off the deep end

You really could go straight through the heart ... couldn't you?

[eyes-on-sinostra]

CASE REPORT: THE MEDDLESOME PSYCHOLOGIST

Rank: A Status: Destroyed Subject: A-5677-49 "Dr. Mihara" (Type: Pathea) Investigators: Taiga Hoshibami, Romeo Scorpius Lucci Inspector: Dr. Lina Nakamura

I. GENERAL DESCRIPTION

Apparent Age: Late 20s – Mid 30s Observed Behavior: The subject maintained all outward human functions and social affect. Slept rarely, instead entering a nightly trancelike state within his office. Security records[1] confirm no exits between 2300–0500 hours for the entire duration of employment.

Subject displayed exemplary work ethic and emotional perceptiveness, which later proved symptomatic of feeding behavior. He never exhibited awareness of his anomalous status.

II. ORIGIN / MANIFESTATION

Evidence suggests an pathea-type[2] conversion: subject was once human, later transformed following prolonged parasitic interaction with a pre-existing pathea anomaly (designated Parent Anomaly A-5677-48). The transformation resulted in complete depletion of one emotional faculty—affection—leaving the subject incapable of experiencing or internally generating that affect.

The anomaly type colloquially debated as ψ-vampiric shares superficial characteristics with both Western psychic-feeding entities and jiangshi-adjacent alimentary spirits, but is herein classified under the provisional taxonomic label Pathea[3]. The name denotes entities defined by invoked emotion, specifically those who feed on affective resonance rather than blood, will, or ectoplasmic substrate.

While rarity has led many within the Institute to assume negligible population, recent internal review suggests Pathea-type organisms may occur with greater frequency than previously documented. Not as ubiquitous as post-mortem spectral phenomena, but markedly less exceptional than classical vampirism. In short: they are not legend, but ecology.

According to standard theory, the afflicted must thereafter seek the missing emotion in others to sustain life. The mechanism is not predation in a conscious sense but osmosis through proximity and fixation.

III. FEEDING PATTERN

The subject fed on emotive resonance, particularly affection, attachment, and intimacy[4].

Like a biological organism with dietary preferences, he found certain affective "flavors" more sustaining: Genuine affection (High - primary sustenance), Romantic fixation (Moderate-High), Hostility/Fear (Low), Indifference (None).

The subject's professional role at Darkwick Academy provided continuous access to emotionally vulnerable individuals, allowing him to feed undetected. He rationalized this hunger as "clinical curiosity."

IV. ANOMALOUS TRAITS

Does not require conventional sleep; enters trance resembling REM paralysis while upright at desk[5].

Vital signs slow to near stasis during trance, then return to baseline within seconds of external stimuli.

When deprived of emotional sustenance for > 72 hours, exhibited accelerated psychological deterioration: fixation, delusion, erosion of self-referential language.

V. TERMINATION EVENT

Following progressive behavioral contamination of patients Taiga Hoshibami and Romeo Scorpius Lucci, both parties displayed escalating mutual dependency. It is unclear whether this increased mutual dependency was as a result of anomalous interference or simply coincidental.

Evidence recovered from the scene—including biological residue and journal fragments—suggests the subject was consumed by Hoshibami (likely with Lucci's monitoring or consent)[6].

VI. ANALYSIS

It is hypothesized that the subject's initial fascination with the pair derived from unconscious recognition of their intense reciprocal affection—precisely the energy he lacked. His interference may have amplified the bond he sought to study, inadvertently creating the conditions for his own destruction.

VII. CONTAINMENT / RECOMMENDATIONS

No containment necessary; subject presumed neutralized.

Continued psychological monitoring of Hoshibami and Lucci recommended; possible secondary pathea-conversion cannot be ruled out, although it is unlikely considering the ghoul-status of both students[7].

Reinforce psychiatric screening protocols for all Institute clinicians. Professions involving prolonged empathic contact present elevated risk for Affection-Void manifestation.

⸻

References

[1] █████ █████ ████ ███ ██, █████ █████ ███ ███ ████. █████ █████ ███ ██████ ███ ██████ ███. █████ █████ ████ ███ ███, █████ █████ ███ ███████. █████ █████ ████ █ ███ ███ ████ ███.

[2] Encyclopedia of Anomalous Taxa & Parapsychological Entities, 4th Edition. Vol. XII — Psychological & Energetic Predation Classes — "Pathea: Emotion-Consuming Humanoids & Conversion Phenomena."

[3] Ibid. p. 8783 —derived from the plural vocative of pathos.

[4] See Enclosure 6.1-6.204 & Enclosure 7.1-7.19: Observational Logs 見原 ビル — Notes regarding Romeo Scorpius Lucci and Taiga Hoshibami will be recognizably more obsessive in tone than notes kept on Kaito Fuji.

[5] See Enclosure 8: Observations noted by Romeo Scorpius Lucci

[6] Ibid.

[7] ███ ████ ████ ███ ████.

⸻

[lulus-eyes]

I don't like him. That shrink. Something's wrong with his face. Not the shape. The smile. The way he looks at me like he already knows what I'm going to say. Like he's waiting for me to prove some theory he wrote about me before I even walked in.

I tried ignoring it. Tried pretending he was just another Darkwick weirdo with too many degrees and not enough sunlight. But he keeps pushing. Asking about him. About Lulu. Way too much. Way too specific.

"How do you feel when he looks at you?" "What does it mean when he touches you?" "Do you think he's manipulating you?"

As if I don't already know what manipulation feels like. As if he's the expert on him. He talks like Romeo is a hazard sign with legs. Like I'm some idiot who walked into traffic.

And maybe I am. Maybe I did step into something dangerous. Maybe I'm already halfway under the tires. But he says his name like it's a fucking diagnosis.

And I hate that. Because he's wrong. He's wrong about him, and he's wrong about me, and he's definitely wrong about whatever he thinks is happening between us. It's not his business. It's not his theory. It's not his case file. It's mine. Lulu's. Ours.

He doesn't get to twist it into something pathetic or sick or doomed. Not when he doesn't see the way Lulu looks at me—like he's daring me to break him, like he already knows I won't. Not when he doesn't understand the way my hands move without thinking when it's him.

He can't read any of that. Yeah, something's off with him. Too sharp. Too hungry. Too interested. I don't like it.

We need to talk.

[bths-eyes]

I was thinking about why it hurts when he can't remember. It's not that I mind being forgotten. I mean—I do. Of course I do. But it's not the center of it.

It's not the sting of him blanking on something I said, or missing a date, or calling back a conversation we never had. It's not the loss of myself in his memory that breaks me.

It's the look in his eyes when he realizes he's forgotten. The agony of it. The silence that falls right after, like the moment before a building caves in. The way he covers it with a joke, or a shrug, or some sharp deflection that cuts both of us.

It's the way he knows. The way he feels it. That's what hurts.

Because I'd rather be erased a thousand times than see him carry the weight of losing anyone, anything, again. And I know he does. I see it—how hard he tries to hold onto things. How scared he is when something slips through the cracks.

He doesn't forget because he's careless. He forgets because there’s too much inside him already.

Too much violence. Too much memory. Too many names etched too deep or too shallow to last.

And when he forgets me—or something I said, or something we did—I don't ache because I'm lost. I ache because he is.

[lulus-eyes]

You think I don't see it on your face? The little flicker when I mess up a name or pull back a thread I should've held on to. I see it. I hate it.

It's not you I'm letting go of. It's not because I don't care. It's because my head is a graveyard and there's only so much space before the stones start toppling. Some things I carve deep. Some things get swept away by the noise. And I never know which one it'll be until it's too late.

But you... every time you slip, every time a detail blurs, every time a moment slips out of my grasp... I still know you're there. You burn through the static even when I lose the shape of a conversation. Even when I'm scrambling to cover it with a grin.

You ache because you think I'm lost. And maybe I am a bit. But not from you. Even when the details vanish, you're still the one constant I reach for. The one name that sticks.

I can't promise I'll hold every memory. But I can promise I'm still trying. And I can promise that no matter what cracks, you're the one thing I keep finding my way back to.

[bths-eyes]

He talks in his sleep sometimes. I've only caught it a handful of times.

It's rare. He usually sleeps like he fights—loud, restless, in fits and starts—but every so often, he drifts deep enough that something slips out.

It's never a full conversation. Never anything I can completely make sense of. Just fragments. Half-formed words. Names I don't recognize. Sometimes laughter—soft, almost shy, like it doesn't belong to him.

Once, it was my name. Whispered. Barely audible. But I heard it. I didn't wake him. Didn't even move. Just lay there, listening, as if the slightest shift would shatter the moment.

There's something about hearing him like that—unguarded, unaware—that feels like trespassing. Like reading the last page of a book you're not finished with yet. And I keep telling myself I won't do it again.

That I'll look away. Tune it out. Let him keep whatever dreams he's tangled in. But I know I won't. Not if it happens again.

Some things you can't help but want to hear.

[lulus-eyes]

S'not trespassing, Lulu. If my mouth says your name when my eyes are closed, that's on me. That's not an accident. That's something my body remembers even when my head is a mess.

Most nights I don't sleep deep enough for anything to slip out. Too many ghosts in the room, too much noise under my skin. But when I do, the fragments you hear, the names, the half-laughs, that's the clutter rattling loose. Old things. Old fights. Old versions of me I don't even like thinking about.

And then there's you. The one thing that cuts through all of it. The one name that doesn't feel like a mistake or a burden.

If you hear it again, don't look away. Don't tell yourself you're stealing something. If I'm saying it, it's because some part of me wants you there even when I'm not awake enough to ask. I don't dream about much that's soft. But when I do, it's usually you.

Climb in the bed. Keep me warm, yeah?

[bths-eyes]

It's not that I want him to hurt me.

I'm not a masochist. Not exactly.

It's that I want to see how far he'll go before he stops. If he'll stop.

Because there's a line in him—blurred, shifting, sometimes invisible—and I've spent far too long wondering where it actually is. Wondering if it's made of morality, self-control, or just boredom.

I've seen him break things without blinking. Seen him walk away from messes like they were just part of the scenery. Seen the way his eyes light up when someone challenges him and loses.

And I want to know—

If it was me. If it was my throat under his hand, my back against the wall, my breath catching because of him—

Would he stop? Would he recognize the edge?

Or would he look at me with that same bright, burning hunger and keep going?

It's not about pain. It's about truth.

About finding out which part of me he'd choose to spare, and which he'd gladly consume.

[lulus-eyes]

I know exactly what you're asking. And by the looks of these journal entries you've been circling it for a while, watching me like I'm a cliff edge you're half-tempted to jump from.

You're right about me, my line isn't clean. It moves. It bends. Sometimes it disappears. But it's still there. And when it's you, I see it clearer than anything.

I break things because they're things. I walk away because it's easier than staying. But you're not scenery. You're not a thing, Lulu. You're the one person I don't want to wreck by accident.

If it was your throat under my hand, your back to the wall, your breath catching because of me... I'd... Well it depends really, on the look on your face, on the feel of your pulse. Not because you're fragile though. Because you're the only one I actually want to choose, not consume.

[bths-eyes]

He makes everything louder and quieter at the same time. It shouldn't be possible. Noise is noise. Silence is silence. But somehow, he manages to be both.

He's such an odd brand of chaos. Not the kind that's all shouting and explosions—though there's plenty of that—but the kind that takes up space. The kind that forces the room to shift around him.

Taiga is a new kind of noise—one that stills the rest of the world.

When he's moving, talking, needling me, the edges of everything else blur. The rest of the static in my head quiets. Like he drowns it out simply by existing.

And when he gets quiet—really quiet—people start watching. Because his silence is never empty. It's heavy. Intentional. It makes you want to lean in, to hear the thing he’s not saying.

I've seen entire rooms tilt toward him when he goes still. Like prey scenting a predator in the grass.

He knows it, too. Uses it. Wields it like a blade.

And I can't decide which is worse—when he’s loud, and all I can hear is him...

Or when he's quiet, and all I can hear is myself.

[lulus-eyes]

Louder and quieter, huh? That's the trick.

Noise keeps people guessing. Silence makes them lean in. I don't even have to try anymore—the room just tilts when I breathe. And you? You're the one I'm always watching when it tilts.

You think I'm wielding it like a blade. Maybe I am. But the part you don't see is what happens in my head when the quiet hits. That’s when you get loud. When everything else fades and I can finally hear the way your heartbeat answers mine.

I'll keep making the world blur until it's just you and me and whatever's humming between us. When the noise drops out, the only thing left is the part of you I don't ever want to miss.

[bths-eyes]

This BTH asked me if I wanted kids this morning.

Just—casually. Like he was asking if I wanted more coffee. Shirt half-buttoned, still drying his hair with one of my towels, and he just drops it:

"Hey Lulu, you ever think about having kids?"

Like that's a normal thing to bring up before 9AM.

I told him, between lectures, leadership duties, anomaly investigations, and the petulant child that is the fucking casino, I think I'm good, thanks.

Thought that would shut it down. Thought I'd made it clear that we were not, under any circumstances, venturing into domestic fantasy hour. But no.

Now he's insufferably happy about the fact that I took his question seriously.

Keeps smirking. Keeps humming. Keeps giving me looks. Like I passed some secret test he didn't warn me about. Like my answer meant something I didn't intend it to.

And maybe it did. Fuck off.

[lulus-eyes]

You did take it seriously. Gyahaha! That's the whole point.

I didn't ask because I've got a crib hidden behind the roulette tables. I asked because I wanted to see what you'd do when I dropped something real into the middle of the morning. And you didn't dodge. You gave me an answer. You let me see a corner of your brain that isn't all numbers and threats.

That's why I'm smiling. Not because I want kids, not because I need a plan—because you let me in.

I'll keep humming. I'll keep giving you looks. Because for once, you stopped fencing and just answered.

[bths-eyes]

I wish I knew how to help him.

Not fix him. He doesn't need to be fixed. Too wild. Too far gone in ways I don't understand but find myself dreaming about anyway.

But still—I wish I knew something.

Some incant. Some trick. Some stupid, small gesture that would make the weight in his shoulders ease. The nightmares stop. The panic fade. Some version of me that could reach him where words can't.

Because I see it. Even when he thinks he's hiding it, I see it.

The cracks. The exhaustion. The way he holds on like he's waiting for everything to fall apart again.

And I hate it—this helplessness. This standing by while he bleeds metaphorically, literally, in every fucking direction. I'd trade anything to make it stop. But he doesn't ask. And I don't know how to offer without making it worse.

So I just stay. And hope that, somehow, that's helping too.

[lulus-eyes]

It does. It's you.

I don't need you to fix me. I don't even need the right words. I just need someone who sees it and doesn't run. Someone who stays when the noise hits, when the cracks show, when I'm half a second from burning it all down.

That's you.

You think standing there, breathing the same air while I fall apart isn't enough? It's the only fucking thing that's ever been enough. Every time you stay, the floor stops tilting just a little. The weight shifts. I can breathe.

You already give me the one thing I can't buy or steal: a place to land when everything else comes apart.

[bths-eyes]

I think I'd be okay if this was it. If it stayed like this forever.

[There's a significant portion of scratched out writing.]

It's fine. No labels. No answers. No promises wrapped in ribbons we'll both forget to untie. Just this.

The nights where he falls asleep on my floor, shoes still on. The mornings where he steals my espresso and leaves crumbs on my reports. The looks we don't talk about. The touches we don't explain. The silences that feel like sentences, like promises we're too scared to say out loud.

I used to want more. Control. Clarity. A narrative that made sense.

But now? Now I think I'd be okay if we just stayed here. In this strange, unnamed thing. Not moving forward. Not falling apart. Just orbiting.

If this is all he has to give—this tangle of chaos and care, of sharp teeth and soft silences—then I'll take it.

Because I've never had something like this before. And I might never again.

So yes. If this is it—If this right here is all there is—I think I'd be okay.

[lulus-eyes]

[There's no response entry from Taiga, but there are letters traced on the reverse side of the page.]

[Actually no, that's not true. I want him to be mine. I want to know that I'm his. But I'm afraid of the things he sees when he goes distant. The things about me he knows that no one else does. I'm afraid that he already knows I love him. But if I tell him, if I give voice to it, who's to say he won't forget the next day. I've always been greedy. Maybe it's better if for once in my life, I'm just happy with what I have. I want more for him, but he seems content where he is. Maybe I ought to be too.]

[bths-eyes]

God, I still want to strangle him half the time. That hasn't changed.

What's new is that now I also want to hold his hand while I do it. That's normal, right?

He's my captain. I'm subordinate to him. Hierarchically, politically, professionally—he outranks me. Which only makes it worse.

Because he's infuriating. Reckless. Loud. Unapologetically chaotic. He pushes buttons he installed himself, and then acts surprised when I short-circuit.

Everyone wants to strangle their boss. That's common. That's human. Perfectly reasonable.

But not everyone wants to see the exact shade of green his eyes burn when you do. Not everyone wonders what his voice sounds like half-choked with laughter. Not everyone imagines the shape of his throat in their palm and calls it fondness.

And I do. It's the combination that's going to kill me. The wanting and the wanting-to-kill.

The intimacy of violence. The violence of intimacy.

It's just workplace tension. Truly I am losing it.

[lulus-eyes]

Normal? Sure. If you're us.

You think I don't feel it too? That twitch in the hands when you're standing too close. That pull between wanting to bite and wanting to be bitten. It's the best part of this whole power-trip circus.

Hierarchy's just a word on paper. Captain, vice-captain. None of it means a damn thing when you've got your palm on my throat and I'm still leaning in. You call it strangling. I call it attention.

Go ahead, Lulu. Keep plotting the choke and the handhold. I'll keep giving you reasons.

And when the day comes when you decide to test the theory, make sure you look me in the eyes while you do it.

[bths-eyes]

He's the last thing I text. Every night. Even if it's just "fuck you."

Usually it is. Sometimes it's worse. Sometimes it's "try not to die tonight" or "don’t forget your meds, dumbass." Sometimes it's nothing but a period.

But it's always him. Last name in the thread. Last thought before I shut my eyes and pretend to sleep.

It's not a ritual. Not something I plan. It just... happens. My fingers drift. My thumb hesitates. And then it's his name lighting up my screen like it belongs there.

Maybe I'm checking he's still alive. Maybe I'm just making sure he remembers I am.

He doesn't always respond. Sometimes he calls instead. Sometimes I get a sticker pack in reply at 3AM. Sometimes he shows up in person like the message was a fucking summons.

I never tell him I wait for it. Not the reply. Not the silence. Not the anything.

But I do. God, I do.

And maybe one night I'll say something else. Something softer. Something true. But until then, "Fuck you" will have to mean "I'm still here."

[lulus-eyes]

You think I don't know what fuck you means? That's downright affectionate coming from you.

Every night, last thing before you crash, my name lights up your screen. Doesn't matter if it's a period, a curse, a half-threat about meds, it's you reaching. You don't have to spell it out. I hear it.

Sometimes I answer. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I show up because the words aren't enough. But I see every one. Wait for them on the nights when it's hard to keep a grip on reality.

So keep sending them, Lulu. I'll keep catching them. And one of these nights, when you're ready, you can call it whatever you want. Until then, fuck you right back.

[bths-eyes]

God, I am so fucking tired today.

The kind of tired that settles behind your eyes like smoke. The kind that makes time stretch and bend and blur at the edges. Everything feels heavy. Off. Like I'm underwater and no one told me I forgot how to swim.

Taiga noticed.

Didn't say anything. Didn't joke. Didn't tease.

He just walked in, dropped an espresso on my desk without a word, and leaned down to press a kiss to my temple.

That's it. That's all.

No flair. No drama. No quip about my under-eye circles or the fact that I've been working too late again. Just... that small, quiet thing. That choice to say nothing and do everything.

And god, it wrecked me. Not the kiss. Not the espresso. The fact that he noticed.

That he saw me sagging under the weight of it and didn't ask me to explain. Didn't make me perform. Just gave me something warm and bitter and real, and reminded me—without saying a word—that he sees me.

I don't think I even said thank you.

I just sat there, holding it, heart thudding like he'd done something far more dangerous.

[lulus-eyes]

You don't have to thank me, Lulu. It's the bare minimum of what you deserve.

Didn't need a speech, didn't need a fight, didn't need to make you laugh. You were already carrying too much. So I tried to do the one thing I could do without adding more weight.

I'm trying. I'm trying to pay attention, I really am. I know I don't always get it right. Hell, I know I nearly always get it wrong.

But I don't want you to forget somebody's watching even when you're too tired to look back. Drink the coffee. Keep breathing. I've got the rest.

[bths-eyes]

I asked him what we were doing. One night. While we were... close.

The kind of close that makes the air go still. The kind of close where breath starts to feel like a shared thing.

I don't know why I asked. I don't usually ask questions I don't want answers to. He shrugged. Didn't even look at me when he said it. Just murmured, "This."

That's all. This.

And I didn't argue. No labels. No clarifications. No terms or conditions. Just this.

And maybe that feels safer. Not because he's safe—god, no—he's chaos in a body, teeth and heat and wild things under his skin. But because "this" means I don't have to name what I already know is consuming me.

He's not safe. But he's enough. For now. For this moment. For whatever this is. And I think I'm okay with that. I think I'm okay with it ruining me.

In fact—I think I want to be ruined by it. By him. If the end of me has to have a name, I'd rather it be whispered through his teeth than written in silence.

[lulus-eyes]

Yeah. This.

That's all I've ever wanted to call it. Not a contract. Not a promise. Not a cage. Just the thing that happens when you and I stop pretending the world outside the room matters.

You asked what we were doing like there's a word big enough to hold it. There isn't. "This" is the only one that doesn't ruin it before it starts.

I'm not safe. I won't ever be. But you don't need safe—you need real. And when you're pressed against me, when the air goes still and every breath is the same breath, that's as real as it gets.

If it ruins you, then we ruin together. If the end of you has to have a name, let it be a sound we make, not a label someone else can read.

This is what we are. This is enough.

[bths-eyes]

I used to think my favorite color was gold. Gold is elegant. Luxurious. Commanding. It looks good on me. It suits me. It always has.

But it's not my favorite. Not really.

My favorite color is whatever the fuck his eyes look like when he's bleeding.

When things go violent. When the room is too quiet and too loud all at once. When the air hums with static and I know something's wrong before anyone speaks.

That's when they change.

Those already impossible eyes—chartreuse, absinthe, acid and all—ignite. They catch every glint of light like they're feeding on it. Go brighter. Wilder. Meaner.

It’s not human. It's not ghoul. It's something other. Something awful.

And it's sickening how much it excites me. How much I look for it. How much I wait for that flash, that flicker, that moment when he crosses the line and becomes something dangerous and unstoppable and real in a way that strips me bare.

No one should look that beautiful when they're hurt. No one should glow like that when they're bleeding.

[lulus-eyes]

So that's when you like them best. Not when I'm joking. Not when I'm soft. When I'm bleeding. Figures. Always wondered if you were a sadist.

I can feel it happen. The world goes sharp, the air tastes like metal, and every nerve starts screaming. It isn't human. It isn't really ghoul either. It's the part of me I try to keep caged. And you watch.

I notice. The way your eyes lock on mine when the blood starts to shine. The way you breathe like you're waiting for something to break. You think you hide it behind that perfect posture, but I see you.

And yeah, it's awful. It's dangerous. It's exactly why I try not to drag you into it. But you keep coming closer anyway. When my eyes burn brighter, it's because you're the one person I don't bother dimming them for.

But Lulu, if you're looking for the glow, you're already standing too close to the fire.

[bths-eyes]

He winked at me today.

Just mid-conversation. In front of others. No warning. No build-up. Just that stupid, smug little twitch of his eye like he was tossing gasoline on a fire just to see if I'd notice.

Obviously, I fucking noticed. I glared back at him for show. The kind of look that should've turned him to stone.

I laced my fingers together and rested them against my mouth. Elbows on the desk. Perfect posture. Controlled. Polished. And behind all that structure—behind my perfectly posed hands— I smiled.

Only a little. Just enough for me. Just enough to know that if he saw it, I'd have to kick him. He'd probably like that.

There's something unbearably satisfying about letting him think he hasn't gotten to me, even when he has.

Letting him strut away thinking I'm unaffected, when really, I'm counting the seconds until he looks back.

He didn't. Not this time. But he doesn't need to. He always seems to know anyway.

[lulus-eyes]

Cuz you're shit at hiding. Gyahaha!

Saw the glare. Saw the fingers hiding the smile. Saw everything.

You think I wink without a reason? That's a shot fired, Lulu. I know exactly where it lands. And I don't need to look back to confirm the hit—you broadcast it in the way you hold your posture like a shield and let the corner of your mouth betray you.

That's the real fun. Not the wink. Not the kick you're already planning. It's watching you fight yourself just to keep that little spark hidden.

You can keep the mask if it makes you feel in control. I like the mask. I like knowing I can slip past it with one twitch of an eye.

[bths-eyes]

I told him to take off his sunglasses.

Because we were indoors. Because it's rude. Because they were crooked and making him look like a hungover incel on a bender through an abandoned casino.

A reasonable ask, by any standard. And do you know what he said?

"Why? You wanna stare at 'em, Lulu? Didja miss glaring at 'em directly?"

With that grin. That grin. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he planned that response three days ago in anticipation of this exact conversation.

I rolled my eyes. Said something biting. Probably cruel. But the worst part?

He's right.

I do miss glaring at them directly. I miss seeing the way his pupils shrink when I walk into the room. The way those impossible eyes narrow when he's thinking something he'll never say. The way they sharpen when he's about to make a mistake and knows I'll be the one to clean it up.

They're expressive in a way I'm not. They tell me things I'll never admit. And I hate that he knows I look. I hate it even more that he likes being looked at.

God. Maybe I should've let him keep the sunglasses on.

[lulus-eyes]

Heh, I knew you'd tell me to take them off. Of course I had the line ready.

The glasses are bait. Little pieces of armor I can slip on just to make you ask. To make you admit you want a clear shot.

And you do want it. You miss the pupils. You miss the tells. You miss the way I watch you back. I see it every time you try not to stare—your eyes drag over me like you're checking for a target.

That's why I grin. Because you keep looking even when you swear you won't. Because every time you catch the color, I get to watch you forget whatever clever thing you were about to say.

So go ahead, Lulu. Next time, tell me to take them off again. I’ll pretend to argue, and you'll pretend you don't love what you see when I finally do.

[bths-eyes]

I still can't get over how vivid his eyes are.

Not just green—acid green. Unnatural. Unsettling. The kind of color that shouldn't exist outside of warning labels and chemical burns.

Like absinthe and horror all in one.

Straight from a bottle marked do not touch. The kind of color that makes you flinch even as you keep looking.

And I do. Keep looking. Can't stop, really.

Because no matter how many times I see them—lit by moonlight, firelight, the cold flicker of a phone screen—they never soften.

Not really. Not completely.

Even when he's smiling. Even when he's asleep. Even when he's breathing slow and lazy beside me like he doesn't have a monster curled up in his chest.

That color never fades. Never dims. I think I'm addicted to it.

[lulus-eyes]

Heh. I don't really have a lot to say about this one. You want the burn, and I want you to see it.

Come take a sip Lulu.