leading to the bridge into Piltover.

“You seem tense,” he observed after several minutes of silence, his gaze briefly meeting yours before returning to the road ahead.

“Do I?” you asked, attempting nonchalance despite the way your fingers twisted in your lap. “I can't imagine why. It's not like I'm about to walk into a room full of Piltover's elite with absolutely no idea how to navigate their particular brand of social warfare.”

The corner of his mouth quirked upward. “An apt description. Though I suspect you'll find their tactics rather transparent once you've observed them for a while.”

“You sound like you're sending me into battle,” you remarked, watching as the landscape outside gradually transformed—industrial structures giving way to the gleaming spires and architectural flourishes that made up Piltover's skyline.

“Isn't that what these events are?” he replied, the subtle amusement in his tone belying the seriousness of his words. “Carefully choreographed skirmishes where alliances are formed and broken over champagne and barely edible canapés?”

You laughed despite your nerves, grateful for the momentary distraction. “Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

“Because,” he said, slowing as the car approached an impressively ornate building illuminated with an overabundance of lanterns, “you see the potential for expanding the center's reach, even if it means enduring an evening of Piltover posturing.” He brought the car to a stop, adding more quietly, “And because I asked.”

Before you could respond, he was sliding out of the vehicle with practiced grace, circling around to open your door. As you stepped out, the full impact of your surroundings hit you—soaring marble columns framing an entrance where Piltover's wealthiest citizens ascended broad steps, each one dressed more extravagantly than the last. Crystal-inlaid lights bathed everything in a soft golden glow, lending an ethereal quality to the scene that would have been beautiful if it weren't so intimidating.

After handing off his keys to the valet, Silco offered his arm, and you accepted it gratefully, the solid warmth of him beneath your fingers a welcome anchor amidst the overwhelming opulence.

“Ready?” he murmured, and a shiver ran down your spine that you told yourself had more to do with nerves than the timbre of his voice as it caressed your ear.

“No,” you whispered in return, even as you took a step forward.

Inside, the Chamber of Commerce building opened into a grand ballroom that made your stomach turn with its sheer display of wealth. Elaborate fixtures cast prismatic light across polished marble floors, while diamond-encrusted chandeliers hung from ceilings so high they seemed to disappear into darkness. Tables draped in silk held delicate arrangements of exotic flowers you suspected had been imported at astronomical cost, purely for one evening's decoration.

“Impressive, isn't it?” Silco commented, just barely audible over the hum of conversations underscored by the string quartet performing in a far corner of the room. “Though rather heavy-handed in its messaging.”

“And what message is that?” you questioned, accepting a flute of champagne from a passing server with a quiet thanks.

“That wealth equals worth,” he replied, his voice ever so slightly edged with scorn. “A particularly Piltovan conceit.”

You inhaled the floral scent of the champagne before taking a sip, the notes of grapefruit and orange blossom sharp against your tongue. Studying the crowd through the golden liquid in your glass, you noted the careful hierarchy evident even in people's positions within the room—certain groups clustered near the center, others relegated to the periphery despite their expensive attire.

“I feel like I've wandered into a wildlife documentary,” you muttered to Silco, who remained a steadying presence at your side.

His quiet huff of laughter warmed the space between you. “You'll find their behaviors rather predictable once you've observed them long enough. Though they consider themselves quite sophisticated.”

Before you could respond, an auburn-haired woman in a midnight blue gown approached, her smile razor-thin as she assessed you both.

“Silco,” she greeted, voice dripping with unctuous charm. “You can't keep saying you're too busy to take a meeting with me if you're not too busy to attend one of these boring galas.”

“Sloane,” he replied smoothly. “I'm merely making my obligatory yearly appearance in Piltovan territory.” The perfect courtesy in his tone somehow managed to convey the exact opposite of welcome.

Her gaze shifted to you, appraising you in a way that made your skin prickle. “And your companion is…?”

“The executive director of Iron & Glass Community Art Center,” he supplied, before introducing you by name with a subtle pride that made your chest tighten. “I brought her this evening as I thought several attendees might be interested in the new program she's developing.”

“How quaint,” she simpered, angling herself toward him. “I didn't take you for a patron of the arts.”

The presumption in her tone—that she knew anything about him at all—sent a flare of irritation through you.

“He's been incredibly supportive,” you interjected, unable to keep a defensive edge from your voice. “He's sponsored our upcoming fundraiser, provided technical equipment, offered business expertise for our grant proposals—” you broke off, deliberately omitting that Jinx was the catalyst for his involvement—this woman didn't need to know about his personal life.

“How fortunate for you,” Sloane remarked, her voice honeyed but eyes sharp, “to have a man of his abilities take such a keen interest in your…projects. And to do so much, despite his many other endeavors.” Her gaze back to Silco. “One wonders what inspired such generosity.”

The implication in her tone, the way her eyes flickered between you with poorly disguised insinuation, made your stomach clench uncomfortably.

“The center provides valuable programming for our community,” Silco replied coolly. “A worthwhile investment for anyone with sense enough to recognize it.”

Sloane's smile thinned. “Of course. Though I would have thought your interests lay in more…profitable ventures.”

“Profitability takes many forms,” he countered, his tone remaining even despite the edge beneath. “Not all of which are measured in immediate financial returns.”

A subtle dismissal if you'd ever heard one. Sloane seemed to recognize it as such, her expression hardening momentarily before she recovered.

“Well, I won't keep you from circulating,” she said, her attention shifting back to you with renewed interest. “Though I do hope we'll have a chance to chat further. I'm always curious about Silco's…associates.”

With that, she moved toward the center of the ballroom, immediately engaging a group of attendees who seemed eager for her attention.

“She seems…friendly,” you commented once she was out of earshot.

“Sloane owns Meridian Distributors,” Silco explained, guiding you deeper into the room with a light touch at the small of your back that you tried not to lean into. “She's been attempting to convince me to grant her exclusive distribution rights in the Lanes for the past year.”

“And you're not interested?”

He arched a brow in response. “In being the vehicle through which she extends Piltover's economic stranglehold into Zaun? No.”

“So the flirting is just…” you trailed off, cheeks warming at your clumsy attempt at reconnaissance.

“A negotiation tactic,” he finished, a hint of genuine amusement entering his expression. “One she employs with tedious predictability.”

The confirmation shouldn't have relieved you as much as it did.

“Though one has to admire her persistence,” he added, his gaze scanning the room.

“One does not,” you muttered, taking a sip of champagne to hide your embarrassment at his knowing look.

“Ah, there's someone you should meet,” he announced, guiding you toward a tall, broad-shouldered man who stood somewhat apart from the main clusters of guests, observing the proceedings with what appeared to be mild interest.

“Councillor Hardwick,” Silco greeted, his tone shifting to something more genuinely respectful. “May I introduce the executive director of Iron & Glass Community Art Center?”

The man turned, his expression warming as Silco made the introduction. “A pleasure,” he said, extending a hand toward you. “Silco mentioned your work when we spoke earlier this week. The merchandise partnership program sounds particularly promising.”

You blinked in surprise, both at the fact that Silco had apparently discussed your ideas with the councillor and at the man's seemingly genuine interest.

“Thank you,” you managed, quickly gathering your thoughts. “We're still in the development phase, but the core concept is to connect student artists with local businesses for mutually beneficial collaborations.”

Hardwick nodded, his attention focused on you with none of the condescension you'd expected. “Smart approach. Creates economic opportunities while showcasing emerging talent. What metrics are you planning on using to track impact?”

The direct question, asked without preamble or pretense, was refreshingly straightforward. As you outlined the assessment framework you'd been developing—the one Silco had helped refine—you felt some of your earlier tension begin to ebb. Here, at least, was someone who seemed to understand the value of what you were trying to accomplish.

The conversation flowed easily, Silco occasionally adding context but primarily allowing you to lead. When Hardwick expressed interest in having his tech company participate in a pilot program, you felt a surge of accomplishment that made the evening's discomfort seem almost worthwhile.

As Hardwick excused himself to speak with another guest, Silco leaned closer, his mouth near your ear. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he murmured.

“No,” you admitted. “Is he always so... direct?”

“Generally. Garrett Hardwick built his company from nothing—his wealth is relatively new by Piltover standards, which makes him somewhat of an outsider despite his position on the council.” His gaze followed the retreating figure. “He understands the value of practical solutions over social posturing.”

You allowed yourself to relax slightly, buoyed by the successful interaction. “Anyone else I should meet while we're here?”

As Hardwick moved away, Silco guided you toward another small group gathered near one of the elaborate floral arrangements. You noticed him subtly adjust his position, angling himself to shield you slightly from a particularly loud attendee whose voice carried across the room.

“Councillor Cromwell has considerable influence over arts funding,” he told you, leaning closer so only you could hear. “Her approval opens many doors. She responds well to practical applications rather than idealistic rhetoric. Perhaps emphasize the economic benefits of the program rather than its community impact.”

You stiffened slightly. “I think I can manage my own pitch, thanks,” you replied, more curtly than you'd intended.

He straightened almost imperceptibly, the momentary warmth in his expression cooling. “Of course. Merely an observation based on previous interactions.”

“I appreciate the thought,” you said, softening your tone slightly at his withdrawal, “but I'd rather she hear my actual perspective. If she doesn't value community impact, perhaps she's not the right connection anyway.”

“As you wish.” The words were neutral, but you caught the subtle tightening at the corner of his mouth.

You took a deliberate sip of champagne, meeting his gaze over the rim of your glass. Something flickered in his mismatched eyes – concern, perhaps, or frustration – before he smoothed his expression into that careful neutrality you were coming to recognize as a defense mechanism.

“I believe Councillor Kiramman is attempting to get my attention,” he said after a moment, glancing toward where the distinguished woman stood. “Would you mind if I…?”

“Not at all,” you assured him, though your chest felt uncomfortably tight at the thought of being left alone, even momentarily. “I'll be fine.”

He studied you for a moment, as if examining the veracity of your statement, before nodding. “I won't be long.”

As he moved away, you took the opportunity to observe the room from your relatively secluded position, not quite ready to approach Councillor Cromwell.

“Quite a view, isn't it?”

You turned to find a woman with a sleek black bob and calculating eyes watching you. “Both the cityscape and the social landscape,” she continued, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “Eliza Vaughn.”

“A pleasure,” you replied, accepting the handshake with what you hoped was appropriate firmness.

“Sloane told me you arrived with Silco,” she observed, the casual statement clearly a question.

You took a sip of champagne to hide your amusement that someone accustomed to such intricate social dynamics would handle an attempt at reconnaissance as inelegantly as you had earlier.

“Yes, he invited me to introduce the center's new partnership program to potential supporters,” you explained, deliberately steering the conversation toward professional territory.

“Of course,” Eliza nodded, in a tone that suggested she didn't believe you for a second. “It's just unusual to see him with anyone besides his daughter at these functions. When Sloane mentioned seeing him arrive with someone new, well…” she trailed off with a meaningful smile.

You attempted a casual shrug, remembering how Silco had deflected Sloane. “The center has several initiatives that might interest potential donors. He was kind enough to facilitate introductions.” The formality felt strange on your tongue, but you hoped it might discourage further speculation.

Eliza's smile only widened and she leaned in as if the two of you were close confidants. “How fortunate for you. I've always wondered what he's like in private. Is he as…controlled as he appears in public settings?”

“I would hardly know,” you told her pointedly, fighting the urge to scowl. “Our interactions have been entirely professional and primarily center-focused.”

“Really?” She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Such a shame. A man like that…” she sighed theatrically. “I bet all that careful restraint hides something quite…passionate, wouldn’t you agree?”

The blatant objectification finally snapped your patience. “If you find him so attractive, perhaps you should tell him yourself,” you suggested, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “He's unattached, to my knowledge. Though I suspect he has little patience for this sort of juvenile gossip.”

Eliza's expression hardened, the pretense of friendliness dropping away. “My, aren't we defensive? I was simply making conversation.”

“Then I suggest finding a more appropriate topic,” you replied curtly. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need some air.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned away, searching for an exit from both the conversation and the suffocating ballroom.

You finally found a set of glass doors leading to a balcony and slipped through them, the frigid winter air a balm to your flushed skin. Leaning against the stone balustrade, you took a deep breath, trying to calm your jumbled emotions—frustration, embarrassment, and a deeper hurt you didn't want to examine too closely.

The sound of the door opening made you tense, but you relaxed fractionally when Silco's distinctive cadence reached your ears.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly, coming to stand beside you at the railing, careful to maintain a respectful distance.

“No,” you admitted, knowing he would see the cracks in your facade either way.

He nodded once, reaching into his inner jacket pocket to withdraw a slim silver case. As he opened it, you noticed his fingers—steady as always, but with a barely perceptible tension in them.

“Do you mind?” he questioned, gesturing with the case containing several hand-rolled cigarettes.

The request surprised you—he'd never smoked in your presence before. You shook your head, watching as he removed one with practiced precision.

“I've been trying to break the habit,” he remarked, producing a sleek lighter from another pocket. “One of my few remaining vices.”

The flame illuminated his features momentarily as he lit the cigarette, the angular planes of his face cast in warm gold before returning to shadow.

He exhaled away from you, the smoke curling into the night air. There was something strangely intimate about witnessing this small indulgence—this momentary surrender to an impulse he typically controlled.

“These events…” he said after a moment, the cigarette held loosely between two fingers, “tend to test my resolve in various ways.”

You studied him, realizing that despite his outward composure, the evening was affecting him too. The thought made you feel slightly less alone in your discomfort, though not enough to stifle your frustration. He held the cigarette out to you, and you shook your head, remembering what Ava had said before he arrived to pick you up that evening.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a flask on hand, would you?” you asked, an involuntary smile lifting the corner of your mouth when he produced one from within his jacket and wordlessly passed it to you.

“I shouldn't encourage mixing wine and spirits,” he noted, watching as you accepted it, “but it seems rather hypocritical considering my own indulgence.”

The liquor burned through you, settling deep in your stomach.

“How charitable of you,” you muttered, more sarcastically than intended.

He was silent, watching you with that careful assessment you'd come to recognize.

“I don't know why you thought it would be a good idea to bring me here,” you said tightly, turning back to gaze at the city below. “Most of these people don’t give a fuck about what I'm—what we're trying to do at the center. Any interest they've expressed is just to collect little morsels of gossip to share with one another later.”

He took another drag of his cigarette, his elegant profile sharp against the Piltover skyline.

“Perhaps I was more optimistic than I should have been about their philanthropic inclinations,” he conceded. After a pause, he added, “Though I must admit to some selfishness in extending the invitation as well.”

You turned to look at him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

A fleeting expression—almost vulnerability—crossed his features before disappearing. He tapped ash from the cigarette with a deliberate motion. “These affairs are considerably more tolerable with the right company,” he answered simply.

His admission should have tempered your anger, but instead, it sparked a fresh wave. Had this all been some sort of entertainment for him? Bringing you here just to watch you flounder as you tried to navigate the intricacies and unspoken rules of Piltovan society?

“So I'm what, then?” you asked, your voice rising slightly. “Your evening's amusement? Did you enjoy watching me make a fool of myself somewhere I clearly don't belong?”

His expression shifted to genuine confusion, the cigarette momentarily forgotten between his fingers. “That's not at all—”

“Standing there while Sloane flirted with you and then having to listen to her friend objectify you, trying to goad me into saying something she could report back?” you continued, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

“And this upset you because…?” he prompted, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“Because I came here for an actual purpose, not to indulge in mindless gossip,” you burst out.

“Surely you don't believe gossip is a practice specific to Piltover,” he remarked, his careful enunciation carrying a note of knowing amusement.

Your face heated, remembering the detailed analysis you, Ava and Talia had conducted of his messages just days earlier.

“Surely you aren't defending their behavior,” you countered, fixing him with an accusatory look. “Or maybe you enjoy being discussed as though you're some rare delicacy they've imported to satisfy their curiosities.”

He exhaled another plume of smoke, a soft huff of humorless laughter escaping him. “Hardly,” he replied. “I merely find myself wondering whether your anger is directed at their gossip or the fact that I happen to be the subject of it.”

The balcony door opened again, cutting off your response as Sloane stepped through, her predatory smile firmly in place. Her gaze flicked to the cigarette in Silco's hand, a knowing gleam entering her eyes.

“I hope I'm not interrupting a lover's quarrel,” she said, glancing between you with poorly concealed interest.

“Not at all,” Silco replied mildly. “Merely discussing the evening's proceedings.”

Sloane's gaze lingered on you, assessing. “You should have better prepared your friend for this evening, Silco,” she tutted. “These events must be so overwhelming for someone unaccustomed to them.”

You waited for Silco to defend you, to challenge the patronizing assumption in her words.

Instead, he merely inclined his head slightly. “The Chamber's particular brand of hospitality does take some adjustment,” he remarked, taking a measured drag of his cigarette.

Your throat tightened at the indifference in his words, the insouciance in his posture.

“You're right,” you snapped, hating the tremulous note in your voice. “I am unaccustomed to these things. And there will be no need for Silco to waste his time or mine ‘preparing’ me for any future events because this is the last time I'll ever attend one." Your voice grew steadier as you continued, months of compounding frustration finally finding an outlet. “I only agreed to come because I mistakenly thought that such a fortunate group of people might see some benefit in using a fraction of their wealth to better underserved communities, even if it didn't directly benefit them.”

You laughed, slightly hysterically. “How stupid of me! To think that people who wouldn't bat an eye at throwing ludicrous amounts of money at an event to celebrate themselves would want to put a fucking fraction of that towards helping others!”

Sloane stared at you, stunned into silence. From the corner of your eye, you caught the flash of what might have been approval on Silco's face, quickly masked behind his usual reserve.

The momentary satisfaction of your outburst crumbled immediately as the consequences began to sink in. You'd just burned bridges you came here to build. Worse, you'd potentially damaged Silco's reputation by association.

“I—” you started, but Sloane was already retreating, the tight set of her shoulders promising retribution in the form of gossip that would spread through Piltover's elite circles before the night was over.

“An impressive display,” Silco remarked once she was gone, a hint of genuine admiration coloring his tone. “I doubt she’s been spoken to like that in quite some time.”

You rounded on him, hurt and anger bubbling over. “Thanks for sticking up for me, by the way!”

His brow furrowed, confusion giving way to frustration as he met your accusatory gaze. “I'm not entirely sure what you want from me,” he said, a rare edge entering his carefully regulated voice. “You've made it abundantly clear that you prefer to handle matters on your own terms, that you resist any appearance of…dependency. Yet when I respect that preference, you're displeased.”

“This is different,” you told him, arms crossing defensively over your chest. “This is a situation where I was relying on you to help me navigate all this Piltie bullshit, and instead you just let me make a fool of myself and fuck everything up.”

“Yet when I attempted to guide you earlier, you bristled at the implication that you needed assistance,” he replied, his restraint visibly fraying. “I find myself in a rather impossible position—damned if I offer help, damned if I withhold it. Perhaps you might clarify what it is you actually want.”

The raw frustration in his tone caught you off guard. Silco, who maintained impeccable control in every situation, was allowing genuine emotion to leak through his careful facade. The realization that you'd pushed him to this point made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

“I want—” you began, then faltered, uncertain how to articulate what you needed without exposing the vulnerability you'd been so desperate to conceal. “I just wanted to not feel like I was alone in there.”

Something softened in his expression, though the tension remained in the set of his shoulders. “I see.” He was quiet for a moment, choosing his words with characteristic precision. “It seems we have a fundamental miscommunication about expectations. One that perhaps merits discussion in a less…hostile environment.”

He studied you for a moment, something shifting in his gaze as he seemed to fully register your distress. “Perhaps,” he said finally, a careful lightness returning to his tone, “your outburst will ensure I'm removed from the guest list for future such occasions. A service for which I should properly thank you.” He paused, then added, “Perhaps over dinner? Somewhere considerably less... Piltovan.”

The suggestion was his way of diffusing the tension—offering a neutral territory where you might sort through this tangle of miscommunication and hurt feelings. It was so perfectly him—using dry humor to extend an olive branch—that despite your anger, you found yourself nodding.

“Fine,” you agreed, exhaustion settling into your bones. “Anywhere but here.”

He offered his arm, the gesture somehow both formal and intimate. “In that case, shall we make our escape before Ms. Serros has a chance to rally reinforcements?”

You accepted, grateful for the solid warmth of him beside you once more. “We had better. I don't think I can fight in this dress,” you answered, attempting a levity you didn't feel.

“Yet were you differently attired, you would allow matters to escalate to physical confrontation?” he questioned, one eyebrow arching slightly.

“In this particular arena, I think my odds would be better in a fistfight than in verbal sparring,” you replied with unexpected honesty.

The corner of his mouth curved upward. “Then perhaps we should depart before you're tempted to test that theory.”

“Any preference regarding our destination?” Silco asked as the valet pulled his car around.

“I went to this place called Rootstock last weekend,” you replied as he opened the door for you. “It's technically a wine shop but they serve small plates, too.”

“Rootstock it is,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat and inputting the address.

The tension that had built during the gala gradually ebbed as you left Piltover's pristine streets behind, replaced by the comfortable disorder of the Lanes. When the car pulled up outside the unassuming storefront, its warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, you felt some of the evening's strain finally release from your shoulders.

Inside, the space was transformed from your last visit. What had been a lively gathering place with Ava and Talia now felt unexpectedly intimate—low lighting casting a golden glow over wood-paneled walls, wine bottles lining the exposed brick like silent observers. A server led you to a corner table, and you suddenly realized how different it felt being here with just Silco, the cramped seating forcing a proximity that made your pulse quicken.

“This is…quite pleasant,” he remarked, his gaze taking in the surroundings with that careful attention he seemed to apply to everything.

You nodded, perusing the wine list with mild interest. “I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive the lack of diamond chandeliers and exotic floral arrangements.”

His mouth quirked up at one corner. “I shall endeavor to adjust my expectations accordingly.”

After selecting a bottle of Ionian orange—Silco deferring to your choice with a surprising lack of input—you found yourself studying him across the table.

“I suppose I should apologize for my outburst,” you said finally, though the words lacked conviction.

Silco's expression shifted, something almost like amusement crossing his features. “I don't recall asking for an apology.”

“No, but—” you gestured vaguely, “—I probably ruined any chance of making those connections we went there for.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded, “though I find myself rather unconcerned with Sloane Serros's opinion or that of her compatriots.” He considered you for a moment before adding, “What troubles you more? The potential damage to business prospects, or something else entirely?”

You took a sip of water, buying time to organize your thoughts.

“Both, I suppose,” you admitted. “I'm frustrated that—” you hesitated, not quite sure how to articulate the deeper discomfort.

The server returned with the wine, providing a momentary reprieve from the weight of the conversation. As Silco filled both glasses, you took a deep breath.

“I’m frustrated that even after all this time, I feel just as unsure of myself around them now as I did when I was in highschool,” you finished, taking a sip of wine, appreciating the blend of bright tropical fruit and subtle salinity.

His expression softened almost imperceptibly. “What happened?”

The question hung between you, and for a moment you considered deflecting. But the quiet intimacy of the space, the emotionally charged events of the evening, and perhaps the wine already warming your blood made you less guarded than usual.

“I grew up in the Lanes,” you began, surprised at your own willingness to share. “Only child of two people who probably should never have had kids. They fought constantly—about money, mostly. Never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was partially responsible for things being tight. I learned early on not to ask for anything. That if I needed something, I'd better figure out how to get it on my own.”

Silco's gaze stayed fixed on yours, a careful attentiveness that somehow made it easier to continue.

“When they finally divorced, my dad moved to Noxus and my mom remarried a Piltovan businessman. Suddenly I was dragged out of the only community I'd ever known and thrust into this world where I was very clearly an outsider—the walking reminder of my mother's ‘unfortunate first marriage,’ as her new husband called it.”

Your fingers tightened around the wine glass. “I never fit in at school there. I was okay with that at first — I didn’t really want to, anyway. But after a while, the distance between us made it hard to fit in with my old friends in the Lanes, either. So I started sneaking back, spending time at Iron & Glass. It was the one place I didn’t feel like I was…I don’t know, stuck between two worlds, not really a part of either of them.”

“And that's where your determination to protect it comes from,” Silco observed, not a question but a gentle acknowledgement.

You nodded. “When I was sixteen, I got myself emancipated and moved back. Waited tables at night, took art classes during the day, eventually got my degree from University of Zaun. The center was always there for me when I had nowhere else to go.”

The confession left you feeling oddly vulnerable, but when you met his gaze, there was no pity there—just quiet understanding.

“So when you see what I've built there,” you continued, “when you see how I am about it…that's why. I don't…I don't know how to accept help gracefully because I never really got any.”

His hand moved slightly across the table, stopping just short of yours. “Your independence is admirable,” he said softly. “As is your loyalty to a place that gave you sanctuary.”

The warmth in his voice made something twist in your chest. “Your turn,” you told him, deflecting from the intensity of the moment. “I've shown you mine…”

He huffed a quiet laugh, taking a sip of wine before setting the glass down precisely. “Fair enough. Though I suspect you already have some idea of my history.”

“Only what you’ve shared,” you replied honestly, smiling slightly before adding,“which has been very little, so I expect to be commended on the remarkable restraint I’ve exercised by not looking you up.”

He gave you a distracted half-smile, his gaze distant as if he was sorting through memories and deciding which to share.

“I, too, was born in the Lanes” he began, his voice taking on that measured cadence you'd come to recognize when he discussed matters of particular significance. “I worked my way up from the floor to safety compliance at Piltover Chemical Holdings' Zaun facility.”

Your brow furrowed slightly—you'd heard of PCH, a conglomerate with a notorious reputation in the Lanes.

“I documented everything,” he went on, a hardness entering his tone. “Safety violations, corner-cutting, the steady erosion of worker protections. Filed reports, raised concerns up every proper channel. All of it ignored.”

His fingers drummed once against the table, the only outward sign of the emotion behind his carefully controlled words. “Until the inevitable happened. An equipment failure that should have been prevented months earlier…twelve dead, dozens more injured.”

You found yourself leaning forward slightly, caught in the gravity of his narrative. “That's how you got—” you gestured vaguely toward the left side of his face.

He nodded once, the movement precise. “I was attempting to help workers evacuate when a secondary explosion occurred. I was…fortunate, compared to many others.”

The word ‘fortunate’ hung in the air between you, laden with all the things he wasn't saying.

“Among the dead were Jinx’s parents,” he continued, his voice softening slightly at the mention of his daughter. “Felicia and Connol had named me her godfather. I became her legal guardian.”

“I'm so sorry,” you murmured, the inadequacy of the words painfully apparent. Before you could stop yourself, you reached across the table, laying your hand briefly on his forearm.

His words halted mid-sentence, gaze dropping to where your fingers rested against the crisp fabric of his sleeve. Something unguarded flickered across his features—surprise, then a fleeting vulnerability you'd never witnessed before. He didn't move, as if afraid the slightest shift might cause you to withdraw your touch. You realized with sudden clarity that for all his careful composure, for all his measured words and precise movements, this simple gesture of comfort had temporarily unraveled his defenses.

After a moment, you gently withdrew your hand, but something had changed in the air between you—something that made your breath hitch.

“I pursued legal action,” he said, continuing as if nothing had happened, though his voice had eased into a gentler lilt. “Used my documentation to prove negligence. We won…if you can call it that.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

“The company's response was to implement mass layoffs. Replace workers with hextech automation.” His mouth twisted into a grim approximation of a smile. “Progress, they called it. The Lanes' unemployment rate doubled overnight.”

Understanding dawned. “So that's why…”

“Why I'm not particularly welcome in certain Piltovan circles?” he finished. “Yes. Though the rift extended beyond Piltover. Vander—a colleague, a friend once—believed the lawsuit would cause more harm than good.”

“And it did,” you surmised.

Silco inclined his head slightly. “He was forced to sell The Last Drop when the economic fallout hit. Left the Lanes with his goddaughter, Vi. Jinx's sister.”

“But Jinx stayed with you,” you said softly.

Something complex crossed his features—pride, pain, fierce protection all mingled together. “She chose to. Though perhaps it would have been better if she hadn't.”

“I don't believe that,” you replied, more forcefully than you intended. “And neither do you, not really.”

His gaze met yours, and for a moment, the carefully maintained facade slipped again, revealing an uncertainty that made your chest ache. Then it was gone, replaced by his usual composed expression.

“In any case,” he said, “I used the settlement to invest in various enterprises. The Last Drop among them—an opportunity I offered back to Vander. He declined.”

“And the other investments?” you probed gently, sensing there was more to the story.

Something shifted in his expression—a flicker of pride tempered with regret. “Once it became clear what the lawsuit had done to the Lanes' economy, I…redirected my focus. Every business I've established since then employs Zaunites exclusively. Preferential hiring for those displaced by the PCH automation.” His fingers traced an absent pattern on the tablecloth.

“You've been trying to repair the damage,” you observed quietly.

“Attempting to,” he corrected, his tone measured. “Though one can never truly undo such things. The infrastructure the Lanes lost during that period—local businesses, community supports—some of it simply cannot be replaced.” He paused, the hesitancy of his words indicating how rarely he discussed this. “But one continues the effort nonetheless.”

“And now here you are,” you commented, “the most notorious businessman in the Lanes.”

His mouth quirked up. “A dubious honor, but one I've made peace with.”

The server returned and Silco again deferred to you, leaving you to select several small plates at random from the menu, barely registering what was in any of them.

“Despite the…unfortunate conclusion,” he ventured once the two of you were alone once more, “the evening wasn't a complete loss. Councilor Hardwick seemed genuinely interested in the program.”

You stilled, wine glass halfway to your lips. The comment, likely intended to find some silver lining, instead rekindled the embers of your earlier frustration.

“That's what you're taking away from tonight?” you asked, setting your glass down with deliberate care. “One potentially useful connection makes up for the rest of that disaster?”

He studied you for a moment, his mismatched eyes reflecting the candlelight. “Not at all. I merely thought—”

“You thought what? That I should be grateful for the crumbs of professional interest thrown my way while enduring an evening of condescension and humiliation?”

His expression tightened almost imperceptibly. “That wasn't my intention.”

“What was your intention, then?” the question came out sharper than you meant it to, your voice barely above a whisper to avoid disturbing the handful of other diners. “Because from where I'm sitting, you invited me to an event you knew would be difficult, didn't prepare me for what it would be like, and then left me to fend for myself when things got uncomfortable.”

“I attempted to offer guidance,” he reminded you, his own voice dropping to match your hushed intensity, “which you repeatedly rejected.”

“There's a difference between controlling everything and leaving me completely adrift,” you snapped, leaning forward slightly. “You knew those people. You knew how they operate, what they respond to. You could have—”

“Could have what?” he interrupted, unusual for him. “Held your hand through every interaction? Spoken for you when someone addressed you directly? You've made it abundantly clear that you value your independence above all else.”

Heat crept up your neck, partly from anger, partly from the uncomfortable truth in his words.

“You send such mixed signals about what kind of help you're willing to accept,” he continued, frustration evident in the careful precision of each word. “You bristle at offers of assistance, yet become upset when it isn't immediately forthcoming.”

“Because I don't know what you want in return for all this ‘help’!” the admission burst from you before you could stop it, your fingers twisting in the fabric of your dress.

Silco went very still. “Is that what you think of me?” he asked finally, genuine hurt threading through his carefully controlled tone. “That I've been keeping a ledger of favors to collect on? After everything I just told you about my past, about what Piltover's transactional approach did to the Lanes?”

Guilt twisted in your stomach, but defensiveness rose to smother it. “How am I supposed to know? You've done so much for the center, for me, and I still don't understand why. What are you getting out of this?”

“Perhaps,” he said, each word measured as if he were weighing it on his tongue, “I simply enjoy your company. Perhaps I find value in supporting a cause I believe in. Perhaps not every relationship needs to be assessed for equal exchange.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, looking down at your half-empty glass. “You're not the one constantly in debt.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. Silco's expression shifted, frustration giving way to something harder to read.

“I have made every effort to present my assistance in a manner that would not foster a sense of obligation,” he said, his voice maintaining its careful precision despite the emotion beneath. “I have deliberately framed each…contribution as a matter of mutual benefit, precisely to make them more acceptable to you. However, I can no longer maintain the pretense that my interest is solely in the center's operations. Nor am I willing to proceed if our association must be predicated on such a fundamental misrepresentation.”

Your heart thundered in your chest. “And what is your interest, exactly?” you managed to ask, your voice barely audible.

“I believe you're already quite aware,” he replied, holding your gaze with uncomfortable intensity.

“I'd prefer you said it plainly,” you pressed, needing to hear the words even as you feared them.

His expression hardened, a flash of rare anger breaking through his careful composure. “You demand vulnerability while actively searching for an escape,” he responded, his voice low and taut with controlled fury. “You ask me to expose myself plainly, only to dissect my words for some perceived imprecision that would justify your inevitable retreat. I think not.”

“That's not fair,” you whispered, heat prickling behind your eyes.

“Is it not?” he demanded, leaning forward slightly. “You have spent the entirety of this evening searching for evidence to confirm your preconceptions. Manufacturing reasons to distance yourself rather than acknowledging what you want, regardless of how willingly it's offered.”

Your throat constricted painfully. “You don't know what it's like—”

“To be abandoned?” he supplied, his voice lowering to that register that seemed to reverberate in your chest despite its quietness. “To have any perceived vulnerability weaponized against you? To construct an entire identity around never needing what others might withdraw?”

He broke off, letting out an uncharacteristically shaky exhalation before continuing. “If, after all I've shared with you, you genuinely believe I cannot comprehend such experiences—if you truly believe I intend to exploit your trust at the earliest opportunity—then it seems your assessment of me has somehow deteriorated beyond even our initial misunderstanding.”

His words felt like a knife slipped between your ribs, each one perfectly placed to expose the shame beneath your anger. You stared at him across the table, horrified not by his assessment but by how accurate it was—how completely he saw through the walls you'd spent years constructing.

“You're right,” you admitted, your voice barely audible. “I have been looking for reasons to push you away.”

The admission seemed to catch him off guard, his carefully maintained expression faltering for a moment.

“It's easier that way,” you told him, each word feeling like glass in your throat. “Because what's the alternative? Accepting that I deserve someone like you, even after how I've treated you? We both know that isn't true.”

“Do we?” he questioned softly, something pained crossing his features. “I was under the impression we'd established rather different conclusions about your worth.”

You shook your head, one tear escaping to trace a burning path down your cheek. “Look at tonight. Look at how I've behaved. You've been nothing but supportive, and I've responded with suspicion and accusations. I've twisted everything you've done into something to fear rather than appreciate.” Your hands trembled as you wiped at your face. “What kind of person does that make me?”

“Human,” he replied simply. “Flawed. Wounded. As we all are.”

The gentle understanding in his voice nearly broke you. It would have been easier if he'd agreed, if he'd acknowledged your faults and withdrawn. Instead, he continued to offer compassion you felt increasingly unworthy of.

“I think,” you began, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the pain constricting your chest, “we need to return to a more…appropriate relationship.”

“Appropriate,” he echoed, his expression shuttering.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Professional. Clearly defined. I'll email Sloane tomorrow to apologize for my behavior. I'll have the printer returned to your office by Monday. I can find an alternative sponsor for the fundraiser—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, a rare sharpness entering his tone. “I don't want any of that.”

“It's only fair,” you insisted, desperation making your voice thin. “I should compensate you for—”

“For what, precisely?” his eyes held yours, a mixture of hurt and frustration evident despite his control. “For my freely given support? For my…interest in your wellbeing? Do you truly believe I require financial restitution for basic decency?”

“No, but—”

“If you wish to maintain professional boundaries henceforth, I will respect that decision,” he continued, slightly strained. “However, I will not participate in this…transactional assessment of what has passed between us. The printer remains at the center. The sponsorship stands. Your apologies to Sloane or anyone else are entirely at your discretion.”

When you spoke, your voice was raw, as if the words had been scraped out of you. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“Because,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “I refuse to allow you to reframe what has happened between us as some form of indebtedness to be settled. Even if you wish to proceed with greater…distance, I will not permit you to diminish what came before.”

As he said this, his gaze fell briefly to his forearm, as if he could still feel your touch, before his hand curled into a tight fist, knuckles going white.

You stared at him, unshed tears blurring him around the edges. The worst part was that even now, when you were actively pushing him away, he was still protecting you—from your own self-destructive impulses, from the shame that threatened to consume you.

“I think it would be best if I went home,” you whispered finally, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer.

“Of course.” He signaled for the check with a slight gesture. “I'll drive you.”

“That's not necessary,” you began, but he cut you off with a look.

“It is to me.”

The quiet certainty in his voice silenced any further protest. You sat in miserable silence as he paid, refusing his offer to help with your coat, maintaining a careful physical distance as you made your way to his car.

The drive back to your apartment was excruciating. You angled yourself toward the door, the cityscape distorted through tears you could no longer fully contain. Each streetlight you passed illuminated the interior of the car just enough to reveal a glimpse of his reflection in the window—the tight set of his jaw, the careful way he held himself, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile silence between you.

Once, when you failed to suppress a quiet sob, his hand moved slightly toward the center console before returning to the steering wheel, the aborted gesture of comfort more painful than if he'd reached for you.

When he finally pulled up outside your building, you found yourself frozen, unable to move despite desperately wanting to escape the suffocating tension.

“Thank you for driving me,” you managed at last, your voice wooden.

“Goodnight,” he replied, his own tone carefully, painfully formal.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak again, and opened the door. The night air felt shockingly cold against your tear-streaked face as you stepped out, forcing yourself not to look back as you walked toward your building.

He waited, of course—you could hear the idle of the engine behind you—ensuring you made it safely inside before driving away. The consideration in that simple act made your chest ache all the more.

Inside your apartment, you barely made it through the door before your composure crumbled completely. You slid to the floor, back against the door, as silent tears gave way to shuddering, gasping sobs. Your phone remained silent in your purse. No messages, no calls. Just a cavernous emptiness where connection had almost been.

As the tears finally ebbed, leaving you hollowed out on your apartment floor, you couldn't escape the certainty that you'd ruined something irreplaceable before it had truly begun.

Chapter Text

Morning light filtered through blinds you'd forgotten to close, falling across your face and forcing you awake despite the pounding in your head. For one merciful moment, the events of the previous night remained a blur. Then reality crashed back with nauseating clarity.

Your phone sat on the floor where you’d dropped it, battery nearly dead. You reached for it anyway, wincing as the screen illuminated with a flurry of notifications – emails, a calendar reminder for Monday’s class. Several texts written in all caps from Ava asking how the gala went. No messages from Silco. Before you could stop yourself, you opened your thread with him. The contrast between your earlier exchanges and the abrupt silence made your chest ache. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard before falling away. What could you possibly say that wouldn’t sound utterly inadequate after you’d so thoroughly pushed him away?

You scrolled up to the top of your conversation history, then back down slowly, stopping at random intervals to read:

I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the opportunity to be wrong about something else entirely.

I look forward to Saturday.

Only as much as you will allow me to.

Quite distinguished. Though perhaps we should aim higher. The TidalWave93 Center for Anatomically Improbable Art?

You traced the words on the screen, as if examining artifacts from another life.

Both sincerely meant. Sleep well.

You closed your eyes, remembering how those five words had carried you through the night, a smile on your lips long after you’d set your phone aside. How had everything unraveled so completely?

The urge to text him something—anything—was almost overwhelming. Your thumbs typed and deleted a dozen different messages:

I'm sorry

I didn’t mean

I hate this

I miss you

Each attempt erased before completion. Even now, you couldn’t bring yourself to be vulnerable enough to finish the thought. That realization made you feel even worse—here was yet more evidence that he’d been right about you.

Eventually, you opened Ava’s message, your throat tightening at her eager request for details. Before you could stop yourself, you were hitting the call button, wincing at her breathless greeting.

“So? How did it go? Please tell me you kissed,” she said in a rush, and you had to press your face into your pillow to stifle the beginnings of a sob.

“Can you come over?” you asked, your voice impossibly small.

She seemed to realize in an instant that something was terribly wrong, her shift in demeanor evident even without physical confirmation. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” she promised, and you whispered your thanks before hanging up.

You forced yourself into the shower, scrubbing at your skin until it stung, as if you could slough off your epidermis to reveal a different person beneath it. Someone who hadn’t pushed him away. Someone who hadn’t fucked it all up so spectacularly. Someone who might have woken up curled in his embrace this morning rather than curled around a phone filled with reminders of what you could have had.

Ava arrived minutes after you had dressed and jammed yourself into a corner of the sofa, your blanket pulled tightly enough that you could imagine it would keep you in one piece.

“Oh, fuck,” she whispered at the sight of your red-rimmed eyes, crossing the room in three quick strides. “What happened?”

You shrugged, wincing as your stiff muscles protested. “What do you think happened? I ruined everything.”

She set a coffee carrier down on the low table and perched beside you, a flash of alarm crossing her features as you dissolved into fresh sobs at the sight of the cup emblazoned with your order, the one he had taken care to memorize, to bring you that morning of the field trip.

“Tell me,” she urged you gently, rubbing your back as you took a deep, shuddering breath.

So you did. The words spilled out in disjointed fragments—the gala, how you'd chafed at his attempts at guidance, your subsequent meltdown in front of Piltover's elite, the painful dinner that followed. Each memory scraped like broken glass against your raw nerves, but Ava listened without interruption until you reached the part where Silco had dropped you at your apartment, the careful distance between you an almost physical ache.

“And then I just...let him drive away,” you finished, barely audible. “After he told me…” you trailed off, unable to fully articulate what had passed between you.

Ava was quiet for a long moment, absently picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “You know,” she said finally, “for someone so fiercely independent, you sure do spend a lot of energy on being afraid of needing people.”

“That's not—” you started, but her raised eyebrow silenced your protest.

“It is,” she insisted gently. “And honestly, I get it. I do the same thing, just…less dramatically.” Her mouth quirked at one corner, a fleeting attempt at lightening the mood. “But you and I both know why we’re like this. When no one’s ever really been there for you, you learn to handle everything yourself. And then when someone does offer help, it feels like a trap.”

You stared at the floor, her words uncomfortably close to the sentiments Silco had expressed.

“The difference is,” she continued, “I let you help me. Not because I’m any better at this stuff, but because we’re cut from the same cloth. Even when it makes me feel like crawling out of my skin, I let you be there for me because I trust you understand what it costs me to accept it.”

She reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “But Silco? He doesn't have our shared history. So when he offers help and you reject it, then get upset when he respects your boundaries—from his perspective, it probably feels impossible to get right.”

“I know,” you whispered, the admission tasting like defeat. “I just…I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Maybe you start by admitting you’re terrified,” she suggested. “That this thing between you two scares the shit out of you precisely because of how much it matters.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I think he’s figured that out already.”

“Still worth saying,” she shrugged. “And maybe worth admitting something else, too.”

“What’s that?” you questioned, afraid of the answer.

“That I’ve watched you accept my help for years only because I never really gave you the chance to refuse it,” she said, eyebrows raised meaningfully. “I show up with coffee you didn’t ask for. I volunteer to cover classes when you’re exhausted. I drag you out for drinks when I know you haven’t been anywhere but work and home in weeks.”

She squeezed your hand again. “I’ve never actually waited for you to ask for help, because I know you never would. I just do it and let you be mad about it after, if you need to be. Not everyone’s willing to risk that.”

The truth of her words hit harder than you expected. Even now, she was doing it—showing up with coffee, offering comfort you would ordinarily deny yourself, giving you perspective you hadn’t sought but desperately needed.

“You’ve always been my exception,” you admitted quietly. “The one person I let get away with it.”

“Because you know I'm coming from the same place,” she nodded. “But here’s the thing—it's fucking exhausting being the only one you let in. And it’s fucking lonely for you, too.”

You swiped at fresh tears threatening to spill over. “What do I do now? I basically told him I wanted a strictly professional relationship.”

“Is that what you want?” she asked, though her tone made it clear she already knew the answer.

“No,” you replied, your voice catching. “But I don’t know if I can be what he deserves, either.”

Ava rolled her eyes, the gentle approach abandoned in favor of her usual bluntness. “Oh my god, are you actually sitting here feeling sorry for yourself because you think you’re not good enough for him? After everything he’s shared with you?”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” she cut in. “It’s stupid. And it’s honestly kind of insulting to him, too. Like he hasn’t made his own assessment of what he wants. Give the man some credit—he’s not exactly lacking in judgment or perception.”

You stared at her, momentarily speechless.

“Look,” she continued, softer now. “I get that this is scary. But what’s scarier—trying and maybe failing, or walking away and never knowing?”

The question hung between you, unanswerable in your current state. Ava seemed to sense this, rising to retrieve the now-cooling coffees.

“Here,” she said, pressing the cup into your hands. “Drink this. And then we’ll figure out next steps. Together.”

The fierce certainty in her voice was a balm to your raw nerves. You accepted the coffee with a weak smile, allowing yourself, just this once, to be completely shepherded by someone else’s care.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

She gave you a knowing look. “See how easy that was? Now imagine saying it to him.”

The center felt different when you arrived Monday morning. Objectively, nothing had changed—same worn floors, same drafty windows, same stacks of paper on your desk. Yet everything felt subtly wrong, like furniture shifted two inches to the left.

Ava gave you a tentative smile, clearly recognizing a minefield when she saw one. “Coffee’s fresh,” she offered instead.

You forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Thanks.”

As you reached for a mug, your phone buzzed in your pocket. Your heart leapt before your brain could temper the reaction. Fingers trembling slightly, you retrieved it, disappointment washing over you when you saw it was just an email notification.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Fundraiser Logistics

You stared at the sender address for several seconds before opening it:

As previously discussed, arrangements for beverage service at the upcoming fundraiser have been confirmed. The attached invoice requires your signature for our records. Staff will arrive at 5pm for setup.

Regards,

S

Just that. Professional. Impersonal. Exactly what you’d asked for. The single initial signature felt like a deliberate reminder of the distance you'd demanded.

You read it three times, searching for some hidden meaning, some crack in the carefully constructed formality. There was nothing—just a precise, businesslike tone you'd never really been privy to, even in your earliest communications.

This was what you wanted, wasn't it? Clear boundaries. Defined expectations. No confusing entanglements.

Then why did it feel like you'd lost something essential?

You signed the attached form, crafting an equally detached response:

Thank you for confirming. Staff arrival at 5pm is perfect.

The idea that anything could be perfect right now was laughable at best, but you sent the message anyway, hating every careful word.

You’d been dreading this moment since Saturday night—facing Jinx in class. When she walked through the door, your stomach knotted instantly. Her usual vibrant energy was noticeably dimmed, her movements subdued as she took her seat without greeting you or any of the other students.

“Today we’ll be working on perspective studies,” you began, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears. “The way objects appear to change depending on the viewer’s position…”

You distributed materials, pausing at Jinx's desk. Her gaze remained fixed on her sketchbook, a deliberate avoidance that made your chest tighten.

“Jinx,” you said softly. “How are you?”

She glanced up, her expression carefully neutral in a way that reminded you painfully of her father. “Fine.”

The curt response was so unlike her usual exuberance that several nearby students looked over, sensing the tension.

“If you need anything…” you began, but she cut you off with a sharp shake of her head.

“I don’t.”

The rejection stung, though you knew you deserved it. As class continued, you noticed how she participated only when directly addressed, her usual creative commentary conspicuously absent. When another student mentioned the upcoming fundraiser, Jinx's grip on her pencil tightened noticeably.

You circulated around the room, offering guidance and feedback, but each time you approached Jinx's workspace, she would shift her body slightly, creating a physical barrier between you. Her artwork, normally explosive with color and energy, was uncharacteristically restrained—technically perfect but devoid of her usual style.

As students began packing up, you watched Jinx methodically gathering her supplies, none of her typical haphazard cramming of materials into her bag. You approached her easel one final time.

“Your piece is really impressive,” you offered. “The depth you’ve created with just graphite is amazing.”

“Thanks,” she replied without looking up.

“Will your dad be picking you up?” the question slipped out before you could stop it.

Jinx's movements stilled momentarily. “He’s waiting outside.”

Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. “Oh.”

“He didn’t want to come in,” she added, a faint edge to her voice that you had to fight the urge to shrink away from. “I’m sure you know why.”

You swallowed hard. “Jinx, I—”

“I should go,” she interrupted, shouldering her bag. “He doesn’t like waiting.”

That, at least, you knew wasn't true. Silco had always been patient, especially where Jinx was concerned. The implication that he was somehow inconvenienced made the lie transparent—she simply wanted to escape this conversation.

“Of course,” you managed, stepping back to give her space. “See you Wednesday?”

She nodded once, already halfway to the door. You followed at a distance, unable to resist the urge to at least catch a glimpse of him through the window.

There he was, leaning against his car in the fading light. Even from this distance, you could see the careful precision in his posture, the way he straightened slightly when he spotted Jinx. Your fingers itched to open the door, to walk out there and—

And what? Apologize in the parking lot? Beg forgiveness while Jinx watched? Make things even more uncomfortable than they already were?

You remained frozen by the window as Jinx approached him. He opened the passenger door for her, his movements as measured as always. Just before getting in himself, he glanced toward the center—toward the window where you stood.

For one breathless moment, your eyes met across the distance. Then he looked away, sliding into the driver's seat with practiced ease. The car pulled away, taillights disappearing around the corner, leaving you alone with the certainty that nothing about this was what you truly wanted.

You stayed late at the center Tuesday evening, long after the last class had ended. The building creaked and groaned around you, underscoring the soft hiss of your torch and the occasional clink of tools against metal.

The idea had come while scrolling listlessly through your photos from the field trip, pausing on one you’d taken of the leopard sharks. They’d glided past the glass in perfect synchronicity, their spotted bodies creating mirror images of predatory elegance. Something about them had reminded you of Silco even then—the careful precision of their movements, the way they commanded respect without obvious aggression, their quiet but unmistakable power.

You’d sketched the design immediately, refining it over several iterations until you were satisfied. Your hands shook slightly as you began working the silver wire, but steadied as you lost yourself in the familiar motions. There was comfort in the technical demands of metalwork—in knowing exactly how much heat to apply, in understanding the precise moment when metal would yield to your will.

The process required absolute focus. Each shark took shape under your hands as you carefully formed the wire around a mandrel, creating the sleek profile of their bodies. The finest gauge silver would suggest their distinctive spotted patterns, soldered delicately to the main form. You crafted them as a matching but not identical pair, adding subtle variations in the angle of their bodies, in the sweep of their fins.

Your torch flame reflected in the darkened windows as you soldered the final details—tiny silver granules for eyes that would catch the light like his collar pins always did. The connecting chain was the most delicate part, each link individually formed and joined to create a bridge between the two pieces, allowing them to move in tandem when worn.

The pins were a poor substitute for the apology he deserved, but they were something tangible, something that spoke to your understanding of him in a way your stumbling words couldn’t.

As you polished the finished pieces, the silver taking on a subtle gleam under the studio lights, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever get the chance to give them to him. If he’d understand what you were trying to say with the gesture when words had failed you so completely.

That despite your fear, despite your clumsy retreat, you’d been paying attention all along.

Four days had passed since the gala. Four days of checking your phone too often, of composing messages you never sent, of pathetic attempts to convince yourself you'd made the right decision.

You’d been at the center since early morning, finding increasingly absurd tasks to occupy yourself—reorganizing supply cabinets that were already organized, erasing scuffs from the hallway walls, counting and recounting inventory. You had far more complex projects that required your attention, but your focus was too fractured to complete any of them.

The stacks of blunt charcoal pencils awaiting sharpening were your latest distraction. You’d been at it for nearly forty minutes, methodically turning each one against the small blade, collecting the shavings in a metal bin. The repetitive motion was oddly soothing—focus on the angle, rotate the pencil, repeat. No room for thoughts of heterochromatic eyes or careful hands or the scent of vetiver and citrus.

The sound of the studio door opening startled you from your trance. Jinx stood in the doorway, shoulders squared, expression uncharacteristically resolute. You checked your watch—she was nearly an hour early for open studio.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, setting aside the knife and pencil.

“No,” she replied bluntly, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. “We need to talk.”

Something in her tone made your stomach tighten. “Of course. What’s going on?”

“What did you do to my dad?”

The question knocked the air from your lungs. You motioned toward the seating beside your desk, but Jinx remained standing, arms crossed defensively across her chest.

“What did you do to him?” she repeated, voice tight with barely contained emotion. “Because he’s been a complete mess, and he won’t tell me why.”

“Jinx, I—”

“He hasn’t slept,” she continued, the words tumbling out now. “Like, at all. I know because I can hear him pacing at night. He forgot a meeting yesterday—he’s never forgotten anything in his entire life. He made coffee this morning. Coffee. The man who practically performs a tea ceremony every morning just... dumped grounds into water. He didn’t even measure it.”

She took a shaky breath, the dusting of freckles on her nose more sharply defined against her pallid complexion. “Last night, I found him in his study just…staring at nothing. He didn’t even hear me come in. And when I asked if he was okay, he said he was fine.” She spat the word like it was poisonous. “My dad doesn’t say ‘fine.’ He says things like ‘perfectly adequate’ or ‘very well, thank you.’ But now he's fine, and he’s drinking store brand coffee, and he’s pretending nothing’s wrong, and it’s because of you, isn’t it?”

The accusation hung in the air between you. You could have deflected, could have claimed it wasn't your place to discuss this, but Jinx deserved better than evasion.

“Yes,” you admitted quietly. “It’s because of me.”

Her expression darkened. “What happened? Because Saturday he was…he was so excited. And I know it had nothing to do with attending one of those stupid Piltie galas, because he hates those. He was just excited to spend time with you. And then Sunday morning he was…” she trailed off, swallowing hard. “Barely even there.”

“We had a…disagreement,” you told her carefully, though the word felt woefully inadequate. “I said some things I regret. Made some decisions I regret even more.”

“Fix it,” she demanded, her voice cracking slightly.

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Bullshit.” The vehemence contained within that word sounded strange in her young voice. “He hardly lets anyone in, you know that? And somehow you—” she broke off, frustration evident in every line of her body. “Do you have any idea what it took for him to tell you about the accident? About everything that happened? He doesn't talk about that with anyone.”

Each word landed like a blow to your solar plexus. You'd known, on some level, that Silco had shared something precious with you that night at Rootstock. But hearing it confirmed by Jinx made the weight of what you’d carelessly discarded almost unbearable.

“I'm sorry,” you whispered, the words catching in your throat. “I was…I was scared.”

“So was he,” she shot back, mouth twisting with contempt at your pathetic excuse. “Probably still is. But at least he tried.”

Before you could respond, the first students began arriving for open studio. Jinx’s posture shifted, the vulnerable fury giving way to careful neutrality—another mannerism she'd inherited from her father. She moved toward her usual spot without another word, leaving you with the wreckage of her accusations.

Throughout the evening, you went through the motions of teaching while her words echoed in your mind. The thought of Silco pacing sleeplessly, his careful routines disrupted, pretending to be fine for Jinx’s sake…it made something twist painfully in your chest.

When the studio began to empty out except for a few remaining students putting final touches on their projects, you returned to your mindless task. The charcoal pencils. The blade. Focus on the angle, rotate the pencil, repeat.

But your thoughts kept drifting—to monosyllabic assurances, to unmeasured coffee, to late night wanderings. Your movements grew less precise, your attention fractured.

The blade slipped.

There was a moment of curious disconnect—seeing the bright bloom of red at the base of your thumb before the pain registered. Then it hit, sharp and immediate. You gasped, dropping both knife and pencil, clutching your injured hand.

“Fuck,” you hissed, blood already flowing freely between your fingers. The cut was deep, running diagonally from the fleshy base of your thumb across to your index finger.

“Oh my god,” Rowan exclaimed, rushing toward you. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you managed, grimacing at your unconscious echo of Silco's inadequate reassurance. “Just a cut. I’m gonna grab the first aid kit.”

You pushed to your feet, pressing your uninjured hand against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. Pain pulsed up your arm with every heartbeat as you made your way toward your office, leaving crimson droplets on the worn wooden floors despite your efforts.

Jinx appeared beside you, phone in hand. “I’m calling my dad.”

“Jinx, that’s not necessary—” you started, but she was already speaking into the phone.

“Dad? No, I’m fine, but…” her eyes flicked to you, assessing. “She cut herself pretty badly. Like, needs-stitches badly.” A pause. “Yeah. We’ll be in her office.” Another pause. “Okay. See you

soon.”

She pocketed her phone, face softening slightly at your nauseous expression. “He’ll be here in five minutes. He’s good at this stuff.”

Twenty minutes earlier, you might have protested more forcefully. Now, lightheaded from blood loss and emotional exhaustion, you simply nodded. Unlatching the first aid kit installed into the wall, Jinx pulled out gauze pads and ripped off the packaging before wrapping one around your thumb.

“Apply pressure,” she instructed, frowning as the bandage quickly bloomed red. “Shit,” she muttered, adding a second layer.

“It's really not that bad,” you lied, though the throbbing pain and continued bleeding suggested otherwise.

Jinx gave you a look that conveyed exactly how much she believed that statement. “Right, that’s why you look like you’re about to pass out.”

Before you could reply, the main doors opened. Silco's purposeful footsteps echoed in the hallway, growing louder as he approached. Then he was there, filling the doorframe with his presence.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His gaze swept over you, cataloging every detail—the bloodied gauze, the glossy sheen of unshed tears in your eyes, the slight tremor in your uninjured hand. If you’d expected recrimination or coldness after your last encounter, there was none to be found in his expression. Only focused concern.

“Jinx, help the remaining students gather their things. Let them know the center will be closing early this evening,” he told her, his voice as even as ever.

She lingered on the threshold for a moment, sending you a meaningful look that clearly said fix this before nodding and pulling the door closed behind her.

Alone with Silco for the first time since Saturday night, you felt suddenly, acutely vulnerable. He moved with practiced efficiency, retrieving a leather case the size of a paperback from his coat pocket and setting it on your desk before pulling up a chair to sit across from you.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward your injured hand.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. Gently, he took your wrist, turning it to examine the wound. His touch was clinical, but the careful way he handled you—as if you might shatter—made your throat tighten.

“The bleeding has slowed,” he observed, carefully removing the saturated gauze. “Though it will need stitches. I can take you to urgent care, or…I could do it.”

“You can do stitches?” you replied, your voice smaller than intended.

He gave a slight nod. “I’ve had some practice.”

Of course he had. How many times had he tended to Jinx’s childhood injuries? How many of his own wounds had he treated when medical care was inaccessible or too expensive?

“I’d like you to do it,” you whispered, your lower lip trembling slightly from the effort of holding back your tears. “Please.”

He nodded again, opening the leather case to reveal an assortment of medical supplies far more advanced than what could be found in your standard first aid kit. As he prepared what he needed, you couldn't help but notice the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the slight dishevelment of his usually immaculate appearance. He pushed up his sleeves, which stubbornly slipped right back down.

“This will be easier if I—” he gestured vaguely at his overcoat, before rising to remove it, hanging it on the back of your office door.

Beneath it, instead of his customary button-down and vest, he wore a simple black t-shirt—something you’d never seen him in before. The sight was so unexpected it momentarily distracted you from the pain.

More startling than the casual attire were the tattoos revealed by it. His left upper arm bore an intricate geometric pattern that began beneath his sleeve—concentric shapes and stylized clouds that gradually transitioned into solid black that ended precisely at the crease of his elbow. On his inner right bicep, just visible when he shifted slightly, was what appeared to be a shark rendered in a similar geometric style.

He caught you staring and paused, something almost like self-consciousness crossing his features before he schooled his expression.

“This will sting,” he warned, preparing to clean the wound.

You nodded, bracing yourself, but still flinched when the antiseptic solution made contact with torn flesh. Instinctively, your uninjured hand reached out, grasping his forearm. His movements stilled momentarily at the contact, eyes lifting to meet yours.

“Sorry,” you said, though whether for the current grasp or everything that had come before, you weren’t entirely sure.

“It’s alright,” he replied, his voice gentler than you deserved. “Almost done with this part.”

You forced yourself to release his arm, immediately missing the solid warmth of him — so different from when you'd touched him at dinner, layers of fabric dulling the sensation. Now you could feel every minute shift of muscle and tendon beneath bare skin, the subtle strength that his usual formal attire concealed.

As he worked, your gaze kept drifting back to the tattoos.

“I didn’t know you had those,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself, nodding toward his arms.

His mouth quirked up slightly, perhaps grateful for the distraction he knew you needed. “Few do. They’re not particularly compatible with business attire.”

“They’re beautiful,” you told him honestly. “Especially the geometric one. The patterns remind me of Jinx's style.”

Something softened in his expression. “The influence runs the other direction, actually. She grew up seeing these patterns. They inevitably made their way into her artistic vocabulary.”

“And the shark?” you asked, wincing slightly as he began preparing the local anesthetic.

A hint of genuine warmth entered his voice. “Jinx’s creation. She was nine. Decided I needed a shark tattoo immediately after our first trip to the aquarium.” His careful movements never faltered as he spoke. “She drew it on my arm with markers. I had it made permanent the following day.”

The thought of him preserving his daughter’s artwork on his skin made your chest tighten with emotion.

“That's…” you trailed off, unable to find adequate words.

“An indulgence,” he supplied, carefully inserting the anesthetic at several points around your wound. “Though I did have a proper artist refine it somewhat.”

You studied the piece more carefully, noticing how the lines echoed the geometric pattern on his other arm, creating a visual harmony between the two designs.

“Do you have others?” you questioned, partly from genuine curiosity, partly to distract yourself from the uncomfortable sensation of the injections.

Something flickered in his expression—amusement, perhaps. “I do.”

When he offered nothing further, you raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you're going to tell me?”

The corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar not-quite-smile. “For now.”

The response sent your mind reeling with possibilities. What other artwork might be hidden beneath his carefully constructed exterior? What other aspects of himself had he kept concealed, that you might now never have the opportunity to discover?

As the anesthetic took effect, the throbbing pain gave way to a curious numbness. You watched, oddly mesmerized, as he prepared the suture needle.

“Look away if you prefer,” he suggested, but you shook your head.

“I'm fine.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “A word we both seem to be employing rather liberally of late.”

The gentle rebuke hung in the air between you as he began the first stitch. Despite the anesthetic, you could feel the tug and pressure as the needle passed through your skin. You forced yourself to breathe evenly, focusing on the careful way he worked rather than the surreal sight of your flesh being sewn together.

“You're quite calm,” he observed, not looking up from his task. “Most people find this process…disconcerting.”

“I've had worse,” you replied automatically, then winced at how dismissive it sounded. “I mean—”

“I understand,” he said simply.

And you believed he did. If anyone could understand compartmentalizing pain, it would be him.

The silence stretched between you as he continued working, broken only by the occasional direction to adjust your hand position. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, this careful distance you’d both established, but it wasn’t the painful tension of Saturday night either. There was something almost…peaceful about sitting quietly together, allowing him to care for you in this simple, tangible way.

“Almost finished,” he murmured, tying off another stitch. “You'll need to keep it clean and dry. The sutures can come out in about ten days.”

You nodded, watching as he made the final knots with practiced efficiency.

“Thank you,” you said softly as he began bandaging your hand. “For coming. For…helping me.”

His movements paused almost imperceptibly before continuing. “Of course.”

Such a simple response, and yet somehow laden with meaning. Of course he had come when called. Of course he had helped, boundaries notwithstanding. Of course he had put aside whatever hurt you’d caused him to tend to your injury.

He secured the bandage with medical tape, his touch lingering slightly longer than strictly necessary. When he finally looked up, meeting your gaze directly, something in his expression made your breath catch.

“You’ll need to limit the use of this hand,” he instructed, his voice low. “How were you planning to get home?”

The question was practical, but the concern beneath it made your chest ache. “The bus, I guess? Or maybe I can ask Ava to come get me?”

He seemed to expect that answer. “I’ll drive you.”

It wasn’t a question, and you didn’t treat it as one. “Thank you.”

He gathered the medical supplies, methodically returning each item to its place in the leather case. You watched him, noting the careful precision that hadn't changed, regardless of Jinx’s report about forgotten meetings and unmeasured coffee.

“Jinx said you haven’t been sleeping,” you remarked before you could stop yourself.

His hands stilled. “Jinx should be worrying about more important matters than my sleeping habits.”

“She’s worried about you,” you told him, biting down on your lower lip.

“Unnecessarily,” he replied, closing the case with a decisive snap. “I’m—”

“Fine?” you supplied, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

The corner of his mouth curved upward in acknowledgment of the callback. “Indeed.”

Another silence fell, this one less comfortable. There were too many things to say, too much history between Saturday night and now, too many emotions barely contained beneath the surface.

“We should go,” he said finally, rising to his feet. “You need to rest.”

You nodded, allowing him to help you stand, trying not to lean into his support more than necessary. As you gathered your things, moving awkwardly with one hand bandaged, you caught him watching you with an expression that made your heart skip a beat—concern mingled with something deeper, something he quickly masked when he realized you’d noticed.

The ride to your apartment was quiet, save for the muffled death metal bleeding from Jinx’s headphones in the backseat. You caught her eyes in the rearview mirror once, her knowing look making heat creep up your neck before she pointedly turned to stare out the window, cranking her music louder to give you what privacy she could.

Occasionally you caught him glancing at your bandaged hand, resting in your lap. The heavy bass line from Jinx’s music seemed to match your heartbeat, a chaotic counterpoint to the careful silence between you and Silco.

When he pulled up outside your building, you found yourself reluctant to leave the bubble of shared space you’d created.

“Thank you,” you said again, the words feeling wholly inadequate. “For everything.”

He nodded once, gaze fixed ahead. “Will you be alright on your own tonight?”

“Yes,” you assured him. “The pain isn't too bad now.”

“Good.” He reached across to open your door, the movement bringing him briefly closer, close enough that you could see the faint silver threading his temple, smell the familiar notes of his cologne. “Take care of yourself.”

The words carried a weight beyond their simple meaning. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and stepped out of the car. Through the window, you caught Jinx pulling off her headphones, already saying something that made her father's expression soften imperceptibly.

Unlike Saturday night, you allowed yourself to look back as you reached your building’s entrance. They were still there, waiting to ensure you made it safely inside. You raised your uninjured hand in a small wave, and after a moment's hesitation, both of them returned the gesture—Jinx’s enthusiastic, her father’s understated but no less meaningful.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t reconciliation. But as you watched their headlights disappear around the corner, you felt something you hadn't allowed yourself to feel in days.

Hope.

Chapter Text

Sleep seemed impossible, despite the lingering effects of the pain medication you had taken earlier. You kept staring at your phone, typing and deleting messages until finally, you settled on something simple:

Thank you again for taking care of me tonight, despite my behavior this past week.

His response came more quickly than you expected: Your behavior does not negate your need for medical attention.

Still. You didn't have to come.

Yes, I did.

The simple certainty in those three words made your chest tighten. Before you could lose your nerve, you typed:

I can't believe I didn’t know you have tattoos.

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before his response:

You seem rather fixated on my unexpected wardrobe choices and their revelations.

Can you blame me? The t-shirt was…surprising.

In what way?

You hesitated, knowing you were treading dangerous ground after your insistence on maintaining professional distance, but unable to stop yourself:

In every way. Will you tell me about the other tattoos?

Perhaps that's a conversation better suited for another time.

The gentle deflection stung, but you pressed on:

It might help distract me from my hand hurting 😇

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before his response:

A transparent tactic.

Before you could feel too disappointed, another message appeared:

But one I will partially indulge. A raven with a scythe, and a scorpion. Though their precise locations will remain a mystery.

You smiled, grateful for even this small concession, but it faded as you typed your next message, tone shifting to something more serious:

I appreciate the indulgence. And the distraction.

To be honest, cutting my thumb open was the best thing that's happened to me all week because I got to talk to you again.

I shudder to imagine what constitutes a bad week by that metric.

The dry observation, so perfectly him, made your chest ache with how much you’d missed this.

Could we meet tomorrow? I’d like to talk. About everything.

Another pause, then: Yes. Though perhaps we can find less dramatic ways to facilitate conversation in the future.

I promise not to injure myself just to get your attention.

How reassuring. Get some rest. I’ll let you know when I’m headed your way tomorrow.

Thank you. Have a good night.

You, too. I trust you'll manage to avoid any catastrophic injuries between now and then.

You clutched the phone to your chest, smiling at his characteristic blend of concern and dry humor. For the first time since that disastrous evening last weekend, you felt something close to peace as exhaustion finally claimed you.

The notification chimed as you were attempting to sort through the mountain of last-minute fundraiser tasks with one functioning hand. Most of the emails since Monday had been routine—confirmations from attendees, follow-up questions from sponsors, a few inquiries from students regarding how to price the pieces they were displaying for sale. This one, however, made you sit up straighter, heart suddenly racing as you read the sender’s name: Dr. Aurelia Anderson, Director of Seagate Aquarium.

The subject line was simple: “Exciting Opportunity for Iron & Glass.”

Curiosity piqued, you opened the message, skipping over the greeting and scanning the contents with increasing disbelief:

First, let me thank you again for your thoughtful letter regarding your center’s visit. The sketches your students produced were remarkable—several of my staff commented on their technical skill and creative interpretations of our marine life.

I’m writing because Seagate is about to undergo significant renovations, including a complete refresh of our educational signage, murals, and interactive displays. We’ll be accepting bids/proposals over the next month for this project, which encompasses all public areas of the aquarium.

While I recognize this would be a substantial undertaking for Iron & Glass, I would be delighted to see a proposal from your center. The project requires not only artistic talent but community engagement—precisely what your organization excels at.

This could provide meaningful economic opportunities for your students while ensuring we complete our vision within budget constraints. Your center’s connection to the Lanes would also help us better represent and engage with communities we’ve historically underserved.

If you're interested, I’d be happy to provide detailed specifications and arrange a walk-through of the spaces. The deadline for initial proposals is the 15th of next month.

Warm regards,

Dr. Aurelia Anderson - Director, Seagate Aquarium

You reread the email twice, scarcely believing what you were seeing. This wasn’t just an opportunity—it was potentially transformative for the center. A project of this scale would provide income for dozens of students, professional portfolio pieces for graduates, and the kind of high-profile exposure that could lead to similar commissions in the future.

Your first instinct was to tell Silco.

The realization hit like a physical blow, the excitement crumbling as quickly as it had built. He was the person you wanted to share this with—to dissect the logistics, to strategize the approach, to celebrate the potential. Not just because he’d understand the business implications, but because he’d understand what it meant to you personally. You could picture his expression as you told him—that careful consideration, the slight furrow between his brows as he calculated angles and opportunities, the subtle curve of his mouth as you excitedly shared your vision.

With an effort, you pushed the thoughts aside. This was still an incredible opportunity, regardless of your personal complications. You could handle it—you’d been handling everything alone before Silco entered your life, after all.

Hadn’t you?

The realization that followed was uncomfortable but unavoidable: you hadn’t, not really. You'd been running yourself into the ground, sleeping at the center more often than at home, constantly on the verge of burnout. The printer sitting in your office—the one he'd “loaned” you—was just one small example of how his involvement had made things better, more sustainable. How he’d made everything better, really, in ways both practical and intangible.

You missed his perspective. His insight. The way his precise, analytical approach complemented your more intuitive one. The careful attention he paid to details you might have overlooked, not to prove you wrong but to help you succeed. The way he could anticipate problems before they arose while still respecting your ability to handle them.

The center hummed with afternoon activity—students filtering in and out of studios, volunteers preparing materials for the fundraiser under Ava’s careful supervision. But your attention kept drifting to the small black velvet box in your desk drawer. You’d polished the sharks again just after noon, taking extra care despite your throbbing hand. Now, as the wall clock ticked toward three, the time he had agreed to meet, you found yourself repeatedly opening the drawer to check they were still there, still perfect. Each time, your fingers traced the delicate silver forms, remembering how his hands had moved with similar precision as he’d stitched your wound.

At precisely 2:58, there was a knock at your office door—a single, sharp rap that you recognized immediately. Your heart stuttered in your chest as you called, “Come in.”

Silco entered with characteristic precision, not a movement wasted. He’d dressed more casually than usual—dark jeans and a charcoal henley beneath a black wool overcoat—but still managed to look effortlessly elegant. The informal attire only served to emphasize his lissome movements, the lean strength usually concealed beneath suits and formal wear. Your eyes caught on his collar, bare of pins, before rising to meet his gaze.

“How's your hand?” he asked by way of greeting, carefully shutting the door behind him.

“No worse than last night,” you replied, your thumb giving a contradictory throb. “Thank you again.”

He nodded once, draping his coat over the rack by the door before taking the seat across from your desk. “Have you been following the aftercare instructions?” he questioned, eyes narrowing slightly as he noted the faint grimace you couldn’t quite suppress.

“Mostly,” you admitted. At his raised eyebrow, you added, “I may have used it a bit more than recommended.”

“For the center’s paperwork, no doubt,” he remarked dryly, though there was no real reproach in his tone. “A task that certainly couldn’t wait.”

You avoided his gaze, not wanting to admit you’d injured yourself further working on his gift. The sharks in your drawer seemed to weigh heavier with each passing moment. “Something like that.”

He studied you for a moment, clearly unconvinced, before reaching into his messenger bag and withdrawing a folder. The leather was worn soft at the edges—you wondered how many other carefully crafted plans it had contained. “I've made some adjustments to the staffing plan for tomorrow. Given your injury, it seemed prudent to add additional personnel to compensate.”

The mundane discussion of logistics provided familiar ground, and you found yourself relaxing slightly as you reviewed the revised arrangements. His thoughtfulness was evident in every adjustment—additional staff assigned to tasks requiring manual dexterity, placement of serving stations to minimize the distance you’d need to travel, even a note about procuring easy-open containers. Each modification spoke of careful attention not just to efficiency, but to your comfort.

“This is…very thorough,” you said, genuinely impressed by how he’d anticipated needs you hadn't even considered.

“I prefer to account for contingencies,” he replied with characteristic precision, then hesitated slightly before adding, “I imagine it’s rather different from your usual approach.”

There was no judgment in his observation, just a simple acknowledgment of your differing styles. A week ago, you might have bristled at the implied criticism. Now, you found yourself nodding, appreciating how he could point out your differences without suggesting they were flaws.

“I tend to improvise,” you agreed, watching his fingers trace along the edge of the folder. “Which works when everything goes according to plan, but…”

“But rarely does everything proceed as anticipated,” he finished, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

The almost-smile, so characteristic of him, made something twist in your chest. You’d missed this—the easy understanding beneath the surface tension, the way he could complete your thoughts without making you feel predictable.

Silence settled between you, not exactly uncomfortable but heavy with everything unsaid. He was here, sitting across from you as if the gala had never happened, but the careful distance in his posture told a different story. The wall you'd built still stood, even if you’d both agreed to speak over it for the sake of the fundraiser.

The sharks seemed to burn in your desk drawer, demanding acknowledgment. You cleared your throat. “I, um…I made something. For you.”

His expression shifted slightly—surprise, perhaps, or wariness. “Oh?”

“Don't worry,” you added quickly, heat creeping up your neck, “it’s not baked goods. I think that would simply be adding insult to injury.”

“I believe we’ve suffered enough of both between us,” he replied, his precise enunciation softening slightly. “Though I confess some curiosity as to what might warrant such assurance.”

Before you could lose your nerve—or dwell too long on his subtle acknowledgment of shared wounds—you opened your desk drawer and withdrew the small black box. Your injured hand protested as you pushed it across the desk, but you ignored the discomfort.

“It’s a thank you,” you explained hastily. “And…an apology. For what I said that night. For how I acted. For—for everything.”

He stared at the box for a long moment, making no move to take it. Time seemed to crystallize in that pause, each second stretching into hours. Then, finally, he reached out, long fingers closing around the velvet container. He opened it slowly, carefully, and you found yourself holding your breath as he examined the contents.

His face remained impassive as he studied the silver sharks, but something in his gaze shifted—a softening you might have missed if you hadn’t been watching him so intently. He lifted one pin carefully, turning it to catch the light, examining the delicate details you’d worked into the metal.

“You made these,” he said. Not a question, but you nodded anyway, transfixed by the way he brushed the tip of his thumb along the curve of one fin.

“I started Tuesday,” you admitted, cheeks warming slightly. “Put the finishing touches on earlier.”

He shot a glance at your bandaged hand, understanding dawning in his expression. “This was the task that couldn’t wait.”

You shrugged, unable to deny it. “I wanted to give them to you today.”

He set the pin back in its box gingerly, expression unreadable. For a moment, you feared you’d miscalculated—perhaps the gift was too personal, too presumptuous given the boundaries you’d established. But when he spoke, his voice carried that careful measure you’d come to recognize as concealing deeper emotion.

“Shark iconography has historically represented persistence,” he said finally, his voice deliberately neutral. “Among other qualities.”

“Protection,” you added softly. “Adaptability. Precision.”

The simplicity of the words belied the countless observations about him that each of them contained.

The hint of a smile touched his lips. “You've done your research.”

“I pay attention,” you corrected gently, meeting his gaze.

Something shifted in the air between you, a subtle change in pressure that made your pulse quicken. He studied you with that familiar intensity, as if trying to catalog every microexpression, every nuance of your response.

“May I ask what prompted this particular design?” he inquired, one elegant finger tracing the outline of a shark without quite touching it. The purposeful restraint in the gesture made your breath catch.

You hesitated, weighing honesty against self-preservation. “At the aquarium,” you began quietly, watching him, “there were these two leopard sharks. Moving in perfect coordination, like they were connected by some invisible thread. They reminded me of you. The way they moved—deliberate, precise. Commanding respect without aggression.”

His expression remained controlled, but you caught the slight intake of breath, the momentary stillness that told you your words had affected him. His hand stilled over the box, fingers curling slightly as if to steady himself.

“And now?” he asked softly. “After everything?”

The question hung between you, laden with meaning beyond its simple phrasing. After that disastrous gala? After your rejection? After I bandaged your hand and drove you home? Do they still remind you of me?

“Even more so,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe especially now.”

After what felt like an eternity, he closed the box with deliberate care and slipped it into his pocket, the movement precise as ever but somehow more tender than his usual efficiency.

“Thank you,” he said simply, though there was a roughness to that familiar slip and catch of his voice, something he either couldn’t stifle—or didn’t want to.

Neither of you seemed to know what to say next, the space between professional discussion and personal reconciliation proving difficult to navigate. The air felt charged with possibility, with all the things still unsaid between you. Finally, he gestured toward the fundraiser documentation, offering familiar ground.

“Is there anything else you’d like to discuss before tomorrow?”

You took a steadying breath. “There is. Something that happened this morning that made me realize just how much I’ve come to value not just your support, but your partnership.”

Interest sparked in his gaze, though he remained silent, allowing you to continue at your own pace. You recognized this too—his ability to create space for you to find your words, to work through thoughts without rushing to fill the silence.

“Seagate Aquarium is planning renovations,” you explained, subconsciously leaning toward him in your excitement to share the news. “They’ve invited the center to submit a proposal for new signage, murals, and interactive displays throughout the entire facility. It’s…it’s the kind of opportunity that could transform everything for our students.”

A hint of genuine pleasure crossed his features at the news, that slight softening around his seafoam and burnt umber eyes you’d learned to recognize. “That is indeed significant. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” you continued, gathering your courage. “But here’s the thing—when I received that email, you were the first person I wanted to tell. Because I knew you’d understand what it meant, not just for the center but for me. And…” you hesitated, then pushed forward, “I knew you’d have insights I don’t, perspectives I need.”

You bent in closer, near enough to catch the subtle notes of his cologne—citrus and vetiver and that elusive spice that seemed to linger in your memory. “There are financial projections I don’t know how to calculate, strategic angles I’m probably missing.”

Another step, heart racing. “I need your help, Silco. Not because I can’t do it alone, but because I don't want to. Because we’re better together—your precision balances my intuition, your strategic mind complements my creative vision. We make each other better.”

His expression shifted almost imperceptibly, something warming in his gaze as you continued. You noticed how still he had become, that careful containment that suggested he was holding himself in check.

“I know you have significant commitments already. Your businesses, Jinx, everything else you manage so carefully. I would never expect you to take this on out of obligation.” You swallowed hard, willing your voice to remain steady. “But if you were interested—if you wanted to be my partner in this—I would be honored. Truly honored.”

The admission hung there, suspended between the two as if by the delicate chain that connected the two silver sharks in his pocket. This wasn't just about the aquarium proposal—it was about everything, about acknowledging that you were stronger with him than without him, that his assistance wasn’t a burden to be reluctantly accepted but a gift to be cherished.

“To be clear,” he said finally, his voice that careful measure you’d missed so desperately, “you’re proposing a professional collaboration on this project?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, then added, “though I’m not proposing that we uphold the professional boundaries I suggested. In fact, I’d really like to do away with those. If that's okay with you.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward slightly—that almost-smile you’d come to adore. “I would be…amenable to both.”

Relief washed over you, so profound it made you feel weak. “Really?” you asked, unable to keep the hope from your voice.

He nodded, easing closer to the edge of his seat. The movement brought him near enough that you could see the faint silver weaving through his dark hair, the subtle variations of orange and gold in his damaged eye. “The aquarium project sounds fascinating from both a creative and strategic perspective. I would be…very happy to contribute my expertise.” His voice carried that careful precision, but with an undercurrent of warmth that found its way beneath your ribs.

“Can we set up a time to discuss it after we get through the fundraiser?” you asked, trying to focus on practical matters despite how his proximity made your pulse flutter.

“Of course.” He paused, studying you with that same intense scrutiny that had once made you feel so small, so insignificant, and now made you feel like the nexus through which he saw the entire universe. “For now, I should let you get back to your work.”

You nodded, rising as he did, suddenly reluctant for him to leave. “Thank you for coming by. For helping with all of this.”

“Of course,” he repeated, shrugging into his coat with characteristic efficiency.

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob, and for a moment you thought he might say something more. Instead, he simply inclined his head slightly—a gesture that felt more personal than a casual nod, more restrained than a bow, perfectly him in its precise elegance.

“Until tomorrow,” he said quietly, that gentle lilt catching on the words ever so slightly.

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, offering a small smile that held all the hope you couldn't quite voice.

After he left, you sank back into your chair, absently cradling your injured hand. The meeting hadn't magically restored what you'd broken that night of the gala. The careful distance remained, the hurt not entirely forgotten.

But he’d agreed to work with you. He’d taken the sharks. And tomorrow, perhaps, he might even wear them—a visible sign that something was mending between you, that the walls you’d built were starting to crumble.

It wasn’t complete forgiveness, wasn’t absolute reconciliation. But it was a beginning. A chance to show him that you’d meant every word—about needing him, wanting him, being better together.

And right now, that felt like more than enough.

The center had been transformed. String lights hung in delicate arcs across the main hallway, casting a warm glow over carefully arranged displays of student work. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the subtle notes of oil paint and charcoal that were permanently embedded in the building’s bones. Everything was perfect—or as close to it as you could imagine considering how the week had begun.

You surveyed the space, mentally checking items off your list despite the persistent ache in your bandaged thumb. The injury had proven more limiting than you’d anticipated, forcing you to delegate tasks you would normally have handled yourself. Surprisingly, the world hadn't ended. Things were still getting done, perhaps even more efficiently than usual.

The sound of the front door opening drew your attention. Two hours before the official start time, there were only a handful of people who might be arriving—volunteers, catering staff, or—

“You’re early,” you said, unable to keep the pleased surprise from your voice as Silco and Jinx appeared on the threshold.

Jinx bounded ahead, her electric blue hair pulled into an intricate braid, wearing a black jumpsuit covered in hand-painted neon symbols. “We came to help!” she announced, eyes bright with the enthusiasm you had missed so keenly over the past week. “Dad said you might be struggling with setup given your, you know—” she gestured vaguely toward your bandaged hand.

“We thought an extra pair of hands might be useful,” Silco clarified, removing his overcoat to reveal a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and—

Your breath caught. There, gleaming against his collar, were the silver sharks. The delicate chain connecting them draped elegantly between his lapels, catching the warm glow of the fairy lights with each subtle movement. Your eyes met his, a wordless question in your gaze that he answered with the slightest inclination of his head.

“I—thank you,” you managed, forcibly redirecting your attention to include Jinx in your response. “You look amazing, by the way. I love the outfit. And the hairstyle.”

“Thanks,” she beamed, striking a pose. “I painted it especially for tonight. Can’t take credit for the hair, though—dad redid it three times to make sure it was perfect.”

Of course he had. The rush of adoration the image conjured—Silco’s brow furrowed in concentration as he carefully plaited her hair, gentle and precise as ever—almost overwhelmed you.

“How can we be of assistance?” he prompted, hands clasped behind his back, awaiting your instructions.

“Right, um—there are still some displays that need final adjustments, and the bar setup could use another set of eyes,” you replied, scanning the hall for anything else that required attention.

“I can handle the displays,” Jinx volunteered, already in motion. “Which ones need work?”

“The photography exhibition in studio three,” you told her. “Just make sure all the labels are straight and the lighting is properly angled.”

“On it!” she saluted, darting a meaningful glance between you and her father before disappearing down the hallway.

Alone in the entryway with Silco, you found yourself suddenly, acutely aware of the space between you—less charged than at the restaurant, less clinical than in your office, but still carefully maintained.

“They suit you,” you said softly, nodding toward the pins.

“They do,” he agreed, one corner of his mouth lifting up. “I've received several compliments already.”

“From who?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“Jinx, primarily,” he admitted, a hint of warmth entering his tone. “Though several staff members at the bar noticed them as well.”

“I’m glad,” you told him, hesitating for a moment. “I wasn’t sure if…if you’d want to wear them.”

He studied you with that careful attention that always made you feel simultaneously exposed and understood. “Why wouldn’t I?”

The simple question hung between you, loaded with all the things neither of you had said since the night of the gala. All the fear and uncertainty and regret that had shadowed your interactions in the days since.

“I thought maybe—” you began, then stopped, gathering your courage. “Can we talk? Somewhere private?”

Something shifted in his expression—caution, perhaps, but not refusal. “Of course.”

You led him to your classroom, the only space you were certain would remain unoccupied until the event began. Winter sunlight filtered through the windows, illuminating dust motes that swirled in the air and transforming the familiar room into something superlunary.

Closing the door behind you, you turned to face him, heart hammering against your ribs. He stood by the windows, hands clasped behind his back, waiting with characteristic patience for you to speak.

“I've missed you,” you said simply, the tightness in your throat almost choking the words. “So much that it's been physically painful.”

His expression remained carefully controlled, but something flickered in his gaze—a vulnerability that made your chest tighten.

“I was wrong,” you pressed on, each word lifted from somewhere deep within your chest. “Wrong to push you away, wrong to question your motives, wrong to try to reduce what was between us to some kind of transaction. I was scared—terrified, actually—of how much I've come to…” you faltered, searching for the right word.

“Need me?” he supplied. Where once you might have heard judgment in that careful tone, now you understood it for what it was — an offering of understanding, a bridge across the careful distance you'd both maintained.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. And want you. And trust you. All of which are…unfamiliar territories for me.” The cut on your hand throbbed in rhythm with your racing pulse as you watched him, trying to read the careful neutrality of his expression.

He was silent for a long moment, his mismatched eyes steady on yours. When he finally moved, it was with that deliberate grace that never failed to captivate you. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew a small velvet pouch in midnight blue.

“I have something for you as well,” he told you quietly, extending his hand. The subtle notes of his cologne seemed to intensify as you stepped closer to accept it.

You took it with trembling fingers, the weight of the pouch suggesting its contents before you loosened the drawstring. The silver shark tooth pendant slid into your palm, gleaming in the afternoon light—the same one you’d lingered over in the aquarium gift shop weeks earlier, the one you’d reluctantly set aside after checking the price tag.

“You went back for it,” you whispered, disbelieving. The metal was cool against your skin, a tangible reminder of that day—of careful distances maintained and accidental touches that sent electricity coursing through your veins.

“The same day,” he confirmed, something almost like uncertainty flickering across his features. That tiny crack in his usual composure made your heart stutter. “I had intended to give it to you at the gala, but…”

The pang of regret stole the air from your lungs. “But I ruined that entirely,” you finished for him, unable to keep the self-recrimination from your voice.

“Not ruined,” he corrected gently, that familiar lilt becoming more pronounced. “Perhaps simply…diverted. Onto a more challenging path than anticipated.”

Your fingers closed around the pendant, the metal warming against your skin. “Why did you go back for it?” you asked, though the answer felt increasingly obvious with each passing moment, with each careful movement as he took a step closer.

A smile touched his lips—small but genuine, transforming his usually stern features into something that made your breath catch. “I think you know very well.”

The echo of your argument at Rootstock wasn't lost on you — that night when you’d demanded explanations, unable to trust that care could come without conditions. But where there had been frustration and hurt before, now there was only quiet anticipation, a tension that felt like standing on the edge of something vast and inevitable. You’d spent so long seeing his precision as a wall, never realizing it was simply his way of ensuring every gesture, every word, carried its intended weight. Your eyes met his, unwavering.

“I need to hear you say it,” you told him softly.

This time, there was no flash of anger, no accusation of manipulation. Instead, he took another step closer, near enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, could see the subtle variations of orange and gold in his damaged eye.

“Because I saw how your eyes lit up when you found it,” he began. His voice was measured but unguarded — a deliberate choice to let you see beneath the composure he maintained with everyone else. “Because I've found myself increasingly invested in being the cause of that particular expression. Because despite your remarkable talent for testing my patience, I find myself thinking of you constantly.” His mouth curved into that half-smile that never failed to make your heart race. “Because I care for you, deeply and without reservation, in a way I had not anticipated nor sought out.”

The simple, unadorned honesty of his declaration made your breath catch. There was no flowery sentiment, no dramatic proclamations—just the unfortified truth, offered without artifice or expectation.

“Oh,” you breathed, the single syllable containing multitudes. Your hand reached out unconsciously, needing to touch him, to ground yourself in the reality of this moment. Your fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, feeling the delicate bones of his wrist beneath.

His eyebrow lifted slightly, though you caught the way his breath hitched at your touch. “‘Oh’? That’s rather understated, given the circumstances.”

“Give me a second,” you replied, unable to suppress your smile. “You know I'm not as eloquent as you are.”

He watched you, his seafoam eye like the crest of a wave at sunset, his orange eye the last rays of light at eventide. The scars that traced paths down his temple seemed to flow from that oceanic gaze like tributaries returning to their source, each silvered line carrying depths you were only beginning to fathom.

“Take your time,” he said drily, one corner of his mouth quirking up, but you caught the underlying tension in his posture—the careful way he held himself, as if afraid to move too quickly, to break whatever was building between you.

“Okay, I'm good,” you said, your uninjured hand reaching up, hovering just shy of touching his face. “Oh, and also—I’m in love with you.”

His careful control fractured at your words, something raw and wanting bleeding through as his gaze held yours with an intensity that made your skin flush.

“Oh,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help but smile again at hearing your own inarticulate response echoed back.

“Yeah,” you swallowed, terrified and exhilarated all at once. “Silco?”

“Yes?” he replied, and you heard it then—that slight catch in his voice, the way the single syllable seemed to carry the weight of every moment that had led to this one.

“Can you please kiss me now?” you asked.

“Yes,” he repeated, the simple word somehow conveying an entirely new depth of meaning.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for your hand, the one not wrapped in bandages, interlacing his fingers with yours. His other hand came up to cup your cheek, and you shivered as his thumb brushed across your cheekbone, already leaning into his touch. His skin was cool against yours, but you could feel the heat beneath, the careful restraint in every movement.

The first brush of his lips against yours was achingly gentle—a question, an offering, a promise shaped with the same care he brought to everything that mattered to him. You responded in kind, your bandaged hand coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. For someone who maintained such careful control, his pulse was remarkably quick, betraying how this affected him just as deeply as it did you.

The kiss deepened gradually, allowing you to feel the exact moment his control began to slip—subtle at first, just a slight tremor in the hand cradling your face, a catch in his breath that echoed your own mounting desire.

His fingers threaded through your hair with the same precise grace you’d watched him apply to everything from signing documents to bandaging your hand, but now that measured touch carried an entirely different weight. When you gasped softly against his mouth, you felt his lips curve into a smile—not his usual controlled almost-smile, but something more unguarded, more genuine. The familiar scent of his cologne surrounded you, intensified by his proximity, by the heat building between your bodies.

The kiss transformed from tender exploration to something hungrier, yet he maintained that exquisite balance between passion and precision that was so uniquely him. The taste of him—mint and green tea and something distinctly his own—made you dizzy with want. His usually perfect composure was fraying at the edges, his carefully measured breathing grown ragged as he guided you back toward your desk. Even in this moment of abandon, his hands were gentle as he lifted you to sit on its edge, every movement a study in controlled desire.

Your legs parted instinctively, allowing him to step between them, the new position bringing your bodies flush against each other. His lips left yours to trace a path along your jaw, down the column of your throat, making you arch against him with a breathy gasp of his name. The sound seemed to affect him deeply—you felt the slight tremor that ran through him, the momentary tightening of his fingers in your hair.

He raised his head, eyes dark with desire yet still watching you with that careful attention—making sure, even now, that you were comfortable, that this was what you wanted. The consideration in his gaze, the way he held himself slightly back despite the obvious want in his expression, made your heart constrict with renewed affection.

“You have no idea how badly I've wanted to do this,” you admitted, teeth digging into your lower lip as you watched him.

“On the contrary,” he murmured, voice rougher than you'd ever heard it,"I’ve watched you deny yourself far too many things you’ve wanted." His thumb traced along your jawline, a precursor to the kisses he placed there before whispering a promise to your ear. “I don’t intend to let you deny yourself this."

You let out a whimper as he mouthed at your pulse point, his tongue languidly dragging across your skin even as you shifted atop the desk, desperate to eliminate any space between you. The hand cradling the back of your skull drifted downward with deliberate slowness, leaving trails of heat in its wake before slipping beneath your shirt to splay across your lower back. You’d imagined his hands on you countless times, but nothing had prepared you for the reality of it, for the way each brush of his fingertips made you want so badly you could barely breathe.

“God, Silco—” you choked out, pressing closer as he let out a low groan against your neck, the sound vibrating through you and making your skin prickle with need.

A sharp knock at the door stilled you both mid-motion.

“Hey, are you in there?” Ava's voice called through the wood. “Councillor Hardwick just arrived early with some tech CEO who has a bunch of questions about the merchandise program.”

You bit back a frustrated curse, resting your forehead against Silco’s shoulder for a brief moment. His quiet laugh vibrated against you, the sound both amused and resigned.

“Duty calls,” he murmured, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your temple before stepping back with obvious reluctance.

You slid off the desk on unsteady legs, adjusting your clothing with your good hand. “Be right there,” you called to Ava, hoping your voice didn't betray what you’d been doing.

Silco had already straightened his tie with practiced efficiency, though the slightly mussed state of his hair and the lingering heat in his gaze would be obvious to anyone looking closely. His usual composure was returning, but there was a new warmth in his expression, a subtle softening around his eyes that made your chest tight with emotion.

You held up the pendant still clutched in your palm. “Help me put it on?”

His fingers were steady as he fastened the clasp, but you felt the way his breath hitched when they brushed your skin. The pendant settled perfectly in the hollow of your throat, a weight that felt like promise. You felt his lips at the nape of your neck, pressing kisses to each vertebrae before gently turning you to face him.

“Beautiful,” he said quietly, his thumb tracing the line of the chain, following it down to where the pendant rested against your skin.

You leaned in to kiss him once more, unable to resist, savoring the taste of him and the way his hands came up to frame your face. When you finally pulled back, breathless, his usually immaculate composure was delightfully disheveled — hair tousled, lips faintly swollen, a flush of color high on his cheekbones.

“We should go,” you murmured reluctantly.

He nodded, smoothing his hair back into place with practiced efficiency. “To be continued, then.”

The promise in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. “Definitely,” you agreed, unable to keep the smile from your face.

As you reached for the door handle, he caught your uninjured hand, bringing it to his lips to press a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“For luck,” he told you, offering you a precious, crooked smile.

You returned it, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “I don't think we need it anymore.”

“Perhaps not. But I rather enjoy the excuse to touch you anyway,” he replied, and the simple honesty in his admission only intensified the rush of affection you felt.

You squeezed his hand once before reluctantly letting go, knowing you needed to return to your duties but already missing his touch.

As you stepped out into the hallway, you caught sight of Ava at the far end, speaking animatedly with Councillor Hardwick and his companion. Your fingers brushed the shark tooth pendant at your throat, drawing strength from its presence as you prepared to greet the early arrivals.

Silco’s hand settled briefly at the small of your back, a fleeting touch of reassurance before he stepped away to give you space. “I'll check on the bar setup,” he murmured. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You nodded gratefully, smoothing your hair and taking a deep breath to compose yourself. As you approached the small group, Ava's eyes widened slightly, darting between you and Silco’s retreating form. Her eyebrows lifted in a silent question that you answered with the barest hint of a smile.

The barely restrained glee in her expression told you that you would be providing a full retelling of what had just transpired between you and Silco before the night was over, but she seamlessly redirected her attention to making introductions. “Mr. Talis, this is our Executive Director. She’ll be happy to answer any questions you have about our programs.”

Mr. Talis — Jayce, as he insisted you call him —launched into an excited series of questions about the center’s work and the students’ art pieces that would be available for purchase.

As you led them on an impromptu tour, explaining the various programs and showcasing some of the standout works, you couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of pride in what the center had accomplished. Jayce’s genuine enthusiasm was infectious, his questions thoughtful and incisive. You found yourself relaxing into the familiar role of advocate for your students and their work.

Throughout the tour, you were acutely aware of Silco’s presence in the background. He moved with characteristic efficiency, overseeing last-minute adjustments to displays and conferring quietly with staff. Occasionally your eyes would meet across the room, and the intensity of his gaze never failed to send a shiver down your spine.

As the fundraiser got into full swing, you found yourself constantly in motion - greeting guests, answering questions about the artwork, ensuring everything ran smoothly. Through it all, you were acutely aware of Silco’s presence, even when he wasn’t directly by your side. You could feel his eyes on you as you navigated the crowd, could sense his quiet support as you fielded inquiries from potential donors.

At one point, you caught sight of him deep in conversation with Councillor Hardwick, their heads bent close as they examined one of Rowan’s newest pieces. The sight of him advocating for your students’ work, using his connections to further the center's mission, made your chest tight with emotion.

“So,” Ava’s voice startled you from your reverie. “I suppose I should apologize for interrupting your ‘meeting’ earlier. If that’s what you’re calling it.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. “We were just—”

“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, grinning. “His tie was crooked, his hair was mussed, and you both had this disgustingly lovestruck look on your faces. Or are you just that passionate about grant logistics?”

“I mean, we sort of are passionate about grant logistics,” you attempted weakly.

“Uh huh. So passionate you needed to take your clothes off about it?” she said, arching a brow at you.

“Stop,” you hissed, feeling heat creep up your neck.

“What? I think after talking sense into you about finally admitting what you wanted, I’ve earned the right to tease you a little. Especially since I had to watch him look at you like that all evening.”

“Like what?” you asked, though you already knew the answer from the way your skin prickled with awareness whenever his gaze found yours across the room.

“Like he’s about two seconds from ordering everyone out and continuing your little meeting from earlier,” she responded, waggling her eyebrows mischievously.

You buried your face in your hands. “I hate you.”

“No you don't,” she said cheerfully. “I’m the one who finally got you to stop denying yourself what you wanted. And from the looks of things…” she glanced meaningfully across the room to where Silco stood watching you, his expression making your breath catch, “what you wanted was absolutely worth admitting to.”

“Oh god,” you muttered, turning back to Ava. “Has he been this obvious all night?”

“Only to anyone with eyes,” she assured you. “But don't worry — most people probably just assumed he always looks that intense and not that he was imagining pressing you up against the supply cabinet and—”

“And that's enough champagne for you,” you interrupted, trying to take her glass despite your burning cheeks.

She danced away, laughing. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. But seriously...” her expression softened. “I'm happy for you. For both of you. Even if your timing needs work, at least you finally stopped fighting it.”

She squeezed your arm gently before moving away to help the remaining volunteers pack up. You watched her go, grateful not for the first time for her particular blend of teasing and unwavering support.

The evening began winding down, donors departing with promises of continued support and students carefully wrapping their sold pieces for transport. You caught sight of Silco deep in conversation with Jayce, their discussion animated as they gestured toward one of the digital art installations. The sight of him so genuinely invested in the center’s work made something warm unfurl in your chest.

When the last donor finally departed, leaving behind empty champagne flutes, generous checks, and the lingering satisfaction of a successful evening, you could hardly believe the numbers. By all metrics, the fundraiser had exceeded expectations—attendance up thirty percent from last year, pledges nearly doubled, and several promising new connections established with Piltover's more philanthropically-minded elite.

You found yourself humming with a peculiar energy as you moved through the gallery, straightening a display plaque here, collecting a forgotten program there. Throughout the evening, you’d maintained a careful professional distance from Silco, though your awareness of his presence never diminished. You'd catch glimpses of him across the room—charming potential donors with that precise, measured speech; listening attentively to students explaining their artistic processes; occasionally meeting your gaze with a look that made heat bloom beneath your skin despite the crowded space between you.

The shark tooth pendant rested against your breastbone, hidden beneath your shirt but a constant reminder of what remained unfinished.

As you made your final sweep of the center, ensuring everything was in order before locking up, you heard familiar footsteps approaching. Your pulse quickened, anticipation coiling low in your stomach as you turned to face Silco.

He stood in the doorway to your office, jacket draped over one arm, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with lean muscle. The silver sharks glinted at his collar, catching the low light. His posture was relaxed but there was an intensity in his gaze that made your breath catch.

“Quite a successful evening,” he remarked, voice low and measured.

“Very,” you agreed, unable to keep the smile from your face. “Thank you for all your help. I couldn't have pulled this off without you.”

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “I'm glad I could be of assistance.” His eyes never left yours as he stepped further into the room.

He stopped within arm’s reach, close enough that you could detect the characteristic notes of his pomade and cologne. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you charged with everything that had transpired earlier—the confessions, the kiss, the promise of more.

“Jinx is waiting in the car,” he said finally, regret evident in his tone despite his careful composure. “She’s quite pleased with how the evening went, though I suspect her enthusiasm is partially fueled by the prospect of finally getting home. Events tend to tax her social reserves.”

You nodded, understanding perfectly. As much as you longed to continue what you’d started in your classroom, you knew this wasn’t the moment. Not with Jinx waiting, not when you were both exhausted from the evening’s demands.

“You should get her home,” you agreed, giving him a small smile. “It's been a long night for everyone.”

Something flickered in his expression—desire tempered by restraint, anticipation held carefully in check. “Indeed.”

He hesitated, then reached out to brush his fingers lightly against the spot where he knew the shark tooth pendant rested beneath your top. The brief contact sent electricity racing along your nerves despite its innocence.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For tonight. For the sharks. For…everything.”

The simple words, weighted with everything he wasn’t saying, made your throat tighten. “Thank you for wearing them,” you replied, nodding toward the pins at his collar. “They really do suit you perfectly.”

His mouth curved into that almost-smile you’d come to cherish. “As this suits you,” he murmured, fingers lingering for a moment longer against the pendant’s outline.

Leaning down, he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was achingly tender — not the desperate hunger of earlier, but something deeper, sweeter. A promise of things to come. His thumb traced along your jaw with exquisite care as you melted into him, savoring these final moments.

When he finally pulled back, his careful composure was slightly fractured — eyes darker than usual, breathing not quite steady. “Call me when you get home?” he asked, that familiar precise enunciation carrying a note of vulnerability that made your chest tight.

“Even if it’s late?” you questioned, though you already knew his answer.

“Especially if it’s late,” he replied, mouth curving into that precious almost-smile. “I’m rather... disinclined to end this evening entirely.”

You pressed one last swift kiss to his lips before stepping back. “Then I'll talk to you soon.”

Then he was gone, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the phantom sensation of his touch against your collarbone and the ache of anticipation beneath your ribs.

Chapter Text

Your apartment felt unusually empty when you finally returned home, the silence pressing in around you after the buzz of the fundraiser. You moved through your evening routine mechanically before finally allowing yourself to fully indulge in thoughts of Silco once in the shower. The intensity in his mismatched eyes as he’d looked at you, the careful precision of his hands as he’d cupped your face, the taste of him still lingering on your lips hours later. By the time you’d toweled off and slipped into sleeping clothes, your skin felt hypersensitive, nerves thrumming with unfulfilled desire.

You picked up your phone from the nightstand, checking the time—just past midnight. Still early by weekend standards, though whether he’d still be awake was another question entirely. Your thumb hovered over his contact information, hesitation warring with desire.

Before you could overthink it, you hit the call button.

He answered on the second ring, your pulse quickening at his familiar cadence. “Hello.”

“Hi,” you said, hoping you sounded less nervous than you felt. “I took a chance that you’d still be awake.”

“I was just reviewing some notes,” he replied, and you could almost picture the scattered papers on his desk, his elegant scrawl filling the margins.

You settled onto your bed, phone pressed to your ear, imagining him in his study—tie long discarded, perhaps with several buttons undone, shirt sleeves rolled up to expose those forearms he’d given you a teasing glimpse of before departing for the evening.

“I wanted to thank you again,” you murmured, curling onto your side. “For tonight. The fundraiser was a huge success.”

“You’re the one who deserves the credit,” he told you. “Your vision, your dedication to the center…it was evident in every aspect of the evening.”

The praise, delivered in that measured tone, made warmth bloom in your chest. “We make a good team.”

“We do,” he agreed, and you caught that subtle lilt in his voice that seemed more pronounced in the late-night quiet. “Though I confess I found it rather challenging to maintain professional distance this evening.”

Heat crept up your neck at his admission. “I noticed. Especially when you kept looking at me like that across the room.”

“Like what?” he questioned, though his tone suggested he knew exactly what you meant.

“Like you were thinking about what happened in my classroom,” you replied, breath hitching at the memory. “Like you wanted to continue where we left off.”

He exhaled sharply, barely audible through the phone. “A rather accurate assessment.”

“I couldn't stop thinking about it either,” you admitted, voice dropping lower. “About your hands, about how carefully you touched me…” you hesitated before adding softly, “about all the places I wanted you to touch me.”

The silence that followed was heavy with possibility, broken only by his slightly unsteady breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher than usual, that careful precision splintered. “You’re making it exceptionally difficult to exercise restraint.”

You bit down on your lower lip, burrowing deeper into your blankets. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

“No?” The single word carried layers of meaning in his careful enunciation. “And what would you prefer?”

“I want…” you started, then paused, gathering your courage. “I want to hear what you’re thinking about right now. About what you would do if I was there with you. Please.”

The line went quiet for a moment, and you could almost picture him considering his words, weighing each one on his tongue. When he spoke again, his voice was low and measured, sending shivers down your spine.

“If you were here,” he began slowly, “I would start by removing the pins you made for me. Carefully. Deliberately. I’d set them aside somewhere safe, because they’re precious to me. A gift I intend to treasure.”

You smiled at that, warmth blooming in your chest at his sentiment. “And then?” you prompted softly.

“Then I would turn my attention to you,” he continued. “I’d trace the chain of your necklace with my fingertips, following its path down to where the pendant rests. I’d take my time exploring every inch of skin it touches.”

Your breath hitched as you imagined his warm, capable hands on you, somehow managing to make a reasonably innocent act sound impossibly sensual.

“I’d savor every reaction,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate in your ear. “The way your breath catches, the slight tremor in your muscles as I touch you. I want to map every sensitive spot, learn exactly how to make you come undone.”

Heat pooled low in your belly at his words. “Keep going,” you whispered.

“I’d take my time undressing you," he went on, that soft lilt sending shivers down your spine. “Slowly. Methodically. Cataloging each new expanse of skin with my hands, learning what makes you shiver.”

You let out a shaky breath. “And then?”

“And then,” he said, his voice rougher now, “I would lay you back on my bed. I’d start at your neck, kissing a path down your body. Tasting every inch of you. Learning which spots make you gasp, which make you arch into my touch.”

You let out a soft moan at the image, squeezing your legs together to alleviate the growing ache between them. “God, Silco—” you choked out, covering your face with one hand, overwhelmed with desire.

“I’d kiss my way down your stomach,” he continued, that practiced enunciation fraying slightly at the edges. “Savoring the taste of your skin, the way you respond to my touch. Tracing your hip bones with my tongue, before moving lower, to where I imagine you’re aching for me even now.”

You stifled a whimper against your palm. “I am,” you admitted, “fuck, you have no idea—”

“Tell me,” he urged, voice low and intimate. “Touch yourself for me while you tell me. Please.”

The last word cracked slightly as it left his mouth, and you had to press your face into your pillow to try to compose yourself.

“I can’t,” you whispered, unable to keep the desperation from your words.

“There’s no obligation to do anything—” he began, his tone attempting to soothe, but you cut him off, shaking your head although he couldn’t see.

“No, it’s not that. I just—I haven’t touched myself since I met you,” you confessed, letting out a ragged exhalation. “Haven’t let myself. I want—I want to save everything for you. For your hands, your mouth. It’s…it’s all for you.”

“Christ.” The word burst forth as if it had been forcefully extricated from his throat, heavy with disbelief. “You’ve—you’ve denied yourself like this for me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, heat flooding your cheeks at the admission. “I couldn't—I mean, I wanted to but—more than that, I wanted to…” you trailed off, swallowing hard. “I wanted to show you that I can ask for what I want. I want—god, Silco, I want to beg you for it.”

The line went silent for a long moment, broken only by the sound of his unsteady breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was rough with barely restrained desire.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, the words strained as though he was in physical pain. “The thought of you denying yourself, saving every pleasure for me…it’s almost unbearable.”

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your thighs together. “I want you so badly,” you whispered. “I can't stop thinking about your hands on me, about everything I want you to do to me…”

A low groan escaped him, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

“Your self-control is remarkable,” he murmured, his voice rough with barely restrained desire. “And something I find myself longing to reward.”

“How would you reward me?” you asked softly.

There was a brief pause, as if he was carefully considering his words. When he spoke again, his voice was low and measured, each word chosen with deliberate precision.

“I’d make my way down your body,” he continued, his voice rougher now. “When I finally reached where you’re aching for me, I’d kiss you there slowly, tasting you. Then, I’d use my tongue to build your pleasure gradually, relentlessly, until you’re trembling beneath me. Holding your thighs apart while you try to writhe against my mouth. Feeling how you’d get desperate for more…listening to how you’d beg so sweetly for me to let you come…”

Your breath hitched. “Silco…”

“But I wouldn’t let you,” he promised, his voice growing hoarser. “Not until you were sobbing my name, until you were pulling my hair, your entire body begging against my mouth.”

“Fuck,” you whispered, your voice cracking with urgency. “Silco, I can’t—”

“I want you utterly delirious with need,” he admitted, his tone a dangerous blend of tenderness and dark promise. “I want to feel you dripping against my chin as I claim you, utterly and completely.”

“God,” you whimpered, the intensity of his words overwhelming. “You’re—you’re being cruel.”

“Am I?” he countered, a low, teasing challenge in his tone. “I’m merely revealing exactly how I plan to earn every ounce of pleasure you’ve so meticulously saved. How I plan to show you just how grateful I am for every moment of your discipline…”

“Please,” you pleaded, your voice trembling with both hope and torment. “You’re making it so much worse—”

“Good,” he gritted out, his voice a mix of raw desire and firm resolve. “I want you aching, desperate—absolutely consumed by thoughts of how I’ll reward your commitment to save every pleasure for my tongue.”

“Silco,” you gasped, your body ablaze, every fiber ignited by his promises. “Fuck. I need you so badly—god, it fucking hurts—”

“Good,” he murmured, the word low and rough with unwavering authority.

Your breath came in desperate, shaky bursts. “Keep talking. Please.”

“When I finally let you come,” he continued intently, “it’ll be with my fingers deep inside you, curling into that sacred spot that makes you lose yourself. Using my mouth to draw out every tremor, every pulse as you finally let yourself go for me.”

A soft, pitiful whimper escaped your lips, your hips involuntarily shifting against the mattress. “God, Silco. You have no idea how badly I need you—”

“Soon,” he promised, enunciating each word with a blend of command and vulnerability that sent ripples of desire through you. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, voice heavy with longing and anticipation. “Please. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Nor can I,” he confessed, his tone softening with a rare tenderness amid the burning passion. “The thought of you denying yourself… it intoxicates and maddens me in equal measure.”

Warmth bloomed deep in your chest at his words. “I want to show you how much I trust you. How much I want you. Only you.”

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of his slightly uneven breathing. When he spoke again, his voice was rough with emotion. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

“I think I'm starting to,” you replied quietly.

Another silence stretched between you, this one comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding.

“We should try to get some rest,” he said finally, though he sounded reluctant. “Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

You nodded, even though he couldn't see you. “You’re right. Though I’m not sure how well I’ll sleep now."

A low laugh rumbled through the phone. “Nor I. But the anticipation will be well worth it.”

“Definitely,” you agreed, biting down on your lower lip. “Goodnight, Silco.”

“Goodnight,” he replied softly. “Sweet dreams.”

As you ended the call, you couldn’t help but grin, feeling giddy despite the ache of unfulfilled desire. The shark tooth pendant rested warm against your skin as you burrowed deeper into your pillows, your hand curled around it like a talisman. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. But for now, you had his words, his promises, to keep you warm through the night.

The morning light filtered through your curtains, rousing you from a fitful sleep filled with dreams of careful hands and mismatched eyes. You stretched languidly, body still thrumming with the lingering effects of last night’s conversation. The shark tooth pendant nestled below your throat, a tangible reminder of everything that had changed.

Your phone chimed with a new message, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face when you saw Silco’s name.

Good morning. I trust you slept well?

You bit your lip, considering your response before typing:

As well as can be expected, given the circumstances. You?

His reply came quickly:

Similarly restless. Though I find myself rather looking forward to the day ahead.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks as you remembered his promises from the night before. You were about to respond when another message appeared:

I have some reports from yesterday evening that need my attention at The Last Drop. Would you care to join me? I can pick you up in thirty minutes, should that be convenient.

Your heart skipped at his invitation. After the intensity of last night’s conversation, you found yourself both eager and nervous to see him in person. You typed out a reply:

I’d love to.

Excellent. I'll see you shortly.

You rushed through your morning routine, taking extra care with your appearance despite knowing Silco had seen you in far less put-together states. As you touched the shark tooth necklace, you couldn’t help but smile, remembering the tenderness with which he’d gifted it to you.

True to his word, Silco arrived precisely 30 minutes later. You met him at the curb, your breath catching at the sight of him leaning against his car. He wore dark trousers and a maroon oxford beneath a black wool coat — the color a departure from his usual monochromatic palette, the rich burgundy making him look even more regal than usual. The silver sharks gleamed at his collar, catching the winter sunlight.

His eyes warmed visibly when he saw you, that carefully maintained composure softening at the edges. “Good morning,” he greeted you, voice carrying that familiar measured cadence that never failed to make your pulse quicken.

“Morning,” you replied, suddenly feeling almost shy despite everything that had transpired between you.

He extended a Cloudbrew cup with your name written on it. “I took the liberty of procuring your usual order,” he told you, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Talia was, perhaps unsurprisingly, all too eager to prepare it once she realized it was for you. She asked me to convey her regards.”

You accepted the maple sea salt latte with a grateful smile, the warmth of the cup welcome against the morning chill. “You’re too sweet. Thank you.”

“Sweet?” he questioned, one eyebrow lifting though he couldn't quite hide the pleased look in his eyes. “Just last night you were calling me cruel.” The slight curve of his mouth betrayed how much he enjoyed referencing your breathless accusation from the previous evening’s conversation.

Heat bloomed instantly in your cheeks, memories of his voice — low and intent in your ear — making your pulse quicken.

“That was…” you started, then cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure despite the knowing look in his mismatched eyes. “Different circumstances entirely. And you know exactly what you were doing.”

You took a deliberate sip of your latte, meeting his gaze over the rim of the cup. “Besides, I think we’ve established that I enjoy both your cruelty and your sweetness in equal measure.”

He let out a satisfied hum, opening the passenger door with graceful efficiency. As you slid into the seat, his hand brushed yours—a touch so brief you might have imagined it, were it not for the deliberate way his fingers lingered against your wrist.

The drive to The Last Drop was mostly quiet, but the silence felt comfortable rather than strained. Occasionally, you would catch him glancing at you, his expression carrying a warmth that made your chest tighten with emotion.

He led you through the employees’ entrance, the main floor of the bar shrouded in early morning darkness. “We don’t open for several hours yet,” he explained, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back as he guided you up the staircase toward his office. “I find the quiet conducive to focused work.”

The office looked different in daylight—the dark wood of his desk catching the morning sun, the river visible through the windows behind it.

“I’ve been reviewing the preliminary information about the aquarium renovation,” he told you, withdrawing a slim folder from his messenger bag. He slid several heavily annotated documents across to you. “I took the liberty of drafting some initial thoughts on approach.”

You blinked, surprised by his thoroughness as you settled into one of the chairs opposite him. “You’ve already started working on this? When did you even find the time?” you asked.

“Last night,” he admitted, coming around to lean against the desk beside you rather than returning to his chair. “I found myself unable to sleep for some reason.”

You bit back a grin. “Wonder why,” you remarked wryly.

“These are merely preliminary observations. I would, of course, defer to your creative expertise on matters of design,” he said, watching as you scanned the documents.

As you flipped through the pages, you couldn’t help but be impressed. Each note was meticulously crafted, his elegant scrawl filling the margins with observations and suggestions.

“This is incredible,” you told him honestly, trying to focus on the draft despite his proximity. The familiar scent of his cologne was making concentration increasingly difficult. “I’m…I’m really excited to work with you on this. I think we can put together something really special.”

“I concur,” he said, that almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His gaze, when you glanced up, was fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Though I confess, discussing the aquarium project was not my only motivation for inviting you here this morning. Nor am I particularly concerned about finishing yesterday’s reports.”

You set the folder aside, pulse quickening at his admission. “Oh?”

He regarded you steadily, his mismatched eyes darkening with evident want. “I find myself rather... distracted by thoughts of our conversation last night. And our previous encounters.”

Heat bloomed beneath your skin at his careful phrasing. “I’ve been distracted too,” you replied, meeting his gaze directly.

His expression remained measured, but you caught the subtle shift in his posture—a minute leaning closer, a deliberate placement of his hand near yours on the desk. “We have work to discuss,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly. “The proposal requirements. Budgetary considerations. Timeline constraints.”

“Very important matters,” you agreed, though neither of you glanced at the documents.

“Indeed.” His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I should probably elaborate on my thoughts regarding the interactive elements.”

“You should,” you whispered, already leaning toward him.

“And yet,” he said softly, closing the remaining distance between you, “I find myself entirely unable to focus on anything but this.”

His hand came up to cup your cheek with exquisite care, thumb brushing across your lower lip. You shivered at the contact, at the deliberate way he telegraphed his intentions, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I think the proposal can wait,” you breathed.

“Agreed,” he murmured, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was nothing like your previous ones—not the tentative first exploration in your classroom or the bittersweet goodbye at the fundraiser. This was unhurried but certain, as if he had finally given himself permission to want you without reservation. His hand slid from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss.

You made a soft sound of approval, rising from your chair to step between his legs where he leaned against the desk. The new position brought your bodies flush against each other, and you felt the subtle tremor that ran through him at the contact.

Your hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. You’d spent so long imagining this—the taste of him, the careful precision of his touch—yet reality exceeded every fantasy.

“Silco,” you whispered, and felt him shudder at the sound of his name on your lips.

His hands found your waist, grip tightening slightly before he deliberately relaxed his fingers. “I had intended,” he said, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it, “to demonstrate considerably more restraint this morning.”

“I’m not particularly interested in restraint right now,” you told him, threading your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

His quiet laugh vibrated against you, the sound transforming into a groan as you pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot just below his ear. “So I’ve gathered,” he managed, his hands sliding beneath the hem of your shirt to splay across your lower back.

You arched into his touch, the boundaries between you dissolving with each shared breath, each tentative exploration. His kisses grew more demanding, his careful control gradually giving way to something hungrier, more desperate.

His hands settled at your waist, holding you with that exacting self-discipline that made you want to unravel him completely. You could feel the measured rise and fall of his chest against yours, the deliberate way he kept himself in check even as his kisses grew deeper, more insistent.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with desire, “far more than I should admit.”

“Tell me,” you urged, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “Tell me what you’ve thought about.”

“Everything,” he confessed, the single word carrying the weight of weeks of strict distance maintained, of wanting without allowing himself to want. “Your hands in my hair. The sounds you might make when touched just so.”

His thumb brushed along your lower lip, sending shivers down your spine. “How you might taste,” he continued, voice low and intimate. “How you’d feel beneath me, around me.”

His words sent heat coursing through your body. You pressed closer, eliminating what little space remained between you. “Show me,” you whispered against his lips. “Please.”

Something in his careful composure fractured at your plea. With a low groan, he spun you both, pressing you back against the desk. His mouth found yours again, the kiss deeper and more urgent than before. You gasped as he lifted you onto the desk’s edge, stepping between your parted thighs.

His hands slid up your sides, leaving trails of heat in their wake even through the fabric of your shirt. When they reached the buttons at your collar, he paused, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. “May I?”

Your eyes met his, breath catching at the longing in his expression. “Yes,” you whispered, pulse racing as his elegant fingers began methodically working each button free.

He took his time, revealing your skin inch by deliberate inch. When the final button gave way, he pushed the fabric aside almost reverently, his gaze following the movement like a physical caress. The shark tooth pendant gleamed against your skin, drawing his attention.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, tracing the delicate chain with one finger before following its path down to where the pendant rested. The touch sent shivers across your skin, goosebumps rising in the wake of his careful exploration.

His hands settled at your waist, thumbs tracing small circles against your bare skin as he leaned in to press his lips to the hollow of your throat. You let out a soft gasp as his lips found your pulse point, arching into his touch. His mouth traced a path along your collarbone, alternating between gentle kisses and the barest scrape of teeth. Each careful touch sent sparks of pleasure racing through your body.

“Silco,” you breathed, fingers carding through his hair. “Please…”

He lifted his head, mismatched eyes dark with desire as they met yours. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured, voice rough with barely restrained need. “Let me hear you say it.”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks, but you held his gaze. “I want your hands on me,” you whispered. “Your mouth. I want—I want what you promised last night. Please.”

A low moan escaped him at your words. “Christ, yes—” he ground out, his fingertips slipping toward your waistband, sending shivers through your body.

With careful precision, he undid the button and zipper of your pants, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly slid them down your legs. You lifted your hips to help him, gasping softly as the cool air hit your bare skin. His hands ran appreciatively along your thighs as he stepped between them once more, pulling you to the very edge of the desk.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured, voice hoarse with longing as his gaze raked over you. His thumb traced along the edge of your underwear, the touch feather-light but electrifying, silently seeking permission.

You nodded, beyond words as he hooked his fingers in the waistband and slowly pulled the fabric down your legs. When you were fully bare before him, he took a moment to simply look at you, his mismatched eyes darkening with desire. The reverence in his expression made you feel both vulnerable and powerful, exposed yet completely safe in his careful attention.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted this,” he told you roughly as he sank to his knees before you. His hands settled on your thighs with deliberate care, spreading them wider as he positioned himself between them.

You trembled with anticipation, fingers gripping the edge of the desk as he pressed a gentle kiss to your inner knee, then another slightly higher. The slow progression of his mouth along your sensitive skin was exquisite torture, each touch sending a jolt of pleasure right to your core.

“Silco,” you whispered, his name a plea on your lips.

He looked up at you, locking eyes as he mouthed the slickness smeared between your thighs, his tongue gliding over your skin with a soft moan before doing the same on the other leg.

“Please,” you breathed, beyond pride or pretense. “Silco, please—I need you.”

“I know,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a caress. “You've been so patient,” he continued, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “So disciplined. Let me reward you properly.”

With that, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along your center in one long, slow stroke. You cried out at the sensation, hips jerking involuntarily. His hands tightened on your legs, holding you steady as he repeated the motion.

You gasped as Silco’s tongue explored you with exquisite care, tracing intricate patterns against your sensitive flesh. The contrast between his methodical precision and the raw hunger in his touch was intoxicating.

His hands gripped you firmly, thumbs pressing into soft skin as he held you open for his ministrations. You trembled beneath his touch, overwhelmed by sensation after denying yourself for so long.

“Silco,” you whimpered, one hand tangling in his hair. “Oh god…”

He hummed against you in response, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your body. His tongue circled your clit with deliberate pressure before sucking gently, drawing a desperate moan from your lips.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, pulling back slightly to meet your gaze. “Let me hear all those pretty little sounds you’ve been saving for me.”

You bit back a desperate sob as he returned to his task with renewed focus, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns against your clit. One of his hands left your thigh, and you felt his long fingers teasing at your entrance, gathering the wetness there before slowly pressing inside.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, head falling back as he curled his fingers with perfect precision, finding that spot inside you that made your vision blur. “Silco—please—”

He worked you with meticulous attention, his mouth never leaving your clit as his fingers established a rhythm that had you trembling on the edge. Every movement was calculated, methodical—the same fastidiousness he brought to everything, now focused entirely on your pleasure.

You could feel yourself getting close, thighs trembling around his head as he worshipped you with his tongue. But each time you approached the edge, you would involuntarily tense up, pulling back from your release instead of chasing it.

Silco seemed to sense your hesitation, lifting his head to meet your gaze. His lips and chin glistened with evidence of your arousal, his usually immaculate hair mussed from your fingers. The sight made heat pool low in your belly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. “Tell me.”

You swallowed hard, cheeks heating with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I just—it’s been so long, and I want this so badly, but I can’t—” you faltered helplessly.

“There’s no need to apologize,” he assured you, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your hip. “We can stop if you’d like.”

You shook your head emphatically. “No. But it’s just—it might take a while and I feel bad—” you said.

“Shh,” Silco soothed, pressing another kiss to your thigh. “There’s no rush. No expectations. I want to take my time with you. Will you allow me to?”

His words, so tender and understanding, made your chest tighten with emotion. You nodded, taking a deep breath to center yourself.

“That’s it,” he murmured approvingly. “Just breathe. Focus on how this feels.” His fingers resumed their careful exploration, stroking you with exquisite precision as his tongue returned to your clit.

You let out a shaky exhale, consciously relaxing into his touch. His free hand settled on your lower belly, a grounding weight as pleasure built within you once more.

“You’re doing so well,” he praised, his voice a low, soothing rumble against your sensitive flesh. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

Something about his words—the tender reassurance, the permission to surrender—broke through the last of your resistance. You closed your eyes, focusing solely on the overwhelming sensations he was creating. His fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids while his tongue worked your clit with deliberate pressure.

“That's it,” he murmured between strokes. “Let me feel you, angel.”

The endearment, so unexpected from his lips, was what finally undid you. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, body arching as pleasure pulsed through every nerve ending. You cried out his name, fingers tightening in his hair as your thighs trembled around his head. He worked you through it with unwavering focus, his movements assured as ever even as you shattered around his fingers.

When you tried to close your legs, overwhelmed by sensation, he held them open. “Let me feel all of it,” he pleaded, his voice rough with desire. “Want to taste every second of your pleasure.”

“Silco” you breathed, voice breaking as aftershocks rippled through you. “Fuck.”

He pressed gentle kisses to your inner thighs as you came down, his fingers still moving inside you with exquisite care, drawing out your pleasure until you were trembling with oversensitivity. Only then did he slowly ease up, looking up at you with undisguised satisfaction.

The sight of him between your legs, lips glistening, gaze dark with desire, made your heart stutter in your chest. He pressed a final kiss to your hip before rising to his full height, his movements graceful despite the evident strain of his own arousal. When he leaned down to kiss you, you tasted yourself on his tongue.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against your lips, one hand coming up to cup your cheek with aching tenderness. “So responsive. So perfect.”

You leaned into his touch, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. “That was…I don’t even have words.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward in that almost-smile you adored. “High praise, coming from someone who always has something to say.”

You laughed softly, feeling both giddy and overwhelmed. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers tracing the sharp lines of his collar before coming to rest on the silver sharks pinned there. “I think you’ve rendered me speechless,” you admitted, meeting his gaze.

“A feat I intend to repeat,” he promised, voice low and intimate.

Heat bloomed across your skin at his words. You tugged gently at his shirt, pulling him closer. “What about you?” you asked softly. “I want to make you feel good too.”

Silco's careful composure seemed to fracture slightly at your words, his jaw tensing as his hands tightened on your hips, drawing you to the very edge of the desk. “You have no idea how badly I want that,” he admitted, a trace of vulnerability in his words. “But not here. Not like this.”

He seemed to sense your hesitation, his expression softening as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Not because I don't want you,” he assured you gently. “But because when I finally have you fully, I want to take my time. To savor every moment without constraint or interruption.” His thumb traced along your lower lip, sending shivers down your spine. “You deserve more than a rushed encounter on my desk, no matter how tempting the prospect may be.”

The distant sound of a door opening downstairs underscored his point.

“It appears,” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges, “that our solitude has been compromised.”

You laughed softly, reluctantly disentangling yourself from him. “I should probably get dressed before someone decides to come up here.”

He nodded, stepping back just enough to give you space while keeping a steadying hand at your waist as you slid off the desk. His touch lingered as you collected your clothing, his gaze never leaving you as you dressed.

“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” he asked, a hopeful note in his carefully measured tone.

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” you replied, buttoning your shirt with fingers that still trembled slightly. “The fundraiser consumed most of my planning capacity.”

He nodded thoughtfully, hands clasped behind his back. “Would you…would you like to spend the day with me? Jinx is with Rowan until this evening and I find my schedule unusually free of obligations.”

“I’d love to,” you smiled, adoration unfurling beneath your ribs at the uncharacteristic shyness in his question.

His expression warmed, that carefully maintained composure softening at the edges. “Excellent. I had considered several possibilities for today, but I would like to hear your suggestions.”

You finished buttoning your shirt, smoothing it down before stepping closer to him once more. “I'm open to anything,” you told him honestly. “Though I admit I’m most interested in continuing what we started here.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “As am I,” he admitted, voice dropping lower. “But perhaps we might build some anticipation. I recall you mentioning your affinity for my…cruelty.”

Heat bloomed across your skin at his words, at the knowing look in his mismatched eyes. “You’re going to make me wait, aren’t you?”

“I prefer to think of it as savoring,” he corrected, brushing his thumb along your lower lip.

“Savoring,” you repeated, the word a warm exhalation against his thumb. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

He considered you for a moment. “Would you prefer a different term?”

“No,” you said finally. “I think savoring is perfect. Just like your timing.”

“My timing?” he questioned, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“Mmm,” you hummed, reaching up to straighten his collar, fingers lingering on the silver sharks. “Making me wait now, after giving me just enough to make me desperate for more. Very calculated. Very you.”

The almost-smile that curved his lips made your pulse quicken. “I assure you,” he murmured, “any calculation pales in comparison to my genuine desire to take my time with you. To explore every inch of you without constraint or interruption.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. You leaned in, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. “And when might that exploration begin?” you asked softly.

“Soon,” he promised. “But not quite yet. I’m rather invested in building anticipation.”

“And what if I’m impatient?” you persisted. “What if I don’t want to wait?”

Silco's hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing along your lower lip. “Then I suppose I’ll have to find ways to keep you…occupied,” he replied, voice low and intimate. “To build your anticipation until you’re trembling with need.”

“You are cruel,” you breathed, though there was no real accusation in your tone.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, that almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “But I think you’ll find the rewards for your patience well worth the wait.”

He leaned in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. The tenderness of the gesture, in contrast to the heat of his earlier words, made your chest tighten with emotion. “Shall we?” he asked, gesturing toward the door. As you nodded, preparing to leave his office, a thought occurred to you—a memory of your late-night text exchange, his reluctant admission about the tattoos you’d yet to see.

“Before we go,” you began, turning back to him with a newfound boldness, “would you show me?” At his questioning look, you clarified, “The other tattoos.”

Something flickered across his features—surprise, perhaps a hint of vulnerability—before his expression settled into careful consideration. “Here?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“Don’t think anyone’s going to try to come in,” you pointed out, nodding toward the locked office door. “And I’ve been curious since you mentioned them.”

He studied you for a moment, that penetrating gaze seeming to weigh your request against his natural inclination toward privacy. Then, with a deliberate nod, he reached for the bottom of his shirt.

“Very well,” he said simply, his voice carrying that precise cadence that never failed to send a shiver down your spine. “Since you asked.”

Your breath caught as he began to unbutton his shirt, each movement measured and deliberate. He didn't remove it completely—just enough to expose his torso, the fabric hanging open to reveal what lay beneath the carefully maintained exterior he presented to the world.

The raven came into view first as he turned slightly, stretching across his left ribs in stark black and gray contrast against his skin. The bird’s wings extended upward toward his chest, its talons clutching an elegantly curved scythe, the blade following the natural contour of his body. The detail was extraordinary—each feather rendered with meticulous precision, the weapon’s edge seeming almost sharp enough to draw blood.

“I had this one done after the accident,” he told you quietly, watching your reaction with careful attention. “A reminder that near-death can be a crucible.”

Something twisted painfully in your chest at his words, at the thought of him not existing in this world. Before you could stop yourself, your hand splayed protectively across the raven, as if you could somehow shield him retroactively from that moment of transformation. You traced the outline of one wing, trying to convey your sudden, overwhelming gratitude for his continued existence—for the chance to know him, to touch him, to be here with him now.

“And the other?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He shifted, angling his body to reveal his right side. There, starting just below his ribs and curving downward to follow the sharp line of his hip bone, was a scorpion rendered in the same high-contrast style. Its body was poised in a defensive stance, one claw extended along the cut of his hip in a way that drew your gaze downward before you caught yourself.

“This one,” he began, a hint of something almost sheepish entering his typically confident tone, “was considerably earlier. Before the accident. I would like to claim some profound symbolism, but the truth is far more mundane.” He paused, seeming to debate whether to continue before admitting, “I thought it looked…cool.”

The simple admission—so at odds with his usual measured precision—thrilled you. “You could have made up some profound explanation for it and I would have believed you, but I like this reasoning way better,” you told him, relishing the shiver that ran through him as you brushed your thumb over the raised stinger.

“I was nineteen,” he replied, a defensive note entering his voice though his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Certain aesthetic decisions from that period haven’t aged particularly well.”

“I disagree,” you murmured, your fingers tracing the path of the scorpion’s claw along his hip bone. “I think it’s incredibly hot.”

You felt the subtle jump of muscle beneath your touch, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breathing. “Well, I’m relieved to hear it,” he replied with that subtle arch of his eyebrow. “As I’ve committed rather permanently to the aesthetic.”

You rolled your eyes, giving him a playfully exasperated look. “You’re not very good at taking compliments, are you?”

“I’m not accustomed to receiving compliments on that particular feature,” he said, a hint of vulnerability beneath his measured tone. “As so few have seen it.”

“Well then,” you said, your voice dropping lower as you stepped closer, “let’s practice.” Your fingers traced the outline of the scorpion with deliberate slowness. “This tattoo is ridiculously hot. The placement is perfect.”

You leaned down, pressing your lips to the inked skin just above his hip bone. “The way it follows your body…” you trailed off, sliding your tongue along his stomach, “is quite possibly the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You felt him tense beneath your touch, his carefully maintained composure fracturing as your mouth moved against his skin.

His breathing had grown noticeably uneven, his hand coming to rest at the nape of your neck as you continued your exploration. When you glanced up, you found his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken, his usual control clearly slipping.

“Thank you,” he managed finally, his voice rougher than you'd ever heard it, almost strangled with the effort of maintaining his composure.

The vulnerability in his response made your chest tighten with sudden emotion. You straightened, meeting his gaze directly. “You’re welcome,” you replied softly. “I meant every word.”

For a moment, you stood together in the quiet of his office, the air between you charged with unspoken promise.

“We should go,” he said at last, his voice gradually returning to its usual measured cadence though his eyes remained dark with barely contained desire. “Before I’m tempted to forget my earlier insistence on patience.”

You smiled, recognizing the effort it took for him to step back, to begin rebuttoning his shirt with those precise movements. “I wouldn’t object if you changed your mind,” you told him, watching as he restored his appearance to its usual impeccable state.

“I’m well aware,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Which makes restraint all the more difficult.” He reached for his jacket, sliding it on with practiced efficiency. “But I meant what I said before. You deserve better than a hurried encounter here.”

The promise in his words sent heat flowering across your skin despite your reluctant nod of agreement. As he collected his things and guided you toward the door, his hand came to rest at the small of your back—a gesture that had quickly become familiar yet still sent electricity coursing through you with each casual touch.

Outside, the winter sun had brightened, casting long shadows across the parking lot as Silco led you to his car. As he opened the passenger door, you caught a flicker of uncertainty in his expression—a rare crack in his usually decisive demeanor.

“I just realized,” he said, closing the door once you were settled and circling to the driver's side, “that I haven’t actually taken a full day off in…” he paused, seeming to calculate, “approximately seven years.”

You turned to him in surprise as he slid into his seat. “Seven years? Really?”

“Give or take a few months,” he replied drily. “The last occasion was when Jinx had pneumonia. Not exactly a leisure activity.”

“And I thought I was bad,” you told him, smiling ruefully. “My record is probably closer to two years.”

He started the car, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the steering wheel. “It occurs to me that I’m unsure what people typically do on days off. Especially in the middle of winter.”

The confession, delivered in his usual measured tone, made your heart twist with unexpected tenderness. For all his careful precision and control, he seemed genuinely at a loss. You reached over to cover his hand with yours.

“I’m not entirely sure either,” you said. “I usually just catch up on chores or work on commissions.”

He glanced at you, a hint of amusement in his expression. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

“Workaholics anonymous,” you agreed, then bit your lip in thought. “Though…there is a new experimental video installation at the Bridgewalker Gallery. I’ve been meaning to see it but haven’t had the chance.”

“An excellent suggestion,” he nodded, seeming relieved to have a destination in mind.

As he navigated through the Lanes, you found yourself studying his profile, still marveling at how different everything felt now that you were allowing yourself to look, to touch. The shark pins gleamed at his collar, catching the light each time he moved.

“You’re staring,” he observed, though his tone suggested he didn't mind in the slightest.

“I’m looking,” you corrected gently. “There’s a difference.”

His mouth curved slightly. “And what exactly are you looking at?”

“You,” you replied simply.

“Without having to pretend I’m not.”

Chapter Text

The Bridgewalker Gallery had once been a textile factory, its industrial bones now serving as the perfect backdrop for contemporary art. Exposed brick walls and steel beams framed massive projection screens and suspended sculptures, the cavernous space transformed by light and shadow.

“This is Liminal Spaces,” you told Silco as you entered the main exhibition room, reading from the program. “It explores the threshold between physical and digital reality through light, sound, and interactive elements.”

Silco nodded, taking in the darkened space with keen interest. His hand rested lightly at the small of your back as he guided you deeper into the gallery, the slight pressure of his fingers a constant reminder of his presence.

The first installation enveloped you in a cocoon of sound and shifting light. Projections rippled across the walls like water, creating the illusion of being submerged. The audio—a blend of distorted voices and ambient noise—seemed to move around the space, impossible to locate precisely.

“Remarkable,” Silco murmured, his voice close to your ear as he leaned in. “The way they’ve manipulated the acoustics to create disorientation.”

You nodded, trying to focus on the artistic merit rather than the warmth of his breath against your skin. “The artist specializes in sensory disruption. They’re trying to recreate that feeling of being between states—awake and dreaming, present and absent.”

“It reminds me of the space between intention and realization,” he observed, his tone measured though his fingers pressed slightly more firmly against your back. “The moment of anticipation that precedes inevitability.”

You glanced at him, finding his gaze already on you rather than the installation. “That sounds familiar,” you replied, unable to keep the slight accusation from your voice.

“The interval between desire and fulfillment,” he told you softly, his voice carrying that subtle lilt, “has its own particular value.”

Heat bloomed across your skin as you remembered his earlier promises, and you leaned back into his hand for the briefest moment before moving on to the next installation, which occupied a long, darkened hallway lined with a series of screens. As you entered, your attention was immediately drawn to the first display—a pristine video of a young woman exploring a rocky coastline. The wind caught her hair as she navigated the jagged terrain, pausing occasionally to gaze out at the tumultuous sea. The image was crisp, the colors vibrant, the audio clear—waves crashing against stone, gulls calling overhead, her disjointed observations, delivered to whoever was behind the camera.

“Echoes,” you read from the program, voice hushed in the quiet space. “An exploration of memory degradation through successive recall.”

As you moved further down the corridor, the same scene played on the next screen, but subtly altered—colors becoming desaturated, certain details blurred, the audio faintly distorted. With each successive display, the memory grew increasingly corrupted: the coastline’s edges softening, the woman’s features becoming less distinct, the colors shifting to unnatural hues, the audio warping until the crash of waves became indistinguishable from her voice.

By the final screen, the original scene was barely recognizable—just flashes of blue and gray, abstract shapes where once stood rocks and human form, disjointed sounds that hinted at ocean and movement but had lost all coherence. Only the feeling of longing and wonder somehow remained, persisting through the degradation.

“So each iteration draws from the previous, not the original,” Silco murmured, his attention fixed on the progression.

You nodded, fascinated by the visual representation of something so elusive. “It’s how memory actually works. We’re not remembering the original experience but the last time we recalled it.”

“Like a photocopy of a photocopy,” he observed, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the most corrupted version. “Yet certain elements persist, don’t they? The emotional resonance remains even as the details fade.”

“Yes,” you agreed, watching how the woman’s sense of wonder somehow remained perceptible even in the most distorted iteration. “The brain prioritizes emotional significance over accuracy.”

Silco was quiet for a moment, his expression contemplative as he looked back at the sequence of screens. “I’ve found that to be true of my own memories of the accident,” he said finally, voice low enough that only you could hear. “The precise sequence of events has blurred over time, but the feeling—” he stopped, seeming to search for the right words.

“The feeling stays sharp,” you finished for him, your hand finding his in the dimly lit corridor.

He nodded, heterochromatic eyes meeting yours. “Though I wonder sometimes how much I’ve altered in the retelling, even to myself.”

The vulnerability in his admission made your chest tighten. You squeezed his hand gently, offering silent understanding.

“What’s strange,” he continued after a moment, his composure returning, “is how certain memories resist this degradation. Some remain vivid no matter how many times they’re recalled.”

“The ones with the strongest emotional impact,” you suggested, glancing over at him.

“Indeed,” he murmured, his gaze returning to the screens. “Though I suspect I'm creating new ones of that nature today.”

The simple observation, delivered in his composed cadence, carried a weight that made your breath catch. Before you could respond, he was guiding you toward the exit of the hallway with a gentle pressure at the small of your back, his fingers tracing an absent pattern against your skin through the fabric of your shirt.

You allowed him to lead you forward, acutely aware of how this day was etching itself into your memory with a clarity you suspected would endure, regardless of how many times you might conjure it in the future.

The centerpiece of the next installation was a floor-to-ceiling display that responded to movement, particles of light flowing like water around your silhouettes as you passed through. You extended your hand, watching as the luminous streams parted around your fingers, creating eddies and currents of light.

“Incredible,” you breathed, genuinely captivated despite the distracting presence of Silco beside you. “The algorithms must be incredibly complex to create such natural flow patterns.”

He hummed in agreement, though when you glanced at him, his attention was fixed on you rather than the display.

“You’re not even looking at the art,” you accused, though there was no real reproach in your tone.

“On the contrary,” he replied softly, “I’m admiring the most compelling piece in the gallery.”

You broke into a grin, trying and failing to suppress the laughter bubbling up in your chest.

“What?” he questioned, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“I’m just imagining Jinx’s reaction if she heard you say that,” you explained, eyes bright with amusement. “She’d be absolutely mortified.”

“Ah, yes,” he said drily, his expression warming. “I suspect she would find such displays of sentiment thoroughly repulsive.”

“And yet,” you murmured, stepping closer to him as the light particles swirled around your joined forms, “I find you impossibly charming when you’re being all mushy.”

“How fortunate,” he told you quietly, “that we find ourselves without an audience prone to dramatic declarations of disgust.”

The light played across his features, highlighting the disciplined restraint in his expression that couldn’t quite mask the depth of feeling beneath—a contrast that made your chest tighten with sudden tenderness.

You lingered there together, watching how the luminous particles responded to your movements, creating complex patterns that seemed to reflect your shifting proximity to one another. When he finally guided you forward with that familiar gentle pressure at the small of your back, you found yourself reluctant to leave the sphere of light the installation had created around you.

“There’s one more,” he noted, gesturing toward a doorway at the far end of the gallery where soft pulses of light escaped into the main space.

As you approached, a small placard beside the entrance read: “Resonance – An exploration of voice as visual medium.” The description explained how an algorithm translated acoustic properties—pitch, tone, rhythm, volume—into geometric patterns and color, rendering speech visible.

“Say something,” you urged Silco, curious to see how his distinctive cadence would translate.

He considered for a moment, then spoke quietly, just loud enough for the system to register. “There are precious few moments I’ve wished to extend indefinitely. This day with you has become one of them.”

The words created a pattern of deep blues and purples, flowing in precise, measured waves that matched his studied enunciation. The visualization seemed to capture his essence perfectly—controlled yet intense, deliberate yet passionate.

Your cheeks warmed at both his words and the intimacy of seeing his voice rendered visible. “Your turn,” he prompted, his gaze never leaving yours.

You watched the patterns swirl and fade, a sudden ache blooming in your chest at how perfectly the ephemeral display captured what you’d always feared—that moments like these were temporary, disappearing even as you tried to hold them. Time slipping through your fingers like water, impossible to grasp.

But as you looked at him, at the rare openness in his expression, you realized you no longer needed to count each second, to brace for inevitable loss. You could simply be here, now, with the promise of more to come.

“Me too,” you said, your voice creating patterns in warm copper and burnt sienna that mirrored the ochreous eclipse of his damaged eye. The colors merged with the fading echoes of his indigo, creating an unexpected harmony that made your breath catch. “But the day isn’t over yet.”

“Fascinating,” Silco murmured, watching as your visual pattern intertwined with the fading echoes of his. “The way they complement one another.”

The observation felt significant—an acknowledgment of what was developing between you, beyond physical attraction or professional respect. Something balanced, harmonious, despite your different approaches to the world.

You lingered in the sound room for a time, experimenting with different tones and phrases, captivated by how your verbal patterns interacted.

“Where to next?” Silco asked eventually, offering his hand.

You took it, acutely aware of how his fingers interlaced with yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin as you made for the exit. “There’s a used bookstore a few blocks from here. They have a little café inside too, if you’re getting hungry.”

“Perfect,” he murmured, hesitating for a moment before adding, “Though I find myself somewhat challenged in my ability to focus on literature at present.”

You glanced up at him, your breath catching in your throat at the undisguised heat in his gaze.

“Patience,” you reminded him softly, echoing his earlier sentiment with deliberate provocation. “Wasn’t that your recommendation?”

“Indeed,” he replied, the word carrying a hint of strain as his gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “A virtue that I find myself less concerned with honoring by the second.”

You squeezed his hand, scintillas of heat racing up your spine at his words. “If I were to kiss you right now,” you began, watching him closely, “would that help to tide you over or just make it worse?”

“Oh, far worse,” he murmured, that telltale curve appearing at one corner of his mouth. “Though I find myself inclined to endure the additional torment, should you feel so compelled.”

You didn't need further invitation. Rising slightly on your toes, you pressed your lips to his in what you’d intended to be a brief, chaste gesture—just enough to satisfy the craving that had been building since you’d left his office that morning.

But the moment your lips met his, something shifted. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone as if he was trying to commit the topography of your face to memory. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted with the barely contained restraint you could feel in the tension of his body, in the careful way he held himself back.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing more rapidly than the brief contact should have warranted. His usually immaculate composure was noticeably disrupted—the pupil of his undamaged eye dilated, a faint flush high on his cheekbones, lips slightly parted.

“That was…” he started, then paused, seeming uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“Worse?” you supplied, unable to keep the smile from your face despite the heat blooming across your skin.

“Infinitely,” he agreed, voice rougher than usual as his thumb traced the curve of your lower lip with gentle precision. “Yet I find myself rather desperate to make matters even more unbearable.”

“That,” you murmured, holding his gaze, “can be arranged.”

Before he could respond, you parted your lips and drew the pad of his thumb into your mouth, tongue pressing against it in a deliberate caress. You felt him go completely still, heard the sharp intake of breath as his pupil dilated further, eclipsing almost all of the seafoam green.

Pressing a lingering kiss to the skin you had just dragged your tongue across, you reluctantly released him and stepped back.

“Okay!” you said brightly, as if nothing had happened. “Bookstore?”

For a moment, he simply stared at you, looking utterly wrecked in a way that sent a thrill of satisfaction through you.

“You possess,” he told you as he reached for your hand once more, “a remarkable talent for making me forget myself.”

You grinned. “Thank you,” you replied. “Maybe I’ll add that to my résumé.” “An impressive credential,” he observed, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “Though I imagine I’m the only one qualified to verify your proficiency in that particular skill.”

“I’d say that makes you uniquely qualified as well,” you replied softly, your gaze never leaving his.

The walk to the bookstore was leisurely on the surface, though charged with an awareness that made every touch feel deliberate. Your shoulders occasionally brushed, each contact sending a subtle current between you.

The shop occupied a converted townhouse, with books arranged across three floors connected by a central spiral staircase. The scent of aged paper mingled with fresh coffee as you entered, the quiet murmur of conversation drifting from the café area at the back.

You moved through the stacks together, occasionally separating to explore different sections before gravitating back toward each other. There was something oddly domestic about the experience—sharing space without pressure or agenda, simply existing in each other’s orbit.

In the natural history section, you found yourself drawn to a massive atlas of marine life, its binding cracked with age. Opening it revealed hand-colored plates of various sea creatures, each annotated in elegant script.

“Something like this would be perfect for the aquarium project,” you murmured, gingerly turning the delicate pages. “Look at the detail in these illustrations.”

Silco appeared at your side, leaning in to examine the book. His shoulder pressed against yours as he studied the page, his proximity sending warmth cascading through you despite the innocence of the contact.

“Remarkable,” he agreed, his finger hovering just above an intricate drawing of a deep-sea anglerfish. “Before photography, scientific illustration required both technical precision and artistic sensibility.” He turned another page, revealing a tableau of luminescent creatures rendered in delicate watercolor. “While I acknowledge photography’s contribution to scientific documentation, there’s something compelling about the interpretive nature of illustration,” he continued, his voice carrying that weighted consideration that made you instinctively lean in, not wanting to miss a word. “These artists managed to capture not merely appearance, but a certain ineffable quality—the mythology of the unexplored, the element of wonder that transforms the specimen into something approaching the divine.”

You glanced up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected poetry in his observation.

“God, I love the way you talk,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself, a grin spreading across your face as surprise flickered across his features. You turned your attention back to the book, your finger tracing the edge of a particularly detailed rendering of a jellyfish. “You’re completely right, though. There’s something about these that a photograph just can’t capture.”

Your enthusiasm built as you continued, “I think incorporating some of these vintage aesthetic elements into the new signage would be really cool. A blend of historical and contemporary approaches.”

He watched you with that soft expression that made your heart skip, clearly enjoying your fervor. “An excellent concept. The juxtaposition would create visual interest while honoring the scientific tradition.”

You closed the book, adding it to the growing stack in your arms. “Definitely getting this one. What about you? Found anything interesting?”

He nodded, guiding you toward the linguistics section where he had set aside a slim volume. “Lost Languages of the Ancient World,” he explained, picking it up with almost reverent hands. “I’ve had an interest in etymology since childhood—the way words evolve and transform across cultures and time.”

“It shows,” you remarked, one corner of your mouth lifting up. “Your vocabulary isn't exactly…casual.”

His eyebrow arched slightly. “Is that another observation about the way I speak?”

“Yes,” you replied, considering your response. “It’s very distinctive.”

“You mentioned appreciating it,” he reminded you, his tone deceptively neutral as he inspected the title of a book on the shelf behind you. “I’m rather curious about what specific aspects you find so…compelling.”

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer under the pretense of examining the volume in more detail, caging you in.

“Given your earlier comment about appreciating my voice,” Silco murmured, his lips close enough to your ear that his breath warmed your skin, “I find myself contemplating all the ways I might employ it later, when we no longer have an audience.”

His voice dropped lower, the deliberate enunciation of each word creating a physical sensation that coursed down your spine. “I’m particularly interested in discovering which specific words you might be most responsive to.”

You clutched the atlas tighter, grateful for something solid to hold onto as heat bloomed beneath your ribs. The combination of his proximity, the intimate rumble of his voice, and the deliberate pauses between certain words made it nearly impossible to maintain your composure.

He straightened, putting a respectable distance between you once more, his expression revealing nothing of the effect his words had clearly had on you. The only indication that he was fully aware of what he’d done was the subtle satisfaction in his mismatched eyes as he noted your slightly uneven breathing.

“Shall we continue to the café?” he suggested pleasantly, as if he hadn’t just deliberately shattered your composure with nothing but his voice.

You nodded, unable to trust your voice immediately as you tried to gather your scattered thoughts.

The café occupied what had once been the townhouse’s solarium, with windows overlooking a small courtyard garden. Despite the winter chill outside, the space was warm and inviting, filled with mismatched furniture and trailing plants.

You claimed a small table by the window while Silco approached the counter to order, your gaze following him unconsciously. When he returned, sliding into the seat across from you, you found yourself studying him with renewed fascination. The way sunlight from the window cast his features in gold and shadow, how his hands moved with such deliberate grace as he arranged the books on the table, the slight softening around his eyes when he caught you watching him.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, noticing your intense scrutiny.

“I’m so glad to be here with you,” you said softly, the sudden earnestness in your voice catching even you by surprise.

Something shifted in his expression, the careful composure giving way to a vulnerability that made your chest tighten. “As am I,” he replied, his voice carrying that gentle lilt that only appeared in his most unguarded moments.

The server arrived with your food, temporarily breaking the moment. As you ate, conversation flowed easily between topics—from book recommendations to art theory, from anecdotes about the center to the Last Drop. You found yourself repeatedly struck by the breadth of his knowledge, the way he underscored his observations with that wry wit that you found almost addictive.

As you took a sip of your tea, you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. Glancing at the screen, you let out a soft huff of laughter at Ava’s messages:

OMG YOU'RE NOT AT THE CENTER ON A SATURDAY?!? I stopped by and nearly had a heart attack. You MUST be with Silco. STATUS UPDATE REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY!!! This is NOT a drill!!

P.S PLEASE TELL MR. PRECISELY FORMAL BUT THERE’S THIS UNDERLYING THING I SAID HELLO

“Everything alright?” Silco asked, noting your expression as he carefully pushed his plate off to the side.

“Just Ava,” you explained, smiling. “She’s shocked that I’m not working today and has correctly guessed that it’s because I’m with you. She demanded immediate updates.”

Silco’s mouth curved slightly. “I would expect nothing less. She’s remarkably protective of you.”

“She is,” you agreed warmly. “And endlessly curious about…us. Though to be fair, I’m sure you’ll get plenty of questions from Jinx as well.”

“Not so much questions as much as observations,” he admitted, a hint of fond exasperation entering his expression. “Delivered with her characteristic lack of subtlety.”

“Oh?” you questioned, intrigued. “And what might those be?”

He took a measured sip of his tea before answering, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of the cup. “That I am, in her words, ‘painfully obvious’ in how I feel about you. It is apparently, and again I quote, ‘deeply traumatizing’ to witness.”

You laughed, imagining Jinx's dramatic delivery of these assessments. “Blunt as ever,” you commented affectionately.

Silco hummed in agreement, his phone buzzing with an incoming notification. He withdrew it from his pocket, his gaze softening in that particular way it always did when Jinx was involved.

“It seems Jinx is requesting permission to stay at Rowan’s house this evening,” he said, glancing up at you. “Apparently they wish to work on a merchandise proposal for Cloudbrew. And,” he added, a hint of amusement entering his tone, “she seems particularly enthusiastic about the promise of lasagna for dinner.”

You smiled. “Elaine is an incredible cook. She catered our volunteer appreciation dinner last spring.”

Silco nodded, though you caught the brief flicker of uncertainty in his expression. “I haven’t had many opportunities to interact with Rowan’s parents,” he admitted, thumbs hovering over his phone as he composed a response. “You know them well?”

“Especially Elaine,” you assured him, understanding his hesitation. “She’s wonderful—very supportive of Rowan’s art. They have a great home environment.”

The slight tension in his shoulders eased at your assessment. “That’s…reassuring to hear,” he said, returning his attention to the phone. “I try not to be overprotective, but…”

“You’re her dad,” you finished for him softly. “It’s natural to worry.”

He completed his message and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “I’ve given my approval, with the caveat that she text me when they retire for the evening.”

You nodded, then found yourself suddenly aware of the implications. “So…that means your evening is unexpectedly free?”

The realization seemed to strike him simultaneously. His gaze met yours, something darkening in his bicoloured eyes. “It would appear so,” he replied, his voice dropping to that register that never failed to send a shiver down your spine.

You both lingered over your empty cups, neither quite ready to suggest the next step, the air between you charged with possibility. Finally, he glanced at his watch.

“Shall we head back toward the gallery?” he asked, his carefully neutral tone belied by the intensity in his gaze. “We can decide where to go next on the way.”

You nodded, gathering your purchases. The cashier had double-bagged the marine atlas and your other books in sturdy plastic, which you clutched close to your chest.

Outside, the afternoon sky had darkened considerably, heavy clouds rolling in from the river.

“Looks like rain,” you observed, though the word seemed woefully inadequate for the ominous wall of gray bearing down on the city.

Silco hummed in agreement, eyeing the sky with practiced assessment. “Quite severe, by the look of it.”

You’d barely made it halfway back to the gallery when the storm broke. What started as a few icy drops quickly became a deluge, freezing rain driven sideways by gusts of wind that cut through your coat. Silco immediately shrugged out of his overcoat, holding it above you both as a makeshift umbrella, though it did little to shield you from the onslaught.

As the rain intensified, you carefully folded the top of your bag, creating a seal that prevented the water from reaching the books contained within. Silco noticed your efforts, shifting his coat to better shield you even as the rain soaked through his own clothes.

By the time you reached the gallery parking lot, you were both thoroughly drenched, clothes plastered to your skin, hair dripping into your eyes. The books, at least, had remained dry thanks to your combined efforts. You slid into the passenger seat of his car, teeth chattering as the cold began to seep into your bones.

Silco started the engine, immediately turning the heat to its highest setting. “My home is close by,” he said, his tone measured despite the implication of his offer. “You could warm up, dry off.”

Your lips, numb with cold, curved into a smile. “That sounds perfect.”

The drive to his house was brief, just enough time for the car’s heater to take the edge off the chill but nowhere near enough to dry your sodden clothes. When he pulled into the driveway of a modest but elegant single-family home set slightly back from the street, you felt a flutter of nervous anticipation beneath your discomfort.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, taking in the classic architecture and well-maintained exterior.

“It suits our needs,” he replied, though you caught the pleased note in his voice as he unlocked the door.

Inside, the space reflected Silco perfectly—tastefully decorated in muted tones, classic furniture arranged with careful precision, everything in its proper place. Yet there were unmistakable touches of Jinx throughout—vibrant artwork on the walls, a collection of colorful cushions scattered across an otherwise formal sofa, photographs in eclectic frames lining the hallway.

“The bathroom is this way,” Silco told you, taking the bag of books from you and carefully setting them on the console table before leading you up a staircase to the second floor. “I’ll find you something dry to wear.”

The bathroom was luxurious in an understated way—all dark marble and brushed metal fixtures, a rainfall shower head suspended from the ceiling over a glass-enclosed space large enough for two. You tried not to dwell on that particular observation, and failed spectacularly.

He returned moments later, a neatly folded stack of clothing in his hands. “These should suffice,” he said, setting them on the counter. “Take your time. There are fresh towels in the cabinet.”

Once alone, you peeled off your wet clothes, hanging them carefully over the shower door. The hot water was blissful against your chilled skin, steam filling the glass enclosure. You couldn’t help but notice his toiletries—an array of products with subtle, expensive packaging arranged with characteristic precision. The body wash carried that familiar scent—citrus and vetiver with that elusive spicy note that the label finally identified as cardamom. You found yourself lingering, surrounded by the scent of him, the intimacy of the moment making your skin flush beyond what could be attributed to the hot water alone.

After reluctantly turning off the shower, you wrapped yourself in one of the plush towels from the cabinet and examined the clothes he’d provided: plain black pajama pants with a drawstring waist and a soft heather gray t-shirt, both clearly his. The thought of wearing his clothes, of being enveloped in the fabric that normally touched his skin, sent a small thrill through you despite their simple utility.

You slipped them on, the pants requiring a considerable roll at the waist and ankles to accommodate the difference in your heights. The shirt was oversized but surprisingly comfortable, the fabric worn to perfect softness. Unable to resist, you lifted the collar to your nose, inhaling deeply. The subtle scent of his laundry detergent mingled with something indefinably him made your chest tighten with sudden longing.

You gathered your composure and opened the bathroom door, the steam escaping around you as you headed back downstairs. You found Silco in the living room, standing near a sleek gas fireplace set into one wall.

“Feel better?” he asked, turning at the sound of your approach. His gaze traveled over you, lingering on the rolled cuffs of the pants, the way his shirt draped loosely across your shoulders. Something darkened in his expression, though his voice remained carefully measured when he spoke again. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He gestured toward a charcoal gray sectional positioned to face both the fireplace and the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a private courtyard, now obscured by sheets of rain.

“Thank you,” you said, suddenly self-conscious in his clothes. “For everything. The shower was amazing.”

“I’m glad,” he replied, his usual precision slightly undermined by the dampness of his own clothing. “If you’ll excuse me, I should change as well.”

You nodded, sinking into the sofa as he disappeared up the stairs. The fireplace cast a warm glow across the room, the flames dancing behind tempered glass. Despite the minimalist design of the space, it felt unexpectedly comfortable—the sofa deep enough to curl up on, the throw pillows arranged with artful casualness that suggested Jinx’s influence rather than his.

Your phone buzzed again. Retrieving it, you found several increasingly frantic messages from Ava:

HELLO??? I KNOW YOU READ MY FIRST MESSAGES. I require DETAILS. Where are you? What's happening? Did you kiss him again?

Are you ignoring me on purpose? Talia says I should stop texting you because maybe you're BUSY but now I'm imagining WHY you might be busy and I need confirmation or denial IMMEDIATELY.

If you don’t answer in the next hour I'm going to assume you’ve either been murdered or you're having the best day of your life and either way I NEED TO KNOW WHICH ONE.

You couldn’t help but laugh, settling deeper into the cushions as you typed a response:

Still alive. Got caught in the storm after the bookstore. Currently at Silco’s house, wearing his clothes, waiting for him to get out of the shower. Day has been pretty much perfect.

Her reply was instantaneous:

WEARING HIS CLOTHES???? 😏👀🤪

Our clothes got soaked in the rain. He gave me something dry to wear after I showered. Nothing scandalous. Yet.

You hesitated before sending that last word, but the day had built a certain momentum that made you bold. You could almost hear Ava’s shriek when she read it.

Talia said I am not allowed to text you anymore but I EXPECT A FULL REPORT TOMORROW. Or tonight if things go well. Or badly. EITHER WAY I NEED UPDATES.

You grinned, typing back a quick affirmative before setting your phone aside. The heat from the fireplace had finally begun to chase away the last of the chill from the storm, your muscles relaxing as you leaned your head back against the cushions.

From somewhere upstairs came the sound of running water—Silco in the shower. You allowed yourself to imagine him, the elegant line of his throat exposed as he tipped his head back to shampoo his silver-threaded hair, rivulets cascading over his lithe torso, following the line of dark hair that began in the center of his chest and continued downward.

You closed your eyes for a moment, listening to the symphony of rain and fire and distant water, wrapped in his clothes, surrounded by his space—the closest you’d been to him in so many ways, yet still with that final threshold unbroken between you.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs roused you from your reverie. You opened your eyes to find Silco crossing the living room, transformed by his change of clothes. Gone was the formal attire, replaced by dark trousers and a soft viridian sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Without his usual collar pins and perfectly pressed shirts, he looked different—no less striking, but somehow more approachable.

“I apologize for not offering you something to drink while you were waiting,” he said, running a hand through his still-damp hair. Without the usual styling product, it fell slightly softer around his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his features.

“It’s fine,” you assured him, offering him a small smile. “I was just watching the storm.”

He nodded, moving to a small built-in cabinet near the fireplace. “Would you care for a glass of wine? I have an Ionian red that might help chase away the last of the chill.”

“That sounds perfect,” you replied, watching as he selected a bottle from an impressive collection.

“I’ll just be a moment,” he told you, disappearing into what you presumed was the kitchen. You heard the gentle pop of a cork being freed, glasses clinking softly as he moved with his characteristic precision.

When he returned several minutes later with two glasses of deep ruby wine, you’d curled more comfortably into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked beneath you. He handed you one of the glasses before settling beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without quite touching.

“This is good,” you said, inhaling the rich aroma of dark berries and spice before taking a sip. The wine was velvety on your tongue, with notes of blackberry and pepper that lingered pleasantly.

“I’m pleased you think so,” he replied, his voice carrying that gentle lilt that emerged when he spoke of things he genuinely enjoyed.

The comfortable domesticity of the moment—sitting together on his sofa, sipping wine while rain lashed the windows—made you bold. “Have you always been so…formal? Or is that something that developed later?”

His mismatched eyes met yours, surprise evident in his expression. “An unexpected query.”

“I’m curious,” you admitted with a small shrug. “There’s still so much I don't know about you.”

He seemed to consider this, taking a measured sip of his wine before responding. “No,” he said finally. “There was a time when I was considerably less…restrained.”

“Oh?” you prompted, intrigued by the rare mention of his earlier life.

“I was in a hardcore band,” he said, the admission so unexpected that you nearly laughed. “In my early twenties.”

You stared at him, trying to reconcile this information with the meticulously composed man before you. “You’re serious?”

“Quite.” His mouth curved into that almost-smile you adored. “Grey Matter. Jinx’s parents, Vander, and myself. We played a few local venues, but mostly abandoned warehouses or basements.”

“What did you play?” you asked, utterly captivated by this revelation.

“Bass,” he replied, taking another sip of wine. “I wasn’t particularly talented, but what I lacked in skill I made up for in volume.”

You tried to imagine him younger—before the accident, before the scars, before the meticulous control—playing in some dingy venue. “Were you all any good?”

“Absolutely not,” he admitted with unexpected candor. “We were dreadful. But extremely loud, which seemed sufficient at the time.”

The image was so at odds with his current persona that you couldn’t help but laugh. “I can’t believe it. You, a bassist in a hardcore band.”

“There’s photographic evidence, unfortunately,” he told you, looking faintly embarrassed. “Jinx discovered one of the few surviving photographs last year. She thought it was hilarious. And deeply mortifying.”

“I can imagine,” you grinned, easily picturing her reaction.

“She went so far as to have it printed on a t-shirt,” he continued, fond exasperation entering his tone. “A ‘proper band shirt’ as she called it. She often threatens to wear it out in public when she wants something. A surprisingly effective blackmail tactic.”

“I would pay good money for one of those shirts,” you told him seriously.

He regarded you with a mixture of amusement and horror. “I sincerely hope you’re joking.”

“Not even a little bit,” you assured him. “We could do an extremely limited run. Just for me.”

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly, though his eyes betrayed his amusement.

“I’ll convince you eventually,” you promised, smiling at him over the rim of your wine glass. “I have my ways.”

His expression darkened slightly, gaze dropping to your lips. “I’m beginning to discover that.”

Heat bloomed across your skin at his tone and you took a sip to disguise your reaction, enjoying the comfortable silence that settled between you. It was strange how natural it felt to be here with him like this—sharing stories, occupying the same space without pressure or pretense.

His phone chimed again, and he glanced at it before setting it aside. “Jinx again,” he explained. “Informing me that if we decide to order dinner, she strongly recommends we avoid the new fusion place near the center as, and I quote, ‘their dumplings taste like sadness and regret.’”

You laughed, charmed as always by Jinx’s unique way of expressing herself. “Actually, I was hoping to try that place. Good to know.”

Silco seemed to consider something for a moment before setting his glass down. “I could cook,” he offered, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. “If you’d like to stay for dinner.”

“I’d love that,” you told him, no longer caring whether you sounded overeager. “Can I help?”

He stood, collecting your wineglass to refill it. “I think not. Your hand needs rest,” he insisted, nodding toward your still-healing injury. “You’ve already overused it today.”

“I haven’t,” you protested, following him as he made his way into the kitchen—a space as meticulously organized as you’d expected, with gleaming appliances and spotless countertops arranged with mathematical precision.

“No?” he questioned, setting your refilled glass on the island counter. The corner of his mouth curved upward as he turned to face you, something wicked gleaming in his mismatched eyes. “Because I seem to recall you rather enthusiastically pulling my hair with it earlier today.”

Heat flooded your cheeks at the unexpected reference, memories of the morning spent in his office crashing back—your fingers tangled in his hair as his mouth moved against you, the way he had shuddered when you tightened your grip.

“I—that’s not—” you spluttered, caught entirely off-guard by his directness. “I was somewhat distracted at the time. Didn’t really notice my hand.”

“Distracted,” he repeated, his tone deceptively casual as he retrieved ingredients from the refrigerator. “How interesting. By what, exactly?”

The slight curve of his mouth told you he knew precisely what had distracted you, but was deliberately making you say it.

“You know perfectly well,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at him as you leaned against the counter. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Tremendously,” he admitted without a trace of shame, selecting a knife from a magnetic strip on the wall. “Though I suspect not nearly as much as you enjoyed yourself earlier.” You felt a rush of boldness, perhaps fueled by the wine, perhaps by the growing certainty that the painstaking restraint you’d both maintained was nearing its end.

“Well,” you replied, holding his gaze, “I’m not entirely convinced anything could be as enjoyable as that.”

He paused, knife suspended mid-motion, something darkening in his expression that sent a shiver down your spine. “Is that so?” he murmured, setting the knife aside with deliberate care. “I do appreciate a well-defined challenge.”

The promise in his voice made heat pool in your stomach, but before you could respond, his demeanor shifted. He reached for your injured hand, all traces of teasing replaced by genuine concern.

“First, however, I should check your stitches,” he said, his tone softening. “The bandage needs changing, especially after the shower.”

You watched as he retrieved a small medical kit from a drawer, similar to the one he’d used to stitch your wound in the first place. His efficiency hadn’t changed, but there was something different in his touch now—the same precision, but with an undercurrent of tenderness that made your chest tighten.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, gingerly unwrapping the gauze to examine his handiwork.

“Not really,” you told him, more aware of the gentle stroke of his thumb against your wrist than any discomfort from the wound. “It’s more annoying than painful at this point.”

He nodded, inspecting the healing cut with clinical attention. “It’s coming along well. No signs of infection.” His expression was focused, his touch feather-light as he applied antiseptic and rewrapped your hand with fresh bandages. “Though I meant what I said about resting it.”

The care he took with such a mundane task, his complete focus on ensuring your comfort even amid the growing tension between you—it was almost overwhelming.

“Thank you,” you murmured as he secured the bandage.

He met your gaze, his fingers lingering against your pulse point. “Always,” he replied simply.

The sincerity in that single word made something twist beneath your ribs. Before you could dwell on it, he was returning to the counter, seemingly focused once more on dinner preparations.

“Now,” he said, the slight roughness in his voice the only indication that he wasn’t as composed as he appeared, “if you insist on helping despite my medical advice, perhaps you could select some music? The system controls are on the wall panel by the refrigerator.”

You made your way to the sleek panel, scrolling through the extensive digital library. The recently played section caught your eye with several playlists bearing unmistakable signs of Jinx’s handiwork:

- “DAD STOP BEING BORING” (an eclectic mix of classical compositions)

- “cooking w/ dad but make it DRAMATIC” (orchestral film scores)

- “music to chop vegetables aggressively to” (old-school metal)

- “songs that won’t make dad’s eye twitch” (post-punk essentials)

- “acceptable background noise for 💅FANCY DINNER NIGHTS 💅” (classical piano)

You smiled at this brief illumination into their home life, resisting the urge to scroll through the rest of the library.

“Let’s see…I don’t suppose Grey Matter is on here?” you asked innocently, glancing over your shoulder.

He shot you a look that might have been intimidating if not for the way one corner of his mouth quirked upward despite his best efforts. “I believe I preferred you when you were too distracted to be troublesome.”

“Liar,” you countered with a grin, turning back to the display. You selected “songs that won’t make dad’s eye twitch” and the opening notes of a song by Modern English filled the kitchen.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, drawing your attention. Ava had sent another message:

TALIA IS IN THE SHOWER SO I HAVE APPROXIMATELY 5 MINUTES BEFORE SHE CONFISCATES MY PHONE. GIVE ME UPDATES NOW!!

You laughed, shaking your head at her persistence. “Ava again,” you explained when Silco glanced up. “Apparently she’s taking advantage of Talia being in the shower to demand updates.”

“By all means,” he replied dryly, “don’t keep her waiting on my account.”

A mischievous impulse seized you as you began typing, reading aloud as you went: “Currently watching Silco cook dinner in his kitchen. You should see how perfectly he handles a knife—each cut exactly the same size. It’s mesmerizing.”

You glanced up to find him watching you, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“What?” you asked innocently. “I’m just giving her the updates she requested.”

His expression remained neutral, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he returned to his preparations. Emboldened, you continued, still narrating as you typed:

“He looks absurdly handsome. Honestly unfair how attractive he is while doing something as mundane as chopping vegetables. (He just paused mid-slice when I said that.)”

You caught Silco’s hands stilling momentarily before he resumed his work, the only indication he'd registered your words.

“I doubt this level of detail is strictly necessary,” he observed calmly, though you didn't miss the slight deepening of his voice.

“I’m simply providing accurate information,” you replied, affecting an innocent tone. “For the sake of thoroughness.”

Your phone buzzed again with Ava’s response:

OH MY GOD YOU ARE LITERALLY READING THESE TO HIM AS YOU TYPE THEM?? YOU’RE INSANE. I LOVE IT. IS HE BLUSHING?? IS HIS VOICE DOING THE THING?? I NEED EVERY DETAIL.

Your next message was cut short by another text from Ava:

TALIA IS OUT OF THE SHOWER. SHE’S COMING. GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD. TELL SILCO I SAID—

Followed immediately by:

This is Talia. Ava’s phone privileges have been revoked for the evening. Enjoy your dinner. X

“Apparently Talia has confiscated her phone,” you informed him, setting your own aside with a dramatic sigh. “Our correspondence has been cruelly cut short.”

“How devastating,” he commented, the perfect neutrality of his tone betrayed only by the slight curve of his mouth. “However will you occupy yourself now?”

“Oh, I think I’ll just continue narrating how incredibly sexy you look preparing risotto,” you replied with feigned casualness, propping your chin on your uninjured hand. “Though I’ll have to keep the observations to myself now.”

He hummed noncommittally, though you caught the subtle tightening of his grip on the wooden spoon as he stirred the rice. “How terribly disappointing for Ava.”

“You know,” you continued, watching him add stock to the pan with precise movements, “your next business venture really should be a cooking show. You’d amass a ridiculous fan base in no time.”

“A cooking show,” he repeated flatly, though the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. “An intriguing proposal. Though I believe my current fan base is quite ridiculous enough as is.”

“Rude,” you laughed, warmth blooming in your chest as he gave you a precious, crooked smile.

He was quiet for a moment, eyes turning back to the risotto as he added another ladle of stock, before glancing back at you.

“Would it bother you?” he asked, his tone deliberately casual despite the intensity in his gaze. “If I had adoring fans hanging on my every word?”

There was something in the way he watched you—a subtle vulnerability beneath the question that suggested he wasn’t merely teasing. The realization that he might be seeking reassurance, that your opinion mattered enough for him to ask, made something shift inside you.

You rose from your seat at the counter, drawn toward him as if by gravity.

“They can look all they want,” you told him softly, stepping into his space. He stilled as you reached up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing against his cheekbone. “I know I’m the only one who gets to touch.”

His eyes darkened at your words, but he remained motionless, the wooden spoon suspended over the pan as if he feared any movement might shatter the moment. You leaned in, lips brushing just below his ear—that sensitive spot where jaw met throat. You felt the shudder that ran through him, heard the barely audible catch in his breathing.

“I’m going to burn the risotto if you don’t behave yourself,” he warned, his measured tone betrayed by the slight tremor beneath it.

You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “I promise to behave,” you said with feigned innocence, returning to your seat at the counter. “At least until after dinner.”

“How remarkably considerate of you,” he replied, his composure gradually returning as he refocused on the pan, though you didn’t miss the way his knuckles had whitened around the spoon. Conversation flowed easily during dinner despite the undercurrent of anticipation, discussions of the center and the aquarium project interspersed with quiet moments when your gazes would meet across the table, neither of you looking away.

When you’d finished eating, he insisted on handling the dishes himself, waving off your attempts to help. “Your hand needs rest,” he reminded you, the shadow of a smile playing at his lips as he added, “and I recall you making a promise to behave until after dinner.”

“I did promise that, didn’t I?” you acknowledged, watching him move about the kitchen with that inherent grace that never failed to captivate you. “But dinner is now technically over.”

“Indeed it is,” he agreed, his voice dropping to that lower register that sent heat coursing through you. “Though perhaps you’d allow me to finish this one task before we explore the implications of that promise.”

His hands moved methodically as he loaded the dishwasher with practiced efficiency, each movement purposeful despite the tension evident in the set of his shoulders. When he finished, he turned to face you fully. The storm outside had intensified, rain lashing against the windows, thunder rumbling in the distance. The sound seemed to underscore the electricity between you, a physical manifestation of the charge that had been building all day.

For a moment, he simply watched you, mismatched eyes darkening as they held yours across the kitchen. Then something shifted in his expression—a subtle change, as if some internal calculation had finally been resolved.

“I believe,” he said at last, “that’s quite enough patience for one day.”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you with measured steps. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with aching tenderness.

“Quite enough,” he repeated, softer now, almost a question.

“Yes,” you breathed, the single syllable barely audible over the storm outside.

And then, finally, his lips were on yours.

Chapter Text

For a moment, he simply watched you, mismatched eyes darkening as they held yours across the kitchen. Then something shifted in his expression—a subtle change, as if some internal calculation had finally been resolved.

“I believe,” he said at last, “that’s quite enough patience for one day.”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you with measured steps. His hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with aching tenderness.

“Quite enough,” he repeated, softer now, almost a question.

“Yes,” you breathed, the single syllable barely audible over the storm outside.

And then, finally, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was unhurried yet consuming, as if having made the decision to cross this threshold, he intended to savor every moment of the passage. His hands cradled your face with a reverence that made your breath hitch, thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as his mouth moved against yours.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his sweater, pulling him closer as the last vestiges of restraint dissolved between you. A soft sound escaped you as his tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking entrance that you eagerly granted.

The kitchen counter pressed against your lower spine as he guided you backward, his body aligning with yours in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach. His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, then lower, spanning your waist before settling at your hips. As he pressed open-mouthed kisses across your cheeks and jaw, you let out an involuntary whimper, tipping your head back to allow him better access.

His lips trailed down your neck, pausing at the sensitive pulse point just below your ear. You gasped as he lingered there, the gentle scrape of teeth followed by the soothing warmth of his tongue making your knees weaken.

“Silco,” you breathed, fingers threading through his hair, still slightly damp from his shower.

The absence of his usual styling product made it softer between your fingers, easier to grip as you guided his mouth back to yours. He complied readily, kissing you with increasing urgency, his controlled demeanor giving way to something hungrier, more desperate. When you shifted against him, he made a low sound in the back of his throat—a groan barely contained—and suddenly his hands were at the backs of your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with an ease that made you shiver with want.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him closer as his hands slid beneath the hem of your borrowed shirt, his palms hot against your skin. His touch was gentle yet possessive, fingers splaying across your lower back as he pressed impossibly closer.

“Is this alright?” he murmured against your lips, voice rough with desire yet still careful, still seeking permission.

“Yes,” you assured him, your voice cracking ever so slightly on the word as your hands moved to the hem of his sweater. "Can I?"

He nodded, helping you pull the garment over his head. The sight of him—lean muscle beneath pale skin shadowed by a trail of sparse, dark hair snaking from the cleft of his chest to beneath his waistband, the raven and scorpion tattoos now fully visible—stole the air from your lungs.

“God, Silco,” you whispered, fingers tracing the outline of the raven's wing across his ribs. “Look at you.”

You bent down, gently placing a tender kiss just above his heart, feeling the warmth of his skin against your lips. Slowly, you worked your way upward, tracing a path over the prominent rise of his collarbones, your lips brushing softly against each curve. As you continued, you reached the side of his neck, where the skin was soft and inviting, the subtle pulse beneath a testament to the precious life thrumming within.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” you told him, cradling his jaw in your hands as you drank in the sight of him. “So fucking perfect.”

A slight flush appeared high on his cheekbones at your praise, something vulnerable flickering in his expression before he leaned in to capture your mouth once more. Your fingertips traced the contours of his torso, exploring every plane and angle with reverent curiosity. When you brushed against the dark trail of hair leading down from his navel, you felt his stomach muscles tighten beneath your touch.

“Your turn,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual as his hands found the hem of your borrowed shirt.

You lifted your arms, allowing him to pull it over your head. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin, though they had little to do with the temperature and everything to do with the heat in his gaze as he took in the sight of you.

“Lovely,” he breathed, one hand coming up to trace the delicate chain of the shark tooth pendant where it rested against your neck.

Leaning in with excruciating slowness, he followed its path down to the hollow of your throat, his breath warm against your skin. He continued his descent, pausing momentarily at your sternum, savoring the anticipation that coiled within you. Your skin tingled at the first warm caress of his tongue, a gentle, intimate touch that sent shivers down your spine. Your fingers wove into his hair, feeling the soft texture as he journeyed further down your body, each heated kiss leaving a trail of warmth that he leisurely licked over.

When he reached your waistband, he halted once more, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. His gaze was dark and smoldering, a silent promise of what was to come, as he deftly hooked his fingers beneath the edge of the fabric.

“I need you in my bed,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper laden with longing.

“Silco,” you whispered, leaning down to press your forehead against his, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze. “Yes. Please.”

He helped you down from the counter with careful hands, your bodies remaining close as he guided you toward the stairs. Each step was interrupted by kisses—against the wall in the hallway, at the base of the staircase, halfway up when your hand slid just beneath his waistband and he groaned against your mouth. The journey to his bedroom became a gradual progression of escalating touches, neither of you willing to break contact for more than a moment.

His bedroom reflected him perfectly—understated elegance in muted grays and midnight blues, everything arranged with meticulous precision. The large bed dominated the space, its dark sheets turned down with military corners.

You paused in the doorway, becoming acutely aware of the significance of crossing this final threshold. The room ahead seemed to hum with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of fresh linens and a faint trace of his cologne. Silco, standing close, seemed to misinterpret your desire to fully savor the moment as hesitation. His hand rose gently to cradle your face, his touch exuding an aching tenderness that sent a shiver down your spine.

“We can stop,” he offered quietly, his thumb lightly brushing your cheekbone with a feather-like caress, “at any point.”

The care in his voice, the genuine concern beneath his own evident desire, made your chest tighten with a mingling of emotion. The sincerity in his eyes, deep and unwavering, reflected the soft glow of the dimly lit room.

You turned your face slightly, pressing a tender kiss to his palm—a gesture of trust and intimacy more profound than any you’d shared before. The warmth of his skin against your lips felt like a silent promise.

“I don’t want to stop,” you assured him, your voice steady yet filled with emotion as you held his gaze. “I want you. I… fuck, Silco, I need you.”

The words hung in the air, raw and honest, carrying the full weight of your longing and desire. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours for a moment before capturing your mouth in a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened.

His hands slid to your waist, guiding you backward into the room until your legs met the edge of the bed. You sank down onto the mattress, gazing up at him as he stood between your parted knees. The sight of him—shirtless, disheveled, gaze dark with want—made your breath catch in your throat. His fingers trembled slightly as they found the drawstring of your borrowed pants, the subtle tremor betraying how deeply his careful composure had been eroded. You reached for his wrists, stilling his movements, and he immediately froze.

“Let me,” you whispered, your fingers moving to the fastenings of his trousers. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

Something flashed in his mismatched eyes—surprise, then a heat so intense you could almost feel it against your skin. He nodded, watching with undisguised fascination as you methodically undid his belt, the button, the zipper. When your fingers brushed against him through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs, he inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening with the effort of maintaining control.

You pushed his pants down over lean hips, revealing the elegant lines of his body. The scorpion tattoo curved along his hip bone, drawing your gaze downward to where his arousal strained against dark fabric. You traced the outline of the tattoo with your fingertips, feeling him shudder beneath your touch, before slowly tugging both layers down. Your breath caught at the sight of him—hard and straining against his stomach, the dark trail of hair you'd been tracing earlier leading to its inevitable conclusion.

He stepped out of his discarded clothing with a grace that shouldn't have been possible given the circumstances, his eyes never leaving yours as you reached for him. The first touch of your fingers against his heated skin drew a hiss from between his clenched teeth, his abdominal muscles tightening visibly.

“Christ,” he groaned as you wrapped your hand around him, his voice strained almost beyond recognition.

“You’re so beautiful,” you told him, stroking slowly upward, reveling in the feeling of him beneath your palm.

His composure further splintered at your words, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he leaned down to capture your mouth in a kiss that felt like surrender. You continued your careful exploration, learning what made his breath hitch, what drew those rare, unguarded sounds from deep in his throat.

“Can I taste you?” you asked against his lips, your voice barely above a whisper.

He inhaled sharply, his gaze darkening as it met yours. For a moment, he seemed unable to speak, overwhelmed by your request.

“If that’s what you want,” he finally managed, voice rough with barely contained desire.

“Fuck, yes,” you breathed, sliding to your knees before him, your touch sending shivers across his skin.

You leaned forward, pressing a reverent kiss to his hip, just above where the scorpion’s stinger curled against his skin.

“Thought about this so much,” you murmured, trailing kisses along the dark line of hair that led downward. “There were nights I couldn’t sleep because all I could think about was—was how badly I wanted to make you come.”

The raw honesty of your words drew a shuddering breath from him, his hand coming to rest at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with exquisite gentleness despite the tension evident in every line of his body.

You looked up at him through your lashes, holding his gaze as you took him into your mouth. The sound he made—a strangled groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest—sent heat flooding through you. His usually immaculate composure crumbled further as you worked him with deliberate patience, alternating between slow, languorous strokes of your tongue and more focused attention that had his thighs trembling beneath your hands.

The taste of him, the weight of him against your tongue, the guttural sound that escaped him as his head fell back—it was everything you'd imagined and more.

“God,” he gasped, his fingers tightening reflexively in your hair before he caught himself, loosening his grip. “Please—”

You hummed around him, taking him deeper, reveling in his incoherence—this man of precise words reduced to fragments and gasps by your mouth. His breathing grew increasingly ragged, stomach trembling beneath one palm, until he gently tugged your hair, forcing your gaze up.

“Enough,” he managed, his voice rough with need as he gently stilled your movements. “I want—I need to touch you properly.”

You allowed him to guide you to your feet, his hands gentle as they framed your face. The kiss he pressed to your lips was tender yet urgent, a contrast that made your chest tighten with emotion.

“These,” he murmured, fingers tracing the waistband of your borrowed pants, “need to go.”

You nodded, helping him as he slid them down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear. His gaze raked over you, something almost worshipful in his expression as he took in the sight of you.

“On the bed,” he instructed softly, his voice carrying that precise cadence that never failed to send shivers down your spine.

You complied, moving backward until you were settled against the pillows. He followed, his movements graceful as he positioned himself above you, one knee between your thighs. His weight was a welcome pressure as he leaned down to capture your mouth once more, his kiss deep and thorough. His hand traced a path from your jaw down your neck, fingertips skimming along your collarbone before continuing their journey.

When he reached the edge of your underwear, he paused, his gaze meeting yours in silent question. At your nod, he hooked his fingers beneath the fabric, slowly dragging it down your legs until you were completely bare beneath him.

Something shifted in his expression as he took in the sight of you—a softness entering his gaze despite the heat that burned there.

“Perfect,” he breathed, the single word carrying the weight of his wonder.

His hands traced gentle patterns across your skin as he lowered himself beside you, propped on one elbow as his free hand explored the contours of your body. When his fingertips skimmed across your ribs, trailing downward to your hip, you shivered with anticipation.

“I’ve longed for this,” he confessed, voice rough with emotion as his palm settled against your stomach. “To touch you like this. To learn every inch of you.”

His words sent a shiver through you, the raw honesty in his voice making your breath catch. You reached for him, drawing him back to your lips, needing to taste the confession directly from his mouth.

“Show me,” you begged against his lips. “Need you to touch me, Silco, please—”

Slowly, he trailed his hand lower, fingertips skimming across your stomach before dipping between your thighs. You gasped as he found you already slick with arousal, his touch exploratory yet precise, learning what made your breath hitch, what drew soft sounds from your throat.

“Like this?” he murmured, voice low and intimate as his fingers circled your clit with careful pressure. “Is this how you want to be touched?”

You bit down on your lower lip, brows furrowing as you shifted your hips against him, seeking more stimulation.

“More,” you choked out as his fingertips brushed against a particularly sensitive spot, “please, Silco—”

His eyes locked with yours, dark with desire as he slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them with methodical precision. The sensation drew a ragged moan from your lips, your back arching off the bed as pleasure coursed through you.

“God, yes,” you gasped, hands clutching at his shoulders as he established a rhythm that had you trembling beneath him. “Just like that. Fuck.”

He watched your reactions with rapt attention, adjusting his movements in response to each gasp, each subtle shift of your hips. His thumb found your clit, circling in counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers, and you cried out, head falling back against the pillows.

“That’s it, angel,” he coaxed you softly.

Just as it had done earlier that morning in his office, the use of the endearment started to unravel you. However, unlike that morning when you had held back from surrendering, this time you deliberately chose to extend the sensation, eager to savor it for as long as possible. Curling up, you cradled his jaw with one hand, kissing him fervently as his fingers continued their movements between your thighs.

“Silco,” you breathed against his mouth, letting out a whimper as the strokes of his fingers became more languid, drawing as much pleasure out of every motion as he could.

“Yes?” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curving into that almost-smile that made your heart stutter.

His fingers never ceased their careful exploration, maintaining a rhythm that kept you hovering on the edge without quite pushing you over. “Fuck, I love your hands,” you whispered, catching his gaze. “Love the way you touch me.”

The raw honesty of your words seemed to affect him deeply, the pupil of his undamaged eye dilating further as he watched you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His fingers curled inside you with deliberate precision, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids while his thumb circled your clit with unwavering focus.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he urged, “Tell me what else you love.”

The request, so vulnerable beneath its boldness, made your chest tighten with emotion even as pleasure built within you. “Your voice,” you gasped, arching into his touch. “The way you say my name. Your—your mouth. Want to feel it on me again, please—”

A sharp tremor ran through him at your words, and in one fluid movement, he shifted down your body. His mouth replaced his thumb, tongue tracing patterns against your clit that made you cry out, hands fisting in the sheets. The sight of him between your thighs, mismatched eyes dark with desire as they held yours, was almost enough to push you over the edge.

“Silco,” you moaned, one hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. “God, yes—right there—”

He hummed against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. One arm slid beneath your thighs, palm hot against your skin as he lifted you slightly, changing the angle to allow him deeper access. The combination of his fingers inside you and his tongue working against your clit quickly pushed you toward the edge. Your breath came in ragged gasps, hips rolling against his mouth as tension built within you.

“Silco—” you pleaded, your thighs beginning to tremble around his head, “baby—”

The endearment slipped out unbidden, drawn from somewhere deep inside you as pleasure coiled tighter. You felt him falter for just a moment, a barely perceptible pause before he redoubled his efforts, his movements becoming more focused, more deliberate. His fingers curled inside you with unerring precision, stroking that spot that made your vision blur while his tongue worked your clit with relentless attention.

“Silco,” you gasped, the tension building to an almost unbearable peak. "God, Silco, I’m going to—”

“Come for me, angel,” he begged, his voice rough against your sensitive flesh.

Those words—the permission, the plea—broke through the last of your restraint. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, pleasure radiating outward from your core until every nerve ending seemed to sing with it. You trembled beneath him, back arching off the bed as the feeling washed over you. His name fell from your lips as he worked you through it, easing only when you became too sensitive to bear more.

When you finally opened your eyes, you found him watching you with an expression of such naked adoration that it made your chest ache. He pressed gentle kisses to your inner thighs as he moved back up your body, his movements unhurried despite the obvious strain of his own arousal.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, voice hoarse with desire as he hovered above you. “The way you look coming apart for me. The way you taste—”

You reached for him, drawing him down for a kiss that tasted of the pleasure he had given you, tinged with his desperation.

“Come here,” you whispered, guiding him fully over you, your legs parting to welcome his weight between them.

The feeling of his bare skin against yours was intoxicating—the warmth of him, the subtle trembling you could feel beneath your palms as you ran them down his back.

His hips settled naturally against yours, his arousal pressing insistently against your inner thigh. When you shifted beneath him, creating a delicious friction, he groaned against your neck, the sound vibrating through you.

“Can I…” you began, biting down on your lower lip as he lifted his head to meet your gaze. “Can I be on top? I—I want to watch you while I ride you. Please.”

He exhaled sharply, jaw tightening momentarily.

“Yes,” he breathed, the word carrying a weight of desire that made your skin flush with renewed heat. “God, yes.”

With inherent grace, he rolled onto his back, bringing you with him so that you straddled his hips. His hands settled at your waist, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your skin as he gazed up at you. The reversal of positions revealed a new vulnerability in his expression—a willingness to cede control that made your chest tighten with emotion.

“Perfect,” you murmured, echoing his earlier praise as you leaned down to capture his mouth in a deep, lingering kiss.

His hands slid from your waist to your hips, guiding you as you positioned yourself above him. When you finally sank down, taking him inside you inch by inch, his head fell back against the pillows, a moan welling up from somewhere deep within him.

“Fuck,” he gasped, the rare profanity slipping from his lips as his fingers tightened against your skin. “You feel—Christ, you’re perfect.”

You remained still for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of him filling you completely. The stretch was exquisite, bordering on too much yet somehow not enough. When you began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm, his bicolored eyes locked with yours, heavy with desire. His fingers flexed at your hips, not guiding so much as anchoring himself as you established a rhythm that had you both gasping. You braced your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat beneath your palm as you moved above him.

“God, baby, you feel so good,” you breathed, watching his face with rapt attention—the way his lips parted with each exhale, the tension in his jaw as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. “Like you were made for me—”

The endearment slipped out again, and this time you watched his reaction—the subtle flutter of his eyelashes, the way his breath caught, the tightening of his fingers against your skin. Something in his expression shifted, vulnerability bleeding through the desire as he gazed up at you.

“Say that again,” he whispered, his voice stripped of its usual precision.

You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his as you continued to move above him. “Baby,” you murmured, feeling him shudder beneath you.

A sound escaped him—something between a groan and a whimper—as his hips bucked upward, meeting your downward motion with increased urgency. One of his hands left your hip, sliding up your back to cradle your neck as he drew you down for a kiss that felt like confession.

“Yours,” he breathed against your mouth.

As the weight of his admission registered, your chest tightened with an emotion too vast to name.

“Mine,” you agreed, pressing your lips to his scarred cheek, his temple, the corner of his mouth. “And I'm yours.”

Something shifted in his expression—a vulnerability that made your heart ache with tenderness. His hands cradled your face with such reverence that for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“Yes,” he whispered, the simple affirmation carrying the weight of promise.

You began to move again, slower now, each roll of your hips deliberate and measured. His hands slid down your sides, fingers splaying across your ribs before settling at your waist, guiding your movements with gentle pressure. The pace you established was unhurried, almost languid—not to prolong the pleasure so much as to savor it, each sensation stretched like honey between you.

One of his hands drifted from your waist, sliding between your bodies to where you were joined. His thumb found your sensitive bundle of nerves, circling with precise pressure that made your breath hitch.

“Again,” he murmured, the soft plea sending heat coursing through you. “Let me feel you come apart around me.”

The dual sensations—him filling you completely, his thumb working against your clit—quickly rebuilt the tension that had only just begun to ebb. Your movements became less coordinated, more desperate as pleasure coiled tighter within you.

“Silco,” you gasped, your thighs beginning to tremble as you chased your release. “I’m close—so close—”

“Please,” he breathed, his voice becoming increasingly strained as his control slipped further. “Let me feel you.”

His thumb worked in tight circles against your most sensitive spot, his eyes never leaving yours as pleasure built within you once more. When it finally crested, your body tensed above him, clenching around him as waves of ecstasy washed through you. You gasped his name, back arching as the sensation overwhelmed you.

The sight of your release seemed to shatter the last of his restraint. With a fluid movement, he rolled you beneath him, his body covering yours as he buried his face against your neck. His hips drove forward with increasing urgency, each thrust drawing a soft cry from your lips as over-sensitized nerves sparked with renewed pleasure.

“Yes,” you encouraged, fingers threading through his hair as you held him close. “Take what you need, baby.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper, your fingers trailing down his back to feel the flex and shift of muscle beneath his skin.

“Please, angel—” he gasped against your neck, his voice breaking on the words. “I need—”

“Come for me,” you whispered, cradling the back of his head, lips brushing his temple. “Please, Silco. I need to feel you come.”

The gentle command seemed to unravel something in him. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering against yours as his control finally shattered completely, his entire body shuddering as release claimed him. You held him through it, murmuring soft encouragements against his skin, fingers tracing soothing patterns across his back as he trembled above you.

For several moments, he remained perfectly still, face buried against your neck, breath coming in uneven gasps that gradually steadied. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress—a grounding pressure that made you feel impossibly safe, impossibly cherished.

When he finally lifted his head, the vulnerability in his expression stole your breath. His usual composure was entirely absent, replaced by something raw and unguarded that made your chest ache with tenderness. You reached up, brushing a strand of silver-threaded hair from his forehead, your touch gentle against his skin.

“You okay?” you whispered, brushing your lips to his temple.

“More than,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. He shifted, carefully withdrawing from you before settling at your side, one arm draped protectively across your middle. “That was…”

“Yeah,” you agreed softly, understanding his inability to articulate what had just passed between you. It had transcended the physical—become something neither of you had quite anticipated.

For a long moment, you simply lay together in comfortable silence, your breathing gradually synchronizing as the storm continued to rage outside. The contrast between the tumult beyond the windows and the perfect stillness within the room created a sense of sanctuary that made your chest hum with contentment.

His fingers traced idle patterns across your skin, following the contours of your ribs, the curve of your hip, with reverent attention. Every touch felt like a form of memorization, as if he were committing each plane and hollow to memory.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice carrying that gentle lilt that emerged only in his most unguarded moments. His fingers traced the slope of your shoulder, the request hanging between you like something fragile and precious.

You turned toward him, taking in the sight of him in the dim light—hair mussed from your fingers, the usual sharp precision of his features softer as he looked at you. The scorpion tattoo curved along his hip, partially obscured by the sheet that had settled low across his waist.

“I’d like that,” you replied softly, reaching out to brush your fingertips along his jaw. “One condition though,” you added.

“Hmm?” he questioned, a drowsiness to his voice that you found impossibly endearing.

“Tomorrow…” you started, watching him closely, “you let me taste you properly. I want to make you come with my mouth. Please.”

His expression shifted instantly, drowsiness evaporating as his gaze became heated once more. You watched his throat work as he swallowed, the careful neutrality of his features betrayed by the slight flush that crept across his cheekbones.

“That’s your condition for staying?” he asked, voice dropping to that lower register that sent heat blooming across your skin.

“Yes,” you answered, holding his gaze with newfound boldness. “I wasn’t done with you earlier.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward, a shadow of that almost-smile you adored. “Then I suppose I have no choice but to agree to your terms.”

“Good,” you murmured, inching closer to press a kiss to his shoulder. “I was hoping you’d be reasonable.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath your palm. His arm tightened around you, drawing you closer as his lips met your forehead in a tender kiss, lingering there as if he couldn’t bear to break contact. You settled against him, your head finding the perfect spot in the hollow of his shoulder, your body curving naturally into his. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear was hypnotic, lulling you toward sleep despite your determination to savor every moment of this newfound intimacy.

“I should get something to clean us up,” he murmured, though he made no move to release you.

“In a minute,” you replied, pressing closer against him. “Just…stay here a little longer.”

His arm tightened around you in silent agreement, his fingers trailing lazily up and down your spine. The storm outside continued unabated, rain lashing against the windows, creating a cocoon of sound that enveloped you both.

“This is nice,” you whispered, voice heavy with impending sleep.

He hummed in agreement as his fingers continued their gentle exploration along your spine, each touch feather-light yet grounding.

For several minutes, you lay together in comfortable silence, the steady rhythm of his breathing gradually synchronizing with yours. The storm outside provided a perfect counterpoint to the stillness within—rain drumming against the windows, wind howling through the eaves, while inside this room, this bed, everything was warm and quiet and safe.

“I should still get something to clean us up,” he said eventually, his voice a low rumble against your ear.

You made a small sound of protest as he began to disentangle himself, immediately missing his warmth. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before rising from the bed. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he moved across the room, the lean lines of his body silhouetted against the faint light coming from the hallway. There was an easy grace to his movements despite his nakedness—a quiet confidence that drew your gaze like a magnet.

When he returned moments later with a warm washcloth, you reached for him with sleepy contentment. He cleaned you with tender efficiency, his touch gentle against sensitive skin, before discarding the cloth and sliding back into bed beside you.

“Thank you,” you murmured, immediately curling against his side once more, seeking his warmth.

He hummed in acknowledgment, his arm coming around you as you settled against him.

After a comfortable silence, a thought occurred to you. “So,” you began, a mischievous note entering your voice, “do I finally get to witness the famed tea ceremony I’ve heard so much about?”

“Yes, should you desire it. Though I do also have coffee,” he assured you, his fingertips tracing along your spine once more.

You raised your eyebrows. “K-cups or instant?” you asked.

“I would never subject you to either indignity,” he replied, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I acquired some beans from Cloudbrew this morning.”

You pulled back slightly, eyeing him with exaggerated suspicion. “Silco,” you said slowly, “were you secretly planning for me to stay over all along?”

His expression shifted, becoming more measured as he considered his response.

“Not precisely,” he told you, his fingers curling over your hip and pulling you back into his warmth. “I’d be dishonest if I claimed the possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but even my most meticulously crafted plans couldn’t have ensured an outcome so...” he paused, seeming to search for the right word, “perfect.”

The uncharacteristic sentiment made warmth bloom across your skin, your heart skipping at the raw honesty in his tone.

“But yes,” he added after a moment, his voice regaining some of its usual dry cadence, “I was being rather presumptuous by acquiring the coffee.”

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet room. “Presumptuous, but correct,” you conceded, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Which I suppose is your natural state of being.”

You nestled back against his chest, perfectly content in the warmth of his embrace. The sound of rain had faded to a gentle patter against the windows, the worst of the storm having passed as night settled more fully around the house.

“So what else did you presumptuously prepare for?” you asked, unable to resist continuing the line of inquiry.

The thought of Silco quietly making arrangements, hoping but not assuming, sent a pleasant flutter through your chest.

“Nothing quite so elaborate as you might be imagining,” he replied, his voice carrying that gentle resonance it took on when he was truly relaxed. “Though I did ensure the guest room was prepared. As a contingency.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “Very diplomatic of you.”

“I do endeavor to maintain plausible deniability in all things,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth lifting in that almost-smile you’d grown so fond of.

“And how’s that working out for you?” you questioned, gesturing vaguely at your current entangled state.

A low laugh vibrated through his chest, the sound so rare and unguarded it made your heart squeeze. “I find myself increasingly unconcerned with maintaining pretenses,” he admitted, fingers tracing idle patterns against your skin. “At least in present company.”

“I’m honored,” you told him, only half-teasing.

“As you should be,” he replied dryly, though his eyes betrayed the humor beneath his solemn delivery.

You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that held none of the desperate urgency of earlier but carried its own particular sweetness before coming to rest in the hollow of his shoulder as his arm curved around you, drawing you more firmly against his side.

Outside, the last remnants of the storm had faded entirely, leaving behind a washed-clean world and a sky where stars had begun to emerge through breaks in the clouds. But within the circle of his arms, you found yourself perfectly sheltered, wrapped in a contentment so complete it bordered on ache—a quiet joy that needed no words to sustain it.

Chapter Text

The first subtle shift of morning light filtered through the partially drawn curtains, casting the room in a gentle glow that roused you from sleep. For a moment, disorientation clouded your thoughts before the memories of the previous day returned—the gallery, the storm, Silco’s arms around you as thunder crashed overhead.

You became aware of steady breathing beside you and turned to find him sitting up against the headboard, brows furrowed as he composed a response to something on his phone. He looked different—the severe angles of his face gentled, his rigid posture relaxed into the warmth of the bed. His silver-threaded hair fell across his forehead in a way you’d rarely seen, lending him an unexpectedly vulnerable quality that made your chest tighten with sudden tenderness.

You allowed yourself to simply observe him, cataloging details you hadn’t had the opportunity to notice before—the faint pattern of scarring across his left hand, nearly invisible unless viewed up close; the slight asymmetry of his lips; the distinctive shape of his ears.

Sensing your scrutiny, he glanced down at you, a subtle softness entering his expression that made your breath catch.

“Have I given you sufficient opportunity to study my features, or should I continue this pretense of distraction?” he questioned dryly, his voice carrying the roughness of sleep but already regaining its characteristic measured cadence.

Heat bloomed across your cheeks at being caught so openly staring. “Sorry,” you murmured, not feeling particularly apologetic. “I like looking at you.”

“Clearly,” he replied, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips.

You reached for him, fingers skating over his torso before cupping his jaw and pulling him down toward you. “Hi,” you said, pressing your forehead against his.

“Good morning,” he responded, brushing a light kiss across your mouth before sitting back against the headboard once more. His fingers traced along your shoulder, feather-light and absentminded.

“Is it urgent?” you asked, gesturing toward his phone with a nod.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” he assured you, setting the device aside and giving you his full focus.

“Good,” you replied, pushing yourself up to a seated position and carefully swinging one leg over his to settle atop his thighs. “Because if you recall, I had a condition for staying over that requires your undivided attention.”

His hands settled on your hips, steadying you as he considered your statement.

“I’m not sure I do recall,” he told you, one corner of his mouth lifting up. “Would you care to refresh my memory?”

You nodded, leaning in to kiss him —slow and indulgent—before trailing your lips to his ear and whispering, “you promised that if I stayed over, you’d let me make you come with my mouth.”

He let out a shuddering exhalation at your words, his fingers tightening reflexively against your hips. When you pulled back to look at him, you had to repress a shiver at the unrestrained longing within his gaze.

“If that’s still what you want,” he murmured, his voice coarse with desire.

“Please,” you breathed, running one hand down from his chest to his stomach. “I want—I need to have you in my mouth. Please, Silco—”

“Yes,” he managed, his voice barely audible as his eyes darkened. “Anything you want.”

You slid down his body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his ribs, the flat plane of his stomach. Your hands cradled his narrow waist reverentially as you traced the same path with your tongue, dragging it over his skin with slow, languorous strokes. When you lightly scraped your teeth over the jut of his hip bone, you felt his abdominal muscles tense beneath your palm. Looking up to find his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made heat pool low in your belly, you bit down on your lip, weighing your next request.

“Can I…” you began, sliding one hand behind him to caress his lower back, “can I mark you?”

For a moment he simply stared at you, something vulnerable flickering across his features.

“Yes,” he whispered at last, the single syllable rough with barely contained need.

“Thank you,” you murmured, maintaining eye contact as you lowered your mouth to the sensitive skin just below his hip bone.

You started gently, pressing soft kisses to the area before gradually introducing your teeth once more, scraping lightly against his pale skin. When you finally sucked the tender flesh between your lips, applying careful pressure while your tongue soothed the slight sting, his head fell back against the pillows, exposing the flush slowly rising on his throat.

“Perfect,” you said softly, admiring the mark blooming on his skin – a small, perfect circle of red that would darken to purple as the day progressed.

Something possessive unfurled in your chest at the sight, and you pressed your fingertips into his lower back, bringing him flush against your mouth as you bit into the slight curve of his waist.

He let out a whimper, and you placed a tender kiss to the indentations left by your teeth before glancing up. “Does that hurt?” you asked.

“Yes,” he answered hoarsely, hesitating for a moment before continuing, “don’t stop.”

The directness of his plea sent a shiver down your spine, and you found yourself exhaling sharply against his skin. You continued your path downward, leaving a constellation of marks across his body—some subtle, others more pronounced—each one drawing those rare, unguarded sounds from deep in his throat.

When you finally reached the hard length of him, straining against his stomach, you paused to look up once more. The sight of him—head thrown back, throat working as he swallowed, hands fisted in the sheets—made your chest tighten with a possessive tenderness that bordered on painful. Without breaking eye contact, you wrapped your fingers around him, feeling his immediate response—the subtle tremor that ran through his body, the sharp intake of breath that made his chest rise and fall rapidly.

Settling between his legs, you allowed saliva to pool in your mouth before letting it drip all over him. The warm liquid slicked his length, easing your touch as your hand glided along him. His breath hitched, a soft sound escaping his parted lips that made your heart stutter with affection and desire. Lowering your head, you pressed a series of achingly light kisses from the base of him all the way to the tip, your tongue darting out to catch the pearlescent drop of arousal gathered there.

The taste of him made you hum with appreciation, the vibration drawing a strangled sound from his throat as his hips jolted up involuntarily. “Patience, love,” you told him softly, catching his gaze.

The endearment slipped out without thought, and you watched as something shifted in his expression—a vulnerability that made your heart ache. His fingers tentatively reached for you, brushing a strand of hair from your face with such gentleness that you had to close your eyes briefly against the surge of emotion it provoked.

“Please,” he whispered, the single word carrying a weight of longing that made your breath catch.

You maintained eye contact as you dragged your tongue along the underside of him, taking the tip of him into your mouth for the briefest of moments before releasing him once more. He whimpered at the loss of contact, a beautiful flush spreading over his chest as you continued to tease him with feather-light kisses and licks. His brows were furrowed with the effort of staying still beneath your ministrations, his chipped front teeth digging into his lower lip hard enough to leave indentations.

“You look so perfect like this,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the mark blossoming below his scorpion tattoo as his hips shifted restlessly. “So fucking gorgeous.”

As your lips traced another agonizingly slow path from the base to the tip, he released a desperate groan, covering his eyes with a clenched fist as if he couldn’t bear to witness it.

“Please,” he gritted out, his voice strained almost beyond recognition. “I—I need—I can’t—”

You leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the dark trail of hair below his navel. “You can,” you said quietly, your thumb rubbing a soothing circle against his waist as you kissed him again.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” you continued, shifting downward to mouth at the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “So patient. So perfect for me.”

The whimper he let out sounded almost pained, his body tensing in anticipation of what you continued to deny him, arching up off the bed even as you pulled away once more.

“Angel,” he gasped, the word barely audible. “Please.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice shattered your resolve. “Silco,” you murmured against his heated skin, “look at me.”

His beautifully mismatched eyes, seafoam and burnt umber, locked onto yours, glistening with unshed tears and made even more striking by the color that flushed across his cheekbones. Without breaking his gaze, you finally took him into your mouth properly, watching as his lips parted on a silent gasp. You moaned around him, reveling in the weight of him against your tongue, tasting the salt of him.

Taking him deeper, you hollowed your cheeks as you established a steady rhythm, your hand working in tandem with your mouth. The soft, desperate sounds that escaped him with each downward motion made heat pool between your thighs, your own arousal building simply from witnessing his pleasure.

When you hummed around him, the vibration drew a moan from deep in his throat, his hips bucking up involuntarily before he caught himself, muscles tensing with the effort of restraint.

“Oh, fuck,” you murmured with admiration, pulling off him momentarily, lips still brushing against the sensitive tip as you spoke. “You’re so good, baby—didn’t even need to remind you to stay patient.”

A shiver ran through him at your praise, his breath hitching as your words settled.

“You like being told you’re good, don’t you?” you asked softly, your voice a gentle caress as your hand continued its steady rhythm. “You like knowing you’re pleasing me.”

He made a small sound—not quite affirmation, not quite denial—his jaw tightening briefly as if the admission was too much to bear. The vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache with tenderness.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his hip bone, just beside the mark you’d left earlier. “You don’t have to say it. I already know.”

You took him into your mouth once more, establishing a rhythm that had him trembling beneath you, his breathing becoming increasingly ragged. His hand hovered near your face, not quite touching, as if unsure of his permission.

“You can touch me,” you told him, momentarily releasing him. “Show me how you want it.”

His hands trembled as they found your hair, fingers threading through the strands with such tenderness despite his obvious desperation. For a moment, he remained still, as if processing your permission. Then, with aching gentleness, he rolled his hips upward, meeting your downward motion. The careful control of the movement—the way he maintained his precision even now—made you even more desperate to unravel him.

You took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate more of him, and his head fell back against the pillows once more, a broken sound escaping him that nearly caused you to falter. Your hands slid beneath his thighs to encourage the motion you craved, silently urging him to guide the rhythm.

His fingers tightened in your hair, not pulling but simply holding as he began to move with more purpose, each careful thrust drawing a moan from your throat that vibrated around him. The dual sensations—your mouth around him, the sounds of your pleasure—clearly overwhelmed him, his composure fracturing further with each passing moment.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. “Please—please can I come?”

The broken request sent a wave of heat through you. He was asking permission—this man who controlled every aspect of his life, who maintained such rigid composure, was pleading for your approval. The vulnerability of it made your heart swell with tenderness even as desire pooled low in your belly.

“Yes, baby,” you murmured, your voice rough with your own arousal. “Come for me. Want to taste you.”

You increased your pace as you felt his thighs begin to tremble beneath your palms. His breathing grew increasingly ragged, stomach muscles tensing as he approached the edge.

“Angel—” he gasped, the endearment catching on a broken inhale as his control finally shattered.

You held him steady as he came, swallowing around him as his release pulsed across your tongue. The broken sounds that escaped him were perhaps the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard, the way he breathed your name making you shiver with want. You worked him through it gently, easing the intensity as his trembling subsided, until he became too sensitive for further stimulation.

When you finally released him, pressing a soft kiss to his hip before making your way back up his body, his head remained pressed back against the pillows, his breathing gradually steadying. You settled beside him, watching the rise and fall of his chest with a sense of quiet wonder.

“Come here,” he murmured after a moment, his voice still rough as he reached for you with trembling hands.

You moved into his embrace willingly, settling against his side as his arm curved around you, drawing you close. For several minutes, you simply lay together in comfortable silence, his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath your palm as you traced idle patterns across his chest.

“You’re extraordinary,” he said at last, his fingers threading through your hair with gentle reverence. “Completely and utterly perfect.”

His fingertips traced the line of your jaw, then trailed down your neck to rest at the hollow of your throat, just above where his shark tooth pendant lay against your skin. The tenderness in his touch made your breath catch as you tilted your head up to capture his mouth in a slow, deep kiss.

“That might have to become a standing condition for me staying over,” you told him when you finally broke apart.

“I would hardly object to such terms,” he replied, one corner of his mouth lifting up, his voice still carrying that post-pleasure roughness.

“Good,” you whispered, kissing him again as you cradled his jaw with one hand. “Because I want to make you come like that every morning. Every night. All the fucking time.”

Now Silco’s breath caught in his throat, his gaze darkening as he stared at you with undisguised hunger. “Insatiable,” he murmured appreciatively.

“For you,” you agreed, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “Only for you.”

He let out a pleased hum against your mouth, pulling you into him as each kiss became deeper than the last. His hands traced the contours of your body with deliberate reverence, fingertips skimming along your sides before settling at your waist. You melted against him, savoring the warmth of his skin against yours. Gently as ever, he rolled you beneath him, his weight a welcome pressure as he settled between your thighs.

“Silco,” you breathed, his name escaping your lips as his mouth trailed down your neck with deliberate precision. Each press of his lips felt like a silent promise, a tender declaration written against your skin.

His hand slid along your side, tracing the curve of your hip before settling at your thigh. “I believe,” he murmured against your collarbone, “I should properly express my gratitude for your…thorough attention earlier.”

You shivered at the implication, your fingers threading through his hair as he continued his downward exploration. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he answered against your skin, the slip and catch of his voice sending heat coursing through you. “Let me taste you again.”

His mouth traced a deliberate path down your body, lingering at the sensitive spots he had found you most responsive to the night before. When he finally settled between your thighs, his gaze met yours with such raw longing that it made your breath catch in your throat.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, pressing reverent kisses to your inner thighs. The gradual progression of his movements made the anticipation almost unbearable, each brush of his lips coming closer to where you needed him most without quite reaching it.

“Please,” you whispered, fingers threading through his silver-streaked hair.

He hummed against your sensitive skin, the vibration sending shivers through you as he finally, mercifully, pressed his mouth where you most craved it. The first stroke of his tongue drew a gasp from your lips, your back arching slightly off the bed.

His hands curved around your thighs, holding you steady as he worked you with meticulous attention, each movement of his tongue calculated to draw the most response. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, captivated by the sight of him between your legs, his mismatched gaze fixed on your face as if memorizing every reaction.

“God, Silco,” you gasped, one hand fisting in the sheets as pleasure built within you. “So good—you’re so good at this—”

He moaned against you, clearly pleased by your praise, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. Your thighs began to tremble as he increased his pace, his tongue working in perfect counterpoint to the fingers he slowly eased inside you.

“Silco,” you whimpered, your free hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, anchoring yourself to him. “Yes, baby—right there—fuck—”

He followed your guidance with precision, focusing his attention exactly where you needed it. His eyes never left your face, watching your expression with rapt attention as pleasure built within you, coiling tighter with each skillful stroke of his tongue. You felt the tension building, your breath coming in short gasps as your body arched toward his mouth.

“God, Silco, your mouth,” you moaned, your voice nearly unrecognizable with desperation as you twisted your fingers through his hair.

You ground down on his hand with a fervent intensity, each movement sending waves of heat coursing through you, the sensation electrifying and impossible to resist. “You’re gonna make me come,” you breathed, “oh my god, Silco, fuck—I love you—”

The words slipped out unbidden, unplanned, carried on the crest of pleasure washing through you. Your entire body tensed, back arching as ecstasy radiated outward from your core. For a moment, you were only aware of sensation—the exquisite pressure of his mouth, the careful curl of his fingers inside you, the overwhelming release that left you trembling.

As the aftershocks gradually subsided, awareness returned—along with the realization of what you’d said. Your eyes flew open to find him watching you intently, his expression unreadable as he pressed gentle kisses to your hips.

You shivered, both from the sensation and from the sudden vulnerability of your unplanned confession. You’d said those words before, of course—in your classroom the night of the fundraiser—but this felt different somehow. More raw.

He made his way back up your body with deliberate patience, pressing tender kisses to your stomach, the curve of your ribs, the hollow of your chest. When he finally reached your face, he hovered above you, mismatched eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the only audible sounds your gradually steadying breaths and the distant rumble of traffic outside the window.

“I love you,” you repeated, softer now but with absolute certainty. Offered deliberately, consciously. “I love you, Silco.”

His hand came up to cradle your face, a trembling thumb brushing across your cheekbone with exquisite tenderness.

“And I love you,” he whispered, his voice a soft tremor, stripped of its usual precision.

You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair and drawing him down until your foreheads pressed together, needing the closeness as you processed the weight of his confession.

“Say it again,” you pleaded, your voice barely audible even in the quiet room.

He exhaled shakily, as if gathering courage. “I love you,” he repeated as he gazed down at you, the morning light catching in his silver-streaked hair. “I love you,” he said again, each word measured yet utterly sincere.

Your hand slipped down to his nape before tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingertips as he leaned into your touch like a man starved for it. He rolled to his side, drawing you against him, your head coming to rest in the hollow of his shoulder as if the space had been designed precisely for that purpose.

Some time later, when the persistent rumbling of your stomach became too distracting to ignore, you finally made it downstairs. Morning sunlight streamed through large windows, turning the sleek surfaces of the kitchen into planes of gold and warm shadow. Unlike the evening before, when anticipation had charged every interaction with an almost unbearable tension, this morning carried a different quality—a comfortable ease, as if some invisible barrier had dissolved between you.

You watched as Silco moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, carefully weighing out coffee beans on a small scale before depositing them into a manual burr grinder. Wearing only a pair of pajama pants slung low on his hips, the marks you’d left on his skin stood out starkly against his pale complexion, a constellation of possession that made something primal and satisfied curl in your chest.

“See something you like?” he questioned, one brow lifting in amusement as you watched his forearm muscles ripple and flex with each turn of the handle.

“Several things,” you replied, grinning.

His eyes met yours, a warmth in them that made your chest tighten with affection. You crossed the kitchen, drawn to him like a magnet, and slipped your arms around his waist from behind. Pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, you breathed in his scent as you felt the steady rhythm of his movements transfer through his body to yours.

“I like this,” you murmured against his skin, feeling the subtle shift as his breath caught. “I like you.”

“Yes, I’m rather partial to you as well,” he replied, a hint of dryness in his tone that couldn’t quite mask the underlying tenderness.

You smiled against his back, pressing a kiss to the ridge of his spine before reluctantly releasing him to perch on one of the stools at the kitchen island. From this vantage point, you could observe him fully—the careful precision of his movements as he prepared the coffee, the play of morning light across the lean muscles of his back, the way his hair fell across his forehead without its usual styling. The methodical nature of his movements was mesmerizing—each action deliberate, nothing wasted or rushed.

“You’re staring again,” he observed without looking up, a hint of amusement coloring his tone.

“I am,” you agreed, making no attempt to deny it. “It’s a hobby I’ve recently developed.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in that almost-smile you adored. “An interesting pastime,” he remarked, setting a mug before you. “Though I fear you’ll find it rather monotonous in the long run.”

“I doubt that,” you told him, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic. The coffee was perfect—rich and complex without bitterness, exactly as you would have expected from him. “I think I could watch you forever and never get bored.”

Your phone buzzed insistently on the counter beside you, breaking the moment with its persistent vibration. Glancing down, you saw Ava’s name lighting up the screen, along with a preview of her message that made you roll your eyes with fond exasperation.

THIS SILENCE IS UNACCEPTABLE. ARE YOU ALIVE? BEING HELD HOSTAGE? SEND A SIGN.

“Ava, I presume?” Silco asked, his eyebrow arching slightly as he moved to prepare his tea, removing several implements from a small wooden box.

You nodded, your mouth quirking up at the corner. “She seems to have regained access to her phone.”

“Splendid,” he remarked dryly, arranging the instruments with methodical precision. “Now you can narrate my activities for her entertainment once more. I'm certain she’s desperately awaiting a detailed description of my tea preparation technique.”

“I’ll be doing no such thing,” you assured him, setting your phone face-down on the counter with deliberate finality. “I plan to fully appreciate this elaborate tea ceremony without digital interference.” You propped your chin on your hand, watching him with exaggerated attentiveness. “Please, continue. I’m completely focused.”

Your phone buzzed against the counter, the vibration causing it to rotate slightly as if attempting to capture your attention. You both glanced at it, then pointedly back at each other.

“She’s persistent,” Silco observed as he measured tea leaves with laser focus.

“You have no idea,” you replied, flipping the phone completely over as it buzzed again. “It’s like she has a sixth sense for when I’m deliberately ignoring her.”

As if on cue, the device vibrated once more, this time migrating closer to your elbow through the force of its own enthusiasm. Silco eyed it with the wary regard one might give a particularly determined insect.

“Perhaps,” he suggested dryly, “we should relocate it to another room before it develops sentience.”

You laughed, finally grabbing the phone and turning on ‘do not disturb’ before flipping it back over. “There. I’ll deal with the interrogation later.” You turned your attention back to him with renewed focus, genuinely curious about the ritual unfolding before you. “How did you get into this anyway? The tea, I mean.”

He was silent for a moment, transferring the tea leaves to a small ceramic container.

“It’s a preference I developed after the accident,” he explained, his tone carefully neutral despite the weight of the subject. “The injuries affected more than what’s immediately visible,” he continued, his attention seemingly fixed on the careful measurement of water into a small kettle. “The hand on my left side sustained significant trauma. Nerve damage, primarily.”

You nodded, understanding washing over you as you connected the faint scarring across his knuckles that you had observed only that morning with the precise way he controlled each movement. “Tremors?” you asked softly.

He nodded in acknowledgment. “Initially quite pronounced, particularly when exacerbated by caffeine. Coffee became more trouble than it was worth.”

When the thermometer read exactly 155 degrees, he poured the water in small concentric circles over the tea leaves. The motion was fluid yet controlled, not a drop spilled or wasted.

“And tea?” you prompted gently.

His expression softened slightly, mismatched eyes meeting yours briefly before returning to his task. “My physician suggested activities that required fine motor control but weren’t overly strenuous,” he explained, his voice carrying that careful cadence that emerged when he spoke of personal matters. “This particular ritual fit those requirements admirably.”

Understanding dawned as you watched his hands move through what was clearly a long-established sequence. “It became a form of physical therapy,” you murmured, the realization making your chest tighten.

“Precisely,” he confirmed, something almost vulnerable entering his expression before being carefully masked. “What began as necessary rehabilitation evolved into…something more intentional. A practice that required presence of mind and physical precision.”

You watched in silence as he completed the preparation, each movement executed with a deliberate care that spoke of years of repetition. A timer on the counter counted down from 2:15, confirming Jinx’s exaggerated but essentially accurate description.

“I owe you an apology,” you said quietly, remembering the jokes you’d shared with her and Ava about this particular ritual. “I didn't understand the significance.”

His gaze met yours, something unexpectedly gentle in his expression. “No apology is necessary,” he assured you, his voice carrying that subtle lilt that emerged only in his most unguarded moments. “The process likely appears unnecessarily elaborate without context.”

“Still,” you persisted, genuine remorse coloring your tone. “I shouldn’t have made light of it.”

He shook his head slightly, the gesture dismissive without being unkind. “If you ceased your good-natured mockery of my various peculiarities, I fear our entire carefully established equilibrium would collapse,” he observed dryly.

The deliberate callback to your initial contentious meetings—the persistent disagreements and sharp exchanges that had somehow evolved into this unexpected intimacy—made warmth bloom in your chest.

“So what you’re saying is that you want me to keep making fun of you,” you concluded, unable to keep the smile from your face.

“I believe I was considerably more eloquent than that,” he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “But essentially, yes. Within reasonable parameters, of course.”

“Of course,” you agreed solemnly, though your eyes betrayed your amusement.

“Besides,” he continued, his voice dropping to that lower register that never failed to send a pleasant shiver down your spine, “it’s rather difficult to take any mockery to heart now that I’m intimately familiar with the effect I have on you.”

Heat spread across your cheeks at the unexpected shift in tone, the subtle confidence in his statement catching you off guard. “That's—” you began, then stopped, flustered by the knowing look in his mismatched eyes.

“Yes?” he prompted, eyebrow arching slightly as he took another deliberate sip of his tea, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Accurate,” you admitted, holding his gaze despite the warmth in your face. Your eyes deliberately dropped to the asterism of devotion scattered across his waist and hips. “Though it appears to be entirely mutual.”

His expression shifted, something darkening in his gaze as he registered your meaning. He glanced down at himself, as if suddenly reminded of the visible proof of your shared enthusiasm, before meeting your eyes once more.

“A fair assessment,” he conceded, his voice rougher than it had been moments before. “Perhaps more than fair.”

The tension between you crackled like electricity, the air suddenly charged with unspoken intentions. You found yourself leaning toward him unconsciously, drawn by the gravity of his presence and the memories of the previous night.

Before either of you could act on the building intensity, his phone buzzed sharply on the counter. The intrusion was jarring enough to break the moment, drawing a soft sound of frustration from you that made the corner of his mouth lift despite his own evident disappointment.

“Jinx,” he explained after glancing at the screen. “Requesting that I retrieve her within the hour. Though perhaps we might spare time for something to eat before departing?”

“That would be good,” you replied, suddenly aware of the lingering emptiness in your stomach. “I’m starving, actually.”

“A condition I find myself partially responsible for,” he observed, the slight curve of his mouth betraying his satisfaction at the implication.

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet kitchen. “Extremely responsible,” you corrected, watching as he rose with that inherent grace and moved toward the refrigerator.

Breakfast proved to be a simple affair—toast with various spreads, fruit cut with characteristic precision, and the remainder of your respective beverages. Despite the simplicity, there was something profoundly intimate about sharing this mundane moment—the quiet clink of cutlery, the brushing of fingers as you passed the jam, the comfortable silence that required no filling.

Eventually, the inevitable press of time forced you both upstairs to dress. Your clothes from the previous day had mostly dried, though the evidence of the storm remained in slightly stiff fabric and disheveled appearance. Silco offered you a clean shirt, which you gratefully accepted, the oversized garment requiring a strategic fold of the sleeves.

“I enjoy seeing you in my clothes,” he observed as you descended the stairs together, his eyes moving over you with appreciation that made heat bloom across your skin despite your relative modesty.

“A convenient circumstance,” you told him, deliberately echoing his earlier phrasing, “as I find them remarkably comfortable.”

His mouth curved into that almost-smile you’d grown so fond of, recognition of your mimicry evident in the slight lift of his eyebrow. “You should keep it,” he said, his tone deliberately casual though there was an undercurrent of something more significant.

You paused on the last step, bringing you nearly to eye level with him. “The shirt?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, something unexpectedly vulnerable flickering across his features. “There will inevitably be nights we cannot be together. I rather like the idea of you having something of mine during those separations.”

The simple admission, delivered with such careful precision yet uncharacteristic openness, made your chest tighten with sudden emotion. “Thank you,” you replied softly, genuinely touched by the gesture and what it represented.

Your expression shifted to a grin as you added, “Though in all honesty, I was already plotting to steal it.”

“Were you indeed?” he questioned, eyebrow arching slightly though his eyes betrayed his amusement. “How fortunate that my generosity has prevented such criminal activity.”

“Very fortunate,” you agreed seriously, the effect somewhat undermined by the laughter you couldn’t quite suppress. “Though I can’t promise this will be the last of your wardrobe I appropriate.”

“I suspected as much,” he answered dryly, his hand finding the small of your back as you reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll consider it a reasonable tax for the privilege of your company.”

The drive to your apartment was companionable, his hand occasionally finding yours across the console in a gesture that felt both novel and familiar. When he pulled up outside your building, a reluctance settled over you both—a silent acknowledgment that returning to separate spaces felt somehow wrong after the intimacy you’d shared.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your hand still clasped in his. “For everything. Yesterday and today.”

Rather than awaiting his response, you leaned across the console, your free hand coming up to cradle his jaw as your lips met his. What had begun as a simple goodbye deepened immediately, his fingers threading through your hair to draw you closer.

When you finally pulled back, his composure was notably disrupted—eyes darker than usual, breathing slightly uneven, a faint flush high on his cheekbones. The knowledge that you could affect him so deeply sent a thrill of satisfaction through you.

“Until later?” you asked, reluctantly reaching for the door handle.

“Until later,” he confirmed, his voice rougher than usual. “I’ll call you.”

With a final glance that carried more promises than words could convey, you stepped out of the car and made your way toward your building entrance. At the door, you turned back, finding his gaze still fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart skip. You offered a small wave, watching as he inclined his head in acknowledgment before finally pulling away from the curb.

As you entered your apartment, you found yourself already counting the hours until you would see him again, the borrowed shirt carrying his scent wrapped around you like a promise that the distance between you was merely temporary.

Chapter Text

Your apartment felt strangely foreign as you moved through it, almost as if the space had shrunk in your absence. The familiar scents of lavender cleaning spray and charcoal dust should have welcomed you home, but instead, you found yourself missing the subtle notes of cardamom and vetiver that had surrounded you for the past twenty-four hours.

As you took out your phone to compose a response to Ava’s increasingly dramatic messages, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through your apartment.

“I know you’re in there!” Ava’s voice carried clearly through the door. “Open up or I’m sending Silco the video of your interpretive dance performance!”

You sighed, a smile tugging at your lips despite your exasperation as you moved to let her in.

“Finally!” she exclaimed, bursting through the doorway like a whirlwind. She stopped abruptly, taking in your appearance with wide eyes. “Oh my god, is that his shirt? You’re wearing his shirt!”

“Hello to you too,” you replied dryly, closing the door behind her. “Please, come in. Make yourself at home.”

She ignored your sarcasm, circling you with exaggerated scrutiny. “You look…different.”

“Different how?” you asked, crossing your arms defensively.

“I don’t know,” she mused, head tilting to one side. “Like…thoroughly ravished?”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks, confirming her suspicions before you could even formulate a denial. “Thoroughly ravished?” you repeated after a beat. “What is this, a Kindle Unlimited romance novel?”

“Well, it certainly sounded like it from what you told me before Talia so cruelly took away my phone,” she remarked, flopping onto your sofa with dramatic flair and patting the cushion beside her. “Getting caught in the rain, wearing his clothes, him making you dinner…”

She trailed off with a suggestive waggle of her eyebrows as you settled beside her, considering how much to share. For all Ava’s enthusiastic prying, you felt strangely protective of those intimate moments with Silco—not because you didn’t trust her, but because some experiences felt too precious, too personal to fully articulate.

“Some experiences merit a degree of privacy,” you said eventually, aiming for diplomacy and missing spectacularly.

“Oh my god,” Ava gasped, eyes widening. “You’ve been dating for five minutes and you already sound like him—‘some experiences merit a degree of privacy’? Mrs. Precisely Formal But There’s This Underlying Thing indeed.”

“Okay, fine,” you conceded, biting back a tiny grin, “I may have picked up some of his vocabulary, but he’s picked up on mine as well.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Ava challenged, lifting a brow.

“Well,” you said, unable to keep a note of satisfaction from coloring your words, “I’ve certainly never heard him swear before last night.”

Ava let out a shriek, jumping to her feet. “I knew I should have bought you a ‘Congrats on the Sex’ cake,” she exclaimed. “But Talia wouldn’t let me.”

“Tell her thank you for me,” you replied drily. “That’s a level of mortification I don’t think I could have survived.”

“Rude. It would have been hilarious,” Ava pouted, flopping back down.

“For you, maybe,” you retorted, though you couldn’t help but smile at her reaction. “Some of us have dignity to maintain.”

“Says the woman wearing her boyfriend’s shirt after a weekend sex marathon,” Ava countered, smiling slyly.

“It wasn’t a—” you started to protest, then stopped, heat flooding your cheeks. “Never mind.”

Ava pointed at you delightedly. “Ha! I knew it!”

“Anyway,” you began, desperate to change the subject, “why were you at the center yesterday?”

“Nice deflection,” Ava smirked, but allowed the topic change. “Actually, I was working on the merchandise program. And—if you’re okay with it—I was thinking I could take point on that since you’re going to be focused on the aquarium proposal. I’ve already got some connections with local businesses from the fundraiser.”

“That would be amazing,” you agreed, relief washing over you at the offer. “Silco told me Jinx and Rowan were working on some kind of proposal for Cloudbrew this weekend. Maybe we should talk to Jinx about taking on more of a leadership role with the program implementation.”

“Jinx?” Ava repeated, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “She’s incredibly smart and has great instincts for this sort of thing,” you continued. “Not just artistically, but conceptually too. She was the one who suggested approaching Shimmer Records, remember?”

“True,” Ava conceded, looking thoughtful. “And it would be good experience for her.”

“Plus, it creates another connection between her and the center that’s not directly through me or her dad,” you added, aware of the potential complications your relationship might create. “I think it would be really good for her to have her own project.”

“I like it,” Ava decided. “Let’s talk to her about it before class tomorrow. I can put together a basic outline of what we’d need from her and what kind of time commitment we’re looking at.”

“Perfect,” you agreed, already mentally reshuffling your schedule to accommodate these new arrangements. “I think she’ll be excited about it.”

Ava regarded you with a mixture of pride and amusement. “Look at you, already structuring center operations around your new relationship. Very efficient.”

“I’m not—” you began defensively, then paused, recognizing the validity of her observation. “Okay, maybe a little. But it’s also the right move for the center and for Jinx.”

“Relax,” she soothed, giving you a reassuring grin. “I’m teasing. It actually is a good idea, and I’m glad you’re thinking ahead about how to balance everything.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, genuinely grateful for her understanding. “I’m trying to be smart about this. About him. About us.”

“I know,” Ava replied, her tone gentler than usual. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, drawing both your attention. Silco’s name lit up the screen, and you couldn’t help the smile that immediately spread across your face.

“Oh, god, look at you,” Ava pointed accusingly at your expression. “Smitten.”

You ignored her, reaching for the phone with fingers that trembled slightly. The message was simple:

Jinx retrieved successfully. I find myself already missing your company. Perhaps dinner tomorrow? I’d like to discuss the aquarium proposal further.

“Let me guess,” Ava said, “he’s reminding you to rehydrate after your sex marathon and—”

“No,” you cut her off with a roll of your eyes, unable to summon any real annoyance. “He wants to have dinner tomorrow. To discuss the aquarium proposal.”

“Ah yes, the aquarium proposal,” Ava nodded sagely. “Very important to discuss. Probably requires several hours of private conversation. Possibly overnight.”

“Stop,” you groaned, though you couldn’t keep the laughter from your voice. “We are actually going to work on it. It’s a huge opportunity for the center.”

“Of course,” she agreed, not even attempting to sound sincere. “And I’m sure you’ll be completely focused on the professional aspects the entire time.”

Your phone buzzed again, and you glanced down to see a second message:

Though I will understand if you need time to yourself after our rather eventful weekend.

The thoughtfulness of the addendum, the way he offered you space despite his evident desire to see you again, made your heart swell with affection.

Another buzz, a third message appearing beneath the others:

Jinx has requested that I inform you she’s "literally dying from how gross" we are. Her exact phrasing, I assure you.

You laughed, the sound bright in the quiet apartment, and began typing a response.

Ava is expressing similar sentiments. Perhaps they can form a support group. Dinner tomorrow sounds perfect. I miss you too.

Ava peered over your shoulder, reading the exchange. “See? Smitten,” she declared triumphantly. “I was right all along.”

“Yes, you were the wisest of us all,” you agreed solemnly, setting the phone down with a giddy smile you couldn’t suppress. “Happy now?”

“Effervescent,” she confirmed, her expression mirroring yours. “Almost as happy as you are, which is really saying something considering the heart-eyes you’re sporting right now.”

You didn’t bother denying it. Instead, you leaned back into the sofa cushions, a contented sigh escaping you as you thought about tomorrow, about seeing him again, about the future stretching ahead—uncertain in its details but suddenly, unexpectedly bright with possibility.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your fingers once again finding the shark tooth pendant beneath your shirt. “I really am.”

After Ava left, the quiet of your apartment took on a different quality—less empty, more contemplative. You’d moved through your evening routine with distracted efficiency, mind still buzzing with thoughts of Silco, the center, and the possibilities stretching before you.

When your phone rang just after nine, his name lighting up the screen sent a flutter through your chest that you didn’t bother trying to suppress.

“Hi,” you answered, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

“Hello,” his voice carried that gentle lilt that never failed to make your pulse quicken. “I hope I’m not interrupting your evening.”

“Not at all,” you assured him, settling deeper into your sofa cushions. “I was just thinking about you, actually.”

“Were you?” The quiet pleasure in his tone was evident even through the phone. “Anything in particular?”

“A few things,” you admitted, fingertips absently tracing the shark tooth pendant that now felt like a natural extension of your skin. “I had an interesting conversation with Ava earlier about the center.”

“Oh?” His interest was piqued, professional focus easily engaged despite the hour.

“We’ve been talking about how to balance the various projects, especially with the aquarium proposal taking priority,” you explained, curling your legs beneath you. “Ava suggested she take point on the merchandise program, which makes sense given her marketing expertise and connections from the fundraiser.”

“A sound solution,” he agreed, and you could almost picture him nodding in that precise way of his, perhaps seated at his desk with papers arranged in meticulous order before him.

“I suggested that Jinx might take on a more significant role in the implementation,” you continued, a hint of uncertainty entering your voice. “With appropriate support and guidance, of course.”

There was a brief pause, not of disapproval but consideration. “Her involvement with Rowan’s Cloudbrew proposal,” he noted, the pieces connecting in his mind.

“Exactly,” you confirmed, relieved at his quick understanding. “She has such good instincts for this kind of work. Not just the artistic side, but the conceptual thinking behind it. And I thought it might be good for her to have her own project at the center, something that’s hers specifically.”

“Something not directly tied to her connection with either of us,” he concluded, immediately grasping the underlying motivation. “A space for her to develop her own professional identity.”

“Yes,” you nodded, that warm feeling of being truly understood washing over you. “That’s exactly it. But I wanted to run it by you first, given, you know, everything.”

His low exhalation of laughter sent a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Everything,” he repeated, the word somehow carrying volumes of meaning. “That’s a remarkably succinct summation of recent developments.”

“I’m trying to stay on topic,” you admitted, your cheeks warming. “Though you’re not making it easy.”

“How so?” he questioned, feigning innocence though you could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m merely engaging in conversation. If you find my standard manner of speech somehow… distracting, I can hardly be held responsible.”

“Right,” you said dryly. “Just speaking. Nothing intentional about that particular tone at all.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re referring to,” he replied, the deliberate precision of each word belying his claim of ignorance.

“Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand,” you suggested, fighting a smile he couldn’t see.

“Indeed we should,” he replied, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “Regarding Jinx—I think your suggestion has considerable merit. She’s been looking for ways to expand her involvement in the center and considering the initiative she’s taken in assisting Rowan, I think she would be very interested.”

“So you approve?” you asked softly, pleased at the prospect.

“I do,” he confirmed. “Though I should clarify that my approval isn’t strictly necessary. She’s perfectly capable of making such decisions herself.”

“I know,” you assured him. “But given the potential complications of our…relationship, I wanted to be transparent with you.”

“Appreciated, though unnecessary,” he said, his voice warming. “I trust your professional judgment implicitly, regardless of personal entanglements.”

“Personal entanglements,” you repeated, unable to suppress a soft laugh. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Would you prefer a different term?” he asked, that subtle amusement coloring his tone. “Perhaps ‘romantic association’? ‘Mutual affection with complementary benefits’?”

“I mean, I think ‘I love you’ covers it pretty well,” you replied quietly, the words still new enough to send a flutter through your chest.

His breath caught audibly, a moment of unguarded reaction that made your heart swell. “Yes,” he agreed, his voice rougher than before. “That does rather encapsulate the essentials.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the soft sound of his breathing and the distant rumble of traffic outside your window.

“You’ve been on my mind as well,” he admitted after a moment, his voice dropping to that lower register that never failed to send heat coursing through you. “More frequently than is conducive to productive work.”

“Oh?” you prompted, shifting slightly as anticipation built within you. “What were you thinking about?”

“Various things,” he replied, echoing your earlier evasiveness. “Though primarily how disconcerting it is to return to an empty bed after having you in it.”

The simple honesty of his admission made your chest tighten with affection. “I know what you mean,” you told him softly, phone pressed to your ear as if that might somehow bring him closer.

“Are you still wearing my shirt?” he asked suddenly, his voice carrying a note of vulnerability that caught you off-guard.

You glanced down at yourself, the soft fabric now a comforting presence against your skin. “Yes,” you confessed.

His exhale was slightly uneven, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Good,” he murmured.

“What are you wearing?” you questioned, genuine curiosity overriding your embarrassment at using such a cliche line.

A low laugh rumbled through the phone. “Nothing quite so sentimental, I’m afraid. Though…” he hesitated, an uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice. “I am carrying something of yours with me.”

“The pins?” you asked, surprised he would still have them on at this hour.

“The marks you left,” he clarified, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that made your breath catch. “They’ve developed quite impressively.”

Heat flooded your face as you remembered the constellation of marks you’d scattered across his torso, the way you’d claimed him with teeth and tongue as he’d trembled beneath you.

“Show me,” you whispered, the request slipping out before you could second-guess it.

There was a brief pause, then the sound of movement. Your phone buzzed with an incoming message, and your pulse quickened as you pulled it away from your ear to check.

The image made your breath catch — his shirt pushed up just enough to reveal the lean planes of his torso, where your marks had indeed blossomed into vivid purple against his pale skin. The scorpion tattoo was just visible at the edge of the frame, one claw disappearing beneath his waistband in a way that made heat pool low in your belly.

“God, Silco,” you breathed, returning the phone to your ear. “They look…fuck.”

“Eloquent as ever,” he remarked dryly, though the slight roughness in his voice betrayed his affected composure. “But yes, I’m rather pleased with the effect.”

“Yeah?” you asked, something warm and possessive unfurling in your chest. “You like being marked up?”

A soft sound escaped him, something between an exhalation and a moan. “By you?” he murmured. “Yes. Very much so.”

The admission sent a wave of heat through you, your free hand unconsciously pressing against your stomach as if to contain the desire building there.

“Maybe next time you can return the favor,” you suggested, voice dropping to match his intimate tone. “Leave a few marks of your own.”

His breath hitched audibly. “Where?” he asked, the single word laden with carefully restrained hunger.

You considered for a moment, then set the phone down, switching to speaker as you tugged your borrowed shirt up just enough to expose the curve of your hip, the soft skin of your stomach. You angled the camera carefully, your thumb pulling down the waistband of your pants ever so slightly, and sent the image before returning the phone to your ear.

“Here, for starters,” you told him, your own breathing growing uneven at the thought of his mouth on you, his teeth against your skin. “Anywhere you want, really.”

He was silent for a long moment, and you could almost picture him staring at the image, composure fracturing as he imagined exactly what you were suggesting.

“You are…” he finally managed, his voice tight with restraint, “making the prospect of sleeping alone tonight feel somewhat unbearable.”

You smiled, pleased at having affected him so strongly. “The anticipation is part of the fun, isn’t it? Isn’t that what you told me?”

“I find myself once again regretting that particular observation,” he replied, a hint of rueful amusement in his tone. “Though I stand by its accuracy.”

Silence stretched between you, comfortable yet charged with everything still unspoken, still waiting to be explored between you.

“I should let you rest,” he said eventually, reluctance evident in his tone. “Tomorrow will be a full day for both of us.”

“Okay,” you agreed softly, equally reluctant to end the connection. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow,” he replied, his voice carrying that canorous lilt that settled somewhere deep beneath your ribs. “Sleep well, angel.”

The endearment, offered so naturally, made your heart swell with affection. “You too,” you whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you,” he responded, the words still new enough to send warmth cascading through you. “Goodnight.”

You made it approximately three seconds before you pulled up the photo he had sent you and had to bury a sound of unguarded appreciation against the back of your hand. The asterism of marks blooming violet against his pale skin sent a renewed wave of possessive desire coursing through you, your body remembering with vivid clarity the taste of him, the sounds he’d made as you’d claimed him inch by inch.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself, though the admonishment lacked any real conviction.

How were you supposed to focus on anything when Silco—precise, controlled, impossibly elegant Silco—was walking around with your marks beneath his perfectly tailored shirts? When he’d sent you photographic evidence that he was just as affected, just as consumed as you were?

And most unbelievable of all—he loved you. Not just wanted you, though that was evident enough. He loved you, with all your stubborn independence and ineloquence and complete inability to make a decent blueberry muffin.

You allowed yourself one more look at the photo, tracing the contours of his body with one fingertip before forcing yourself to shut your phone off and go to bed.

If only to try to coax tomorrow to arrive sooner.

The center hummed with afternoon activity as students began filtering in for their respective classes. You spotted Jinx in the hallway, earlier than usual, her electric blue hair gathered into another intricate braid as she examined the bulletin board with casual interest.

Catching Ava’s eye across the lobby, you nodded slightly. She made her way over, a folder tucked under one arm containing the notes she’d prepared for the merchandise program.

“Hey, Jinx,” you called, approaching with what you hoped was a casual smile. “Got a minute before class?”

She turned, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to wary suspicion in an instant. “Uh, sure,” she replied, eyeing you with growing apprehension. “Is this about…?” she trailed off, making a vague gesture that somehow perfectly conveyed her meaning.

“About what?” you asked, momentarily confused.

She rolled her eyes, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “You know. The…situation.” Another vague hand gesture, this one accompanied by a grimace that was equal parts embarrassment and reluctant amusement. “The whole you-and-my-dad…thing.”

“Oh!” you exclaimed, heat rushing to your cheeks as Ava tried and failed to suppress a laugh beside you. “God, no, that’s not—we wanted to talk to you about something else entirely.”

Relief washed over Jinx’s features, though her posture remained guarded. “Thank god. No offense, but I’ve hit my lifetime quota of awkward conversations about my dad’s love life.”

“There have been multiple conversations?” Ava asked, clearly unable to help herself.

Jinx fixed her with a deadpan stare. “He asked me if I was ‘comfortable with recent developments’ over breakfast this morning. It was traumatic for both of us.”

“I can imagine,” you murmured, trying to picture Silco—precise, formal Silco—attempting to navigate that particular discussion over tea and toast. The mental image was both endearing and mortifying. “Anyway,” you continued, clearing your throat, “what we actually wanted to discuss was the merchandise program. Specifically, your potential role in it.”

Her expression shifted, wariness giving way to genuine interest. “My role?”

Ava nodded, opening the folder she’d brought. “We’ve been talking about the structure for implementing the program across multiple businesses,” she explained. “And we’re looking for someone to take point on the creative direction and student coordination.”

“Someone with strong artistic instincts and good project management skills,” you added, watching as comprehension dawned on Jinx’s face.

“You want me to…run it?” she asked, her voice uncharacteristically small.

“Co-run,” Ava clarified. “With my support on the business side. But yes, essentially leading the creative implementation.”

Jinx was silent for a moment, processing the offer. “Is this…I mean, is this because of…” she gestured vaguely again.

“No,” you said firmly, meeting her gaze directly. “This is because you’re incredibly talented, you have fantastic instincts for this kind of work, and you’ve already shown initiative with both the Shimmer Records idea and the Cloudbrew proposal you were helping Rowan with.”

“Which we’d love to see, by the way,” Ava added. “If you’re both comfortable sharing it.”

Jinx studied you both, her sharp features revealing the careful assessment taking place behind her pale blue eyes. It was moments like these when her resemblance to her father was most pronounced—not physically, but in the calculating intelligence that seemed to catalog and analyze everything simultaneously.

“I’d have actual decision-making power?” she asked finally.

“Actual authority over the creative direction,” you confirmed. “With the accountability that comes with it, of course. Real projects, real responsibility.”

A slow smile spread across her face, excitement building visibly beneath her attempt at nonchalance. “I’d have to see the full project scope,” she said, affecting professional disinterest in a way that made you bite back a grin. “But yeah, I’d be interested.”

“Great!” Ava exclaimed, handing her the folder. “Here’s what we’ve put together so far. Why don’t you look it over, and we can discuss it more after class? We could order dinner and make an evening of it—go through the Cloudbrew proposal too.”

Jinx’s eyes widened slightly at the suggestion. “Yeah, let me just check with my dad first,” she said, pulling out her phone.

“Actually, he and I were planning to work on the Seagate aquarium proposal tonight too. So maybe we could all eat together here? I mean, if that’s okay with you,” you told her, hoping you sounded less nervous than you felt.

“That would be cool,” Jinx replied. She hesitated, then added with a hint of her usual mischief, “Just try to keep the googly eyes to a minimum, okay?”

“I make no promises,” you replied solemnly, earning a dramatic eye roll that couldn’t quite mask her smile. “But I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask,” she sighed with exaggerated patience before tucking the folder into her backpack. “Now I should probably actually look at this before class. See you in there?”

You nodded in confirmation. As Jinx headed toward the studio, Ava turned to you with a grin. “That went well,” she remarked. “Though I’m dying to know more about this breakfast conversation she mentioned.”

“Don’t you dare ask him about it,” you warned, already imagining Silco's carefully composed expression cracking at the reminder. “Let the man preserve some dignity.”

“Fine,” Ava conceded with a dramatic sigh before a wicked grin spread across her face. “I won’t ask about breakfast. I’ll just ask how he’s recovering from his weekend marathon instead.”

“AVA—” you hissed, grabbing her arm as your cheeks flamed with heat.

“What?” she asked with exaggerated innocence. “Running is such great exercise. I’m just concerned about his stamina.”

“I will end you,” you muttered, though there was no real heat behind the threat. “And if you can’t behave yourself, I will call Talia right now and have her remove you from the premises. Or better yet, confiscate your phone privileges for a week.”

Ava gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in theatrical horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” you challenged, raising your eyebrows, though you couldn’t suppress your smile as you headed to your classroom, already looking forward to the evening ahead.

Ava had already claimed the coffee table in the office when you returned with Jinx, papers spread out in organized piles. She looked up as you entered, her expression brightening. “Perfect timing! I was just getting everything set up.”

“Rowan’s not coming until tomorrow,” Jinx explained, dropping her backpack beside a chair, “so we’ll have to wait on going through our Cloudbrew proposal. But we can still go over the merchandise program stuff, right?”

“Absolutely,” Ava confirmed, making space on the table as Jinx pulled the folder out of her pack and opened it up.

Silco appeared at the doorway, impeccably dressed as always in a dark suit, the fabric catching the warm light of your office as he moved. Today’s collar pins were elegant silver foxes, their tails intertwined in a delicate chain that glinted when he turned his head. The familiar notes of cardamom and vetiver reached you even across the room, mingling with the faint scent of charcoal dust and acrylic paint that permeated the center. Something in his expression softened infinitesimally when he saw you, the subtle change making your heart stutter despite the distance between you.

“Those are beautiful,” you commented, gesturing toward the pins as he approached. “I don’t think I’ve seen those ones before.”

“A recent acquisition,” he admitted, fingers briefly touching the gleaming silver. “They reminded me of you.”

“Of me?” you asked, surprised and oddly touched.

His expression softened fractionally. “Clever. Adaptable. Independent to a fault,” he explained, voice pitched low enough that only you could hear. “Yet with an uncanny ability to form unexpected bonds when circumstances allow it.”

The description—so carefully considered, so earnestly delivered—made your chest tighten with emotion. You remembered your own explanation of the shark pins you’d created for him: persistence, protection, precision. The parallel wasn’t lost on you—how you both saw qualities in each other that you admired, perhaps even aspired to.

“Right, so I’ll just…go grab the rest of the materials from my classroom,” Ava announced with exaggerated casualness, her movement toward the door serving as an abrupt reminder that you had an audience.

Jinx rolled her eyes dramatically. “It’s been like, three seconds and you’re already being gross,” she complained, though there was no real irritation in her tone. “Can you guys at least try to be professional? For my sake?”

A faint flush appeared high on Silco’s cheekbones, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in what might have been amusement. “A reasonable request,” he acknowledged, his voice carrying that careful measure that somehow managed to sound both entirely formal and deeply intimate.

His attention shifted to where Jinx was sorting through papers at the coffee table. “What do you think of the opportunity, Jinx? The merchandise program would be quite the undertaking.”

“Opportunity?” Jinx repeated, perking up visibly. “So you really think this is a good idea? Me taking on more responsibility?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise,” he replied, his hand briefly settling on her shoulder—a small gesture of affection that made your chest tighten with unexpected tenderness. “Your artistic abilities have never been in question. This will allow you to develop complementary skills in project management and client relations.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Ava agreed, returning with another stack of documents. “The creative direction is important, but so is the practical implementation.”

As Jinx began reviewing the program outline, her brow furrowed in concentration, Silco moved closer to you, his voice dropping to ensure only you could hear. “You look lovely,” he observed, his gaze briefly traveling over your features in a way that made heat bloom across your skin.

“Thank you,” you murmured, acutely conscious of Jinx and Ava just a few feet away. “So do you.”

The subtle curve of his mouth suggested he understood everything you weren’t saying. “I’ve taken the liberty of arranging dinner,” he told you, his tone returning to something more appropriate for the setting. “It should arrive shortly.”