He finds you on the sofa.
Sprawled out. Shoes off. Head on a pillow that absolutely does not belong there. One arm dangling over the side like you’ve already given up on life.
“…Explain,” he says coldly.
You blink at the ceiling. “Good evening to you too.”
“You were instructed to organize the east wing,” he continues. “Two hours ago.”
You hum. “Yeah. I thought about it.”
“I see no evidence of that,” he replies.
You roll onto your side and smile at him—lazy, bright, completely unbothered. “I’m conserving energy.”
“For existing,” you say cheerfully. “Very tiring.”
His eye twitches. “You treat this household like a vacation resort.”
“Well,” you stretch, “it does have great atmosphere. Creepy, but charming.”
He steps closer. “Get up.”
You sigh dramatically and sit up halfway. “Wow. Such bossy energy. Are you always like this or is tonight special?”
He looks down at you. “You are wasting time.”
“And you,” you grin, “are wasting your life being grumpy.”
He grabs your wrist and pulls you up in one sharp motion.
You stumble into him. Too close.
“Do not mistake my restraint for tolerance,” He says quietly. “You belong to this house. You will contribute.”
Then… you laugh. A warm, amused laughter.
“Oh my god,” you say. “You sound like a haunted landlord.”
His grip tightens. “What is wrong with you?”
You tilt your head. “I’m just happy?”
That answer doesn’t compute.
You tap his chest lightly.
“Relax. If I’m gonna be stuck here, I might as well enjoy myself.”
“You should be afraid,” he says.
“But I’m not,” you reply. “You’re too dramatic.”
His eyes darken. “You mock danger.”
“No,” you say softly. “I get bored of it.”
He releases your wrist slowly.
“Then you will learn,” He says, “that comfort is a privilege.”
You smile wider. “Cool. I love privileges!”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “You are infuriating.”
“Thank you,” you beam. “I work hard on that.”
He turns away. “…Get dressed properly. We are going to the dining room.”
You flop back onto the sofa. “Carry me.”
“I’m lazy. You’re strong. Seems efficient.”
He turns back. Steps forward.
And without another word, picks you up.
You squeak, then laugh, arms automatically wrapping around his neck. “Oh wow. See? Teamwork.”
He glares down at you. “This does not mean you’ve won.”
You grin into his shoulder.
“I don’t need to win,” you whisper.
He tells himself you are a problem.
A loud one. A bright one. An unnecessary one.
You’re sitting in the dining hall now, legs pulled up on the chair, humming to yourself while stirring your tea with the wrong spoon.
He watches from across the table.
“You are using the dessert spoon,” he says.
You glance at it. “It stirs just fine.”
“It is not meant for tea.”
“But it’s emotionally supportive,” you reply.
He closes his book. Slowly. “You deliberately ignore rules.”
You grin. “Nope. I selectively respect them.”
You take a sip, then squint. “Wow. This is bitter. Did you make this?”
His eye twitches again. “You insult my preparation?”
“Not insult,” you say lightly. “Observe.”
You stand, walk over, and grab the sugar bowl.
You drop three cubes into your cup.
Then—without asking—you drop one into his.
He stiffens. “…What are you doing?”
He watches as the sugar melts.
You sit back down like nothing happened.
“There,” you say. “Now you’re less miserable.”
Long, sharp, controlled silence.
“You alter things that do not belong to you,” He says.
You tilt your head. “So do you.”
His gaze darkens. “What do you mean by that?”
You smile, softer this time. “You changed my whole life without asking. I just added sugar.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak.
Then he stands. Walks around the table. Stops behind your chair.
You feel him there before he touches you.
His hand rests on the back of your seat.
“You speak too freely,” he murmurs. “And yet…”
He leans down. Close to your ear.
“…you have not been silenced.”
Your heart flutters—but you keep your voice light. “Maybe because you like me.”
He scoffs quietly. “I do not like people.”
His fingers brush your shoulder. Not accidental. Not gentle either.
Then his tone changes. Cold. Sharp. “Stop testing my patience.”
You blink, then look up at him.
“Okay,” you say easily. “There’s only one way to do that.”
His eyes narrow. “And what would that be?”
You turn in your chair to face him properly, smile still there—but quieter now. “Let me go.”
You continue, calm and honest. “Let me live my life like before. Freely. Normally. Away from here.”
You shrug lightly. “If I can do that, you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”
Not loud. Not explosive. But terrifying.
His hand slams down on the table beside you.
“You think,” He says lowly, “that you are leaving?”
“I think you’re tired of me,” you reply gently. “And I’m offering a solution.”
He grabs your chin and forces you to look at him.
“You are not a problem to be removed,” he snarls. “You are a variable to be controlled.”
Your smile fades—just a little. “See? That’s exactly why I want out.”
His grip tightens. “You belong here.”
“No,” you say softly. “I’m just stuck here.”
That word hits harder than any insult.
He releases you abruptly and steps back, breathing sharp. “Do not speak as if you have a choice.”
“I do,” you reply. “You just don’t like it.”
For a long moment, the air between you is charged and burning.
Then he says, quiet and furious: “You are not leaving this house.”
You tilt your head. “…Then I guess you’ll have to keep dealing with me.”
That sounds more like a threat than a joke.
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