#guideverse x reader

[solxamber]

Fake It Till You Make It (Then Make It Real) || Ruggie Bucchi

You, S-Class Esper, hired a Guide to pretend to guide you. He took the job for the generous paycheck. Neither of you expected the "falling desperately in love" part of the arrangement.

or: Guideverse!

wc: ~18.8k

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The world was barely fine before the Gates opened.

Humanity had already been juggling enough catastrophes to fill a very depressing bingo card: wars for reasons that made less sense than a fortune cookie written by a sleep-deprived philosophy student, the ongoing debate about whether pineapple belonged on pizza (it didn't, and anyone who said otherwise was clearly a chaos agent), and the collective realization that nobody actually knew how to properly fold a fitted sheet. Scientists had confirmed in 20XX that fitted sheets were, in fact, a psychological warfare experiment that had escaped containment from a Cold War laboratory.

Then the Gates happened.

One morning, reality developed a structural integrity problem. Giant shimmering portals began tearing open across the globe like cosmic zippers being yanked down by an impatient god who really needed to use the bathroom. These Gates, as humanity unimaginatively named them (the committee had considered "Doom Holes" and "Monster Sphincters" but decided those wouldn't test well with focus groups), led to dimensions that were apparently having a fire sale on nightmares.

Inside each Gate lurked monsters. No, not the metaphorical kind that represented society's ills or whatever—actual, literal monsters with too many teeth and a complete disregard for architectural preservation. If a Gate wasn't suppressed within a certain timeframe, it would collapse, which sounded good until you realized "collapse" in this context meant "vomit its entire contents of angry interdimensional wildlife out onto the streets like the world's worst piñata."

Enter the Espers.

Espers were humans who had developed supernatural abilities, presumably because evolution looked at the Gate situation and said, "You know what? Fine. Here's some superpowers. Try not to blow up the planet before I can properly evolve you some better knees." They were humanity's frontline defense, diving into Gates before they could collapse, fighting monsters and generally having a worse time than anyone who'd ever worked in customer service during a holiday sale.

The problem was that using their powers drove Espers completely bonkers. 

Their abilities were fueled by energy that human brains were absolutely not designed to process, like trying to run Genshin Impact on a calculator watch. After a Gate dive, Espers would emerge crackling with enough unstable power to level a city block, their sanity deteriorating faster than an ice cream cone in a sauna.

This is where Guides came in.

Guides were support personnel with the ability to stabilize Espers, neutralizing the excess energy before an Esper could accidentally turn a city block into a crater. They waited outside Gates like the world's most anxious pit crew, ready to tackle returning Espers and perform what was technically called "guiding" but which basically amounted to being a psychic shock absorber slash emotional support human.

Together, Espers and Guides kept the world stable.

Well. "Stable" was perhaps generous. More like "consistently on the edge of apocalypse but managing to avoid it through a combination of supernatural powers and the kind of bureaucratic incompetence that somehow worked out in humanity's favor." The world was basically being held together with duct tape, good intentions, and the hope that the monsters would eventually get bored and go back to wherever they came from.

They had not gotten bored.

In fact, they seemed to be multiplying, which suggested that somewhere in the interdimensional void, monsters had discovered the concept of franchising.

You are an S-rank Esper, which means you are theoretically living the dream.

The reality is more accurately described as living inside a washing machine that's been set to "apocalypse" cycle while someone throws progressively weirder items into the drum. Last week it was a monster that looked like a filing cabinet had achieved sentience and chosen violence. This morning it was something that resembled a horse if horses were made of screaming and had seventeen extra legs growing out of places legs had no business growing from.

S-rank means you're in the top percent of Espers globally. You can do things that make physics professors cry into their morning coffee and then switch to whiskey before lunch. You get paid enough money that you could probably buy a small island nation, except you're too busy diving into hell-dimensions five times a week to enjoy tropical dictatorships.

Your apartment is very nice in the theoretical sense that you own furniture and it exists in space. You have never been conscious inside it for more than six consecutive hours because Gates don't take vacations and therefore neither do you.

The problem, the absolutely teeth-grinding migraine-inducing problem, is the touching.

Guides can only guide through physical contact. This is a completely normal and reasonable aspect of how guiding works, according to every single person who has ever lectured you about it. You understand the mechanism. You have attended the mandatory seminars where someone in a blazer too tight for their shoulders explained the science with PowerPoint slides that had too many animations. You have read the pamphlets that explain how skin-to-skin contact creates the necessary channel for energy transfer and psychic stabilization, complete with helpful diagrams that look like they were drawn by someone who'd never actually seen human hands before.

You hate it with the burning intensity of a star going supernova in the middle of a kindergarten classroom.

The touching thing isn't personal (mostly). You don't have some tragic backstory that explains everything in neat little psychological packages tied with therapeutic ribbon. You haven't been wronged by touch in some dark and brooding way. You just possess a very sincere and deeply held preference for people to keep their goddamn hands to themselves, which apparently makes you the unreasonable one in a profession where someone grabbing your face and forcing sustained eye contact while whispering affirmations is considered standard medical procedure.

Also, your situation is completely different from that one SSS-class Esper who literally cannot be guided without causing psychic feedback to themself. That person has a medical exemption signed by four different doctors and a priest who may or may not have been legitimate. You just have what your last Bureau supervisor called "an interpersonal challenge" and what you call "a basic understanding of personal space."

The absolute worst part is what happens after a Gate dive.

Picture this: You stagger out of a portal that's been vomiting violet lightning for the past forty minutes, covered head to toe in something that used to be inside a monster before the monster experienced a catastrophic loss of structural integrity (your fault, entirely justified). Your power is crackling around you in visible arcs that are making the air smell like rotten eggs.

Your brain feels like someone has replaced all your thoughts with angry wasps wearing tiny boots, and the boots have cleats. You're already having the worst time. The Gate was full of monsters that had too many limbs arranged in geometries that violated several laws of nature and possibly one or two laws of good taste, and they kept making sounds like a fax machine being murdered by a dubstep artist.

And then, inevitably, some Guide materializes out of nowhere and grabs you.

They grab your arm, your shoulder or even your hand if they're feeling particularly ambitious. Their energy starts pouring into you like someone has decided to fill your skull with lukewarm oatmeal using a funnel that's slightly too small. They're doing their job. You understand they're doing their job. This does not make you hate it less.

"Breathe in," they'll say, their hands clamped around whatever part of you they've managed to latch onto, their voice doing that special Guide thing where it gets all soft and deliberately calming in a way that makes you want to bite something. "Breathe out. Match my rhythm. Focus on my voice and let the energy flow through the connection."

You don't want to focus on their voice. You want to focus on going home, standing in a shower hot enough to get minor burns, and then eating something that isn't a protein bar with the nutritional content of compressed sadness and the flavor profile of sweetened cardboard. You want to sleep for sixteen hours in a bed that isn't trying to heal you or stabilize you or do anything except exist as a horizontal surface.

But no. You have to sit there on whatever bench or chair or patch of ground they've herded you to. You have to tolerate their hands on your skin while their energy does its work. You have to pretend that the sensation doesn't feel like someone's running a cheese grater very slowly across the inside of your brain while simultaneously filling your sinuses with television static. You have to endure their murmured affirmations and guidance while they treat you like a spooked horse that needs to be talked down from a ledge.

"You're stabilizing really well," they'll lie, because you're absolutely not stabilizing well. You're tolerating a necessary medical procedure with all the grace and enthusiasm of a cat being forcibly bathed.

So you had done what any reasonable person would do when faced with an intolerable situation: you filed for a transfer.

You had heard rumors about this one Guide who was apparently some kind of freak of nature. Word through the grapevine was they could guide without physical contact, which sounded like the kind of miracle that usually came with a catch like "but only during a solar eclipse" or "while reciting the alphabet backwards in Finnish." The details were vague. The rumors were probably ninety percent bullshit. You filed the paperwork anyway because even a ten percent chance of salvation was better than your current situation.

You waited six weeks for the request to crawl through the Bureau's bureaucratic digestive system, which appeared to process paperwork at the same speed a sloth would process advanced calculus. You packed your entire life into boxes that you labeled with a Sharpie and increasing desperation. You said goodbye to nobody because you hadn't really known anyone at your old branch and they seemed fine with that. You moved across several time zones to a new city you'd never been to, full of hope and the kind of desperate optimism usually seen people buying lottery tickets.

The hope lasted approximately forty-five minutes.

That was how long it took for someone in HR to cheerfully destroy your entire reason for existing.

"Oh yeah, that Guide," the HR person said, squinting at their computer screen. "They left the Bureau three weeks ago. Went off to travel the world with their Esper partner."

"When did they leave?" you asked. Your voice was doing something unnatural, operating in a register that suggested imminent violence.

"About three weeks ago? Maybe four? Time is kind of a soup here, you know how it is."

Three. Weeks.

You had spent six weeks waiting for paperwork to process. You had packed your entire life into boxes. You had moved across multiple time zones and possibly several climate zones based on how different the weather was. You had done all of this for a Guide who had quit A MONTH AGO, and nobody had thought to mention this at any point during the transfer process.

The universe apparently had a sense of humor and that sense of humor was specifically dedicated to making your life resemble a comedy written by someone who hated you personally.

So now you're stuck. Stuck in a new city where you know absolutely nobody and the coffee tastes wrong in a way you can't quite articulate. Stuck in a Bureau branch that's already looking at you like you're a problem that arrived in a box labeled "FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH INDUSTRIAL GLOVES AND MAYBE A PRAYER." Stuck with the same terrible options you had before, except now you're having them in a location with worse weather and no familiar take-out places.

Which is why you have developed what you generously call a system and what the Bureau medical staff calls "a concerning pattern of noncompliance."

The system is stabilizers.

Stabilizers are the pharmaceutical band-aid solution to the guiding problem. Little bottles of liquid that taste like someone liquified a migraine, added artificial cherry flavor to insult you personally, and then charged you a lot for the privilege. They're designed to be a supplement to proper guiding, something you take between sessions to keep your energy levels from doing anything dramatic.

They work fine for lower-ranked Espers who aren't diving into Gates every other day. B-rank and C-rank Espers can practically live on the things. Even some A-ranks can get by on stabilizers alone if they're not diving too frequently and they don't mind feeling like they're running their consciousness through a filter made of steel wool.

S-rank? The efficacy drops off a cliff so steep it has its own gravitational pull.

For SS-rank Espers and above, stabilizers might as well be very expensive, foul tasting Gatorade that does absolutely nothing except drain your bank account and make your pee glow colors that don't exist in nature.

You are S-rank, which means the stabilizers work at maybe sixty percent of their intended effectiveness on a good day. When the wind is blowing in the right direction and you haven't eaten anything that disagrees with your intestinal fortitude.

Your Bureau-assigned medical officer has developed Opinions about your stabilizer dependency, which she expresses through increasingly passive-aggressive emails with subject lines like "Re: Your Health Metrics (URGENT - PLEASE READ)" and "Fw: Fw: Fw: Fw: Seriously We Need To Talk About Your Treatment Compliance."

You delete these emails with practiced efficiency because you have made peace with your life choices and are comfortable disappointing medical professionals.

What you actually need, what you desperately require, is a Guide who will not force you to be guided. 

You need someone who will take one look at you stumbling out of a Gate covered in fluorescent monster organs and crackling with enough unstable energy to power a small city, and they'll just nod. They'll go, "Yeah, that seems fine" and then they'll wander off to do something else while you handle your own shit. A Guide who possesses a healthy sense of self-preservation and a flexible relationship with Bureau protocol. Someone who can be bribed with cash or food or the promise that you'll stop making their life difficult if they just let you mainline stabilizers in peace.

You have not found this Guide yet.

The Gate today was supposed to be class A, which in Bureau terminology means "moderately dangerous but you'll probably survive unless you do something phenomenally stupid."

Except when you got inside, there was already an SSS-rank Esper in there, and he was having what could only be described as the time of his life.

You recognized him immediately because he had horns. This was that SSS-rank Esper that everyone whispered about in the break room. The guy who'd once decimated a Category 5 Gate while humming what witnesses swore was a lullaby. The Esper who was so catastrophically powerful that his own Bureau branch had a separate insurance policy just for him.

He was also, according to bureau gossip, kind of weird about not being invited to things.

Right now he was fighting monsters with the enthusiasm of someone who'd finally been invited to a party and was determined to make it everyone's problem. There was this creature that looked like a filing cabinet had achieved consciousness and chosen violence as its entire personality. This absolute unit of an Esper pointed at it almost delicately, and it exploded into green lightning and what might have been confetti but was probably monster viscera.

You stood there holding your weapon, which you had not used even once, feeling like the world's most useless party guest.

The Gate had maybe a hundred monsters in it when you'd arrived. Past tense. Had. He was systematically erasing them from existence so casually like he was doing a crossword puzzle. He looked thrilled about it too. Every time he obliterated something, he got this little smug smile like he'd just won a prize at a carnival.

"Oh, this one has an interesting defensive structure," he observed, examining a monster that looked like a crab fucked a chandelier and their offspring had severe emotional problems. He tilted his head. The monster exploded so violently that you felt the shockwave from fifty feet away.

The whole massacre took maybe six and a half minutes, and that was only because the dude had stopped to examine a few of the monsters before killing them. He seemed genuinely curious about their biology in the way a scientist might be curious about a new species, except his method of study was "turn it into atoms and see what happens."

By the time he was done, you were still holding your weapon, having contributed absolutely nothing.

"Oh!" His face brightened immediately, like he'd just noticed a friend at a party. "I didn't see you there. My apologies. Did you need assistance with any of the creatures? I'm afraid I may have gotten carried away."

You looked around at the devastation. There was nothing left. The Gate site was cleaner than it had been before the monsters arrived. 

"No, I'm... I'm good," you managed.

"Wonderful!" He seemed genuinely pleased. "It's always nice to have company during these exercises. So many people forget to invite me to Gate raids. I always RSVP."

He said this with the innocent confusion of someone who truly did not understand that people were extremely terrified of him.

Then he just left, walking out of the Gate with perfect posture and his hands clasped behind his back like he was taking a pleasant stroll through a garden he'd just napalmed.

You stood there for another ten seconds trying to process what you'd just witnessed.

"Waow," you finally said, to absolutely nobody.

You walked out of the Gate feeling like you'd just been an extra in someone else's action movie, except the main character was overpowered to the point of absurdity and also possibly didn't understand social cues.

The outside of the Gate was the usual nightmare of bureaucratic chaos. Bureau staff were sprinting around with tablets and the desperate energy of people whose jobs depended on data entry. Medical personnel had set up their guiding stations, which looked less like medical facilities and more like ambush points. 

And the Guides. Oh god, the Guides.

They were prowling around like sharks who'd smelled blood in the water, except the blood was Espers and the water was the designated recovery area. You watched one Guide literally sprint-tackle a B-rank Esper who'd tried to make a break for the parking lot. The Esper went down hard. The Guide was already on top of them, starting the guiding process while the Esper made muffled sounds of protest into the ground.

This was a nightmare. This was hell. You needed to get out of here immediately.

You started moving, activating what you'd mentally labeled Operation Absolutely Fucking Not.

You'd gotten good at this.  Dodging Guides had become your primary skill, more refined than your actual combat abilities. You could read their body language now, spot the micro-adjustments that signaled a Guide preparing to intercept. That tall one with the clipboard was tracking you. You could see her eyes following your movement, her weight shifting onto her front foot. You ducked behind an equipment cart.

Another Guide was approaching from your left with a determined expression and a badge that said "SENIOR GUIDE" which probably meant they'd been doing this long enough to be extra aggressive about it. You pivoted, using a confused A-rank Esper as a human shield.

The A-rank gave you a look that clearly said "what the fuck dude" but you were already moving.

You were so focused on your evasion tactics, treating this like a stealth mission in a video game where getting caught meant immediate game over, that you almost missed him entirely.

There was a Guide leaning against one of the Bureau's portable barriers, and his entire energy screamed "I am being paid to be here but nobody said I had to care."

He had messy hair that stuck up in a way that suggested either aggressive bedhead or a complete lack of mirror access. His Guide jacket was technically regulation but he wore it like someone had put clothes on him against his will and he was still mad about it. His posture suggested that standing upright was a personal favor he was doing for gravity.

Most importantly, most beautifully, he was not trying to guide anyone.

He was just standing there, leaning, looking at his phone with the focused intensity of someone who'd found something way more interesting than their job. Every few seconds he'd glance up, survey the chaos with detached interest like he was watching a nature documentary about animals he didn't particularly like, and then go back to his phone.

The aura of "not my problem" radiating off him was so strong you felt genuine joy.

You changed direction so fast you nearly wiped out on some loose gravel, zeroing in on him like a heat-seeking missile that had just found its purpose in life.

He noticed you coming because you had all the subtlety of a car accident. His eyes flicked up from his phone, tracked your approach with the enthusiasm of someone watching a bird shit on a car, and then went back to his screen like maybe if he ignored you hard enough the universe would make you someone else's responsibility.

You essentially collapsed onto the bench next to him. Not close enough to be weird, but definitely close enough that anyone watching would assume you were his problem now.

You were breathing way too hard considering you'd done basically nothing in that Gate except stand there and have an existential crisis.

"Hey," you said, trying to sound normal and probably sounding more like someone who was one bad day away from a breakdown. "I need you to do me a huge favor that will require almost zero effort on your part."

He looked at you properly now, one eyebrow rising in a gesture that communicated "I'm listening but I'm already calculating what this is going to cost you."

The look in his eyes was pure mercenary interest. You loved him immediately.

"I need you to pretend you're guiding me," you said, words tumbling out fast. "Just grab my sleeve. You don't actually have to guide me. I don't need it. I have stabilizers. I just need it to look official so every other Guide here stops trying to hunt me down and perform involuntary medical procedures on me."

You stuck your sleeve out toward him like you were offering a handshake to a dog you weren't sure about.

There was a pause. A beautiful, considering pause where you could practically hear his brain working, running calculations about risk versus reward and effort versus profit.

"What's in it for me?" he asked, and somewhere in your chest, angels started singing.

This. This was the question you'd been waiting your entire career to hear from a Guide. This magnificent bastard understood that altruism was a scam and everything in life was a negotiation.

"Dinner's on me," you said. "Anywhere you want. Price is not an issue."

You watched his entire face transform. His eyes went wide. His pupils dilated. If he'd been a cartoon character, there would have been sparkles and possibly dollar signs. He looked like you'd just told him he'd won the lottery, except the lottery was food he didn't have to pay for, which was apparently even better than actual money.

"Deal," he said immediately, with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been personally blessed by a deity of good fortune.

He sat beside you, reached out and grabbed your sleeve with the delicate touch of someone handling a slightly damp receipt they might need later. His grip was barely there. There was no energy transfer happening and no actual guiding. He was just holding your sleeve while maintaining an expression of professional concentration that would have convinced anyone watching from more than five feet away that he was performing legitimate medical services.

You could have kissed him. You could have built him a shrine. You could have written his name in the stars.

Instead you pulled out your stabilizers and started chugging them like a college student on dollar beer night.

The stabilizers tasted like burned going down. They made your teeth feel fuzzy. They were working at maybe fifty percent efficiency, which meant you'd feel like shit later but at least you wouldn't accidentally level any buildings considering you didn't really do anything today except warmup.

But you were drinking them in peace. Nobody was actually touching you. Nobody was making you do breathing exercises. Nobody was murmuring therapeutic nonsense while making aggressive eye contact.

This was bliss. This was heaven. This was the best you'd felt after a Gate in years.

"Ruggie Bucchi," the Guide said, still pinching your sleeve with one hand while his other hand went back to his phone. He was looking at what appeared to be restaurant menus. He'd opened at least seven different apps. "A-rank Guide, if you care about credentials or whatever."

"I super don't," you admitted, downing another stabilizer and trying not to gag as it scorched its way down your throat, "but good to know I guess."

He laughed, and it was the laugh of someone who'd just scammed the system and gotten away with it. "Yeah, figured. You got that look about you."

"What look?"

"The 'I would rather die than let someone touch me' look. See it sometimes. Usually on the S-ranks who think they're too good for proper medical care." He said this with absolutely no judgment, still scrolling through menus. "So what're you, S-rank? Maybe A-rank with an attitude problem?"

"S-rank," you confirmed.

"Nice. That means you got money." He said this with the casual avarice of someone who'd just confirmed their lottery ticket was a winner.

You were starting to really like this guy.

"Yeah," you said. "I got money."

"Good," Ruggie said, and he tapped something on his phone screen with the decisive air of someone finalizing a battle plan. "Because I'm thinking that new steakhouse that opened downtown. The one where the cheapest thing on the menu is like fifty bucks. You said anywhere, right?"

"I did say that."

"Excellent. Love doing business with people who keep their word."

You sat there for another few minutes, the two of you creating what had to be the world's most half-assed medical procedure. Other Guides walked past, clocked that you were already being handled, and moved on. One Guide even gave Ruggie an approving nod, like "hey good job doing the bare minimum," and Ruggie nodded back with the solemn professionalism of someone absolutely robbing the system blind.

It was beautiful. It was perfect. You wanted to frame this moment and hang it on your wall.

A Senior Guide walked by and actually stopped to observe for a second. You froze. Ruggie didn't even flinch. He just adjusted his grip on your sleeve slightly and said, without looking up from his phone, "Energy levels are stabilizing nicely. Should have them cleared for release in about five minutes."

He sounded so professional. So competent. The Senior Guide made an approving sound and walked away.

You stared at him.

"What?" Ruggie said, still looking at his phone. "You think this is my first time faking work? I've been doing this since I figured out how jobs worked. The trick is to look busy enough that nobody questions you but not so busy that they give you more work."

"You're a genius," you said, and you meant it with your entire soul.

"Nah. Just poor enough to get creative."

When the stabilizers had finally bullied your energy levels back into something that wouldn't cause property damage, and you felt less like a bomb and more like a person who'd just had a really bad day at work, you turned to look at Ruggie with the expression of someone about to propose a marriage of convenience.

"I want to make this a regular thing," you said. "Long-term deal. Every single time I come out of a Gate, you pretend to guide me. You don't actually have to do anything. Just grab my sleeve, look official, let me drink my stabilizers in peace. I'll pay you. Food, cash, whatever you want."

Ruggie's hand finally stopped scrolling. He looked at you with the expression of someone who'd just been told they'd inherited a fortune from a relative they'd never heard of.

"Every Gate?" he asked.

"Every single one."

"And you'll pay me every time?"

"Name your price."

You could see his brain working. He was doing math. Calculating how many Gates you probably ran per week, multiplying that by meal costs, adding in additional compensation, running a full cost-benefit analysis in real-time.

His grin started small and grew until it looked like it might split his face in half.

"Okay so here's what I'm thinking," he said, and he actually put his phone away so he could use both hands to count on his fingers. "Meals are great. Love meals. But also I want cash. Not a lot,  Just like, enough to make it worth my time if you catch my drift. And also if you ever got extra food from somewhere, like leftovers or whatever, I will take those. I'm not proud. Food is food."

"Done," you said immediately.

"And if there's ever any special events or whatever where the Bureau is giving out free shit, you let me know first so I can grab the good stuff before everyone else takes it."

"Absolutely."

"And, this is important, if anyone ever asks to actually guide you for real, like really guide you, you gotta back me up when I say you're too unstable or whatever and need a specialist."

"I will lie so hard for you," you promised.

His grin was now approaching dangerous levels. He looked like he'd just won every lottery that had ever existed simultaneously.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, and stuck out his hand for a real handshake, not the fake sleeve-holding thing.

You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm and slightly callused even through your gloves , the handshake of someone who understood that a deal was a deal and money was sacred.

"Same," you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your disaster of a being.

You had done it. You had found your person. Your partner in crime. Your Guide who would gladly watch you engage in questionable medical decisions as long as the price was right.

Somewhere in the distance, you could hear a Guide screaming as an Esper tackled them. You felt a wave of pity for everyone in the world who hadn't found their Ruggie yet.

Life was beautiful. The sun was shining. You had a contract with someone who understood that everything was negotiable and sentiment was for people with better insurance.

You were going to ride this arrangement into the sunset or into a medical emergency, whichever came first, and you were going to do it while maintaining your personal space and your dignity.

"So," Ruggie said, already pulling his phone back out. "That steakhouse tonight? I'm thinking we should get appetizers. Multiple appetizers. Maybe all of them."

"Get whatever you want," you said, and you'd never meant anything more in your entire life.

The steakhouse Ruggie picked was the kind of place where the menu didn't have prices listed, which meant the prices were definitely high enough to constitute a felony in some countries. The host looked at both of you when you walked in, took in your post-Gate appearance (you didn't technically do anything but you still looked like you'd had a rough day), took in Ruggie's obvious glee, and seemed to decide that this was none of their business.

"Reservation for Bucchi," Ruggie said confidently, despite definitely not having a reservation.

"Of course," the host said, because apparently confidence was all you needed in life. "Right this way."

You got seated at a booth near the back. Ruggie grabbed the menu with the enthusiasm of a scholar discovering a ancient text. His eyes went wide as he scanned the options.

"Oh shit," he said reverently. "They got the good stuff."

You picked up your own menu mostly out of politeness. You weren't really planning to eat much. The stabilizers had absolutely fucked your metabolism and tastebuds over the past few years. Food mostly tasted like cardboard now.

You'd been living off coffee and protein shakes, the food of people who'd given up on joy. Eating felt like a chore, like something you did because your body required fuel and not because you enjoyed it.

The waiter came over. Ruggie ordered an appetizer. Then another appetizer. Then a soup. Then he asked if he could get the surf and turf but with extra surf. The waiter wrote all this down without blinking.

"And for you?" the waiter asked, turning to you.

"Just water," you started to say, but then you caught Ruggie's expression. He looked personally offended.

"Nah," Ruggie said, shaking his head. "You're eating. You're paying for this, might as well get something."

"I'm not really hungry," you said, which was true. You were never hungry anymore. Hunger had become a theoretical concept.

"Don't care." He turned to the waiter. "They'll have the steak, medium rare, with the garlic mashed potatoes. And bring some of those fancy bread rolls."

The waiter looked at you for confirmation. You shrugged. Sure. Why not. You could just push it around your plate and pretend.

But then the food started arriving and something weird happened.

Ruggie ate like he was personally in competition with the concept of hunger itself. The first appetizer came out, some kind of thing with prawns and sauce, and he made a sound that was borderline inappropriate for a public restaurant.

"Oh man," he said, mouth full, already reaching for another prawn. "This is so good. You gotta try this."

He shoved the plate toward you. You took a prawn mostly to be polite.

It was actually good. Really good. You'd forgotten food could taste like something other than obligation.

"Right?" Ruggie said, grinning at your expression. "Told you."

The soup came out. Ruggie attacked it with the dedication of someone who'd been personally wronged by hunger. He was making these little satisfied sounds while eating, completely unselfconscious. He looked so happy in a way that was kind of infectious.

Your steak arrived. You looked at it. It looked back at you. You picked up your fork.

Ruggie was now onto his main course, the surf and turf with extra surf, and he was narrating his experience like he was a food critic.

"Okay so the lobster is fucking incredible," he said, gesturing with his fork. "Like buttery. Who made butter taste like this? This is illegal. And the steak..." He cut off a piece and popped it in his mouth. His eyes actually rolled back. "Yeah okay I'm in love. I'm proposing to this steak. We're getting married."

You cut off a piece of your own steak and tried it.

Fuck. When was the last time you'd eaten something that actually tasted good? The protein shakes were efficient but they tasted like punishment. This tasted like someone had remembered that food was supposed to be enjoyable.

"See?" Ruggie said, pointing at you with his fork. "You look less dead already. Eat more."

So you did. You couldn't really eat a lot, your stomach had apparently shrunk to the size of a walnut, but more than you'd eaten in years. And weirdly, watching Ruggie demolish his food with such obvious pleasure made it easier. He was enjoying himself so much that it reminded you that eating could be something other than fuel intake.

Ruggie ordered three desserts. He ate two and a half of them and then pushed the remaining half of a chocolate cake thing toward you.

"I'm gonna explode if I eat more," he said happily, leaning back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone who'd just won a war. "But you should finish this. It's too good to waste."

You ate the cake. It was absurdly rich and tasted like chocolate had achieved enlightenment.

When the check came, you didn't even look at it. You just handed over your card. The number was probably horrifying. You didn't care. This was the best you'd felt in months, and it definitely cost less than your monthly stabilizer budget.

"Oh hey," Ruggie said as the waiter walked away with your card. "Can I get some of this to go? Like, a lot of this to go?"

"Sure," you said. "Get whatever you want."

His face lit up. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. Why not. Order whatever."

He flagged down the waiter and proceeded to order what sounded like half the menu to go. The waiter's expression suggested this was unusual but not unprecedented. They came back with your card and what appeared to be multiple bags of food.

Ruggie looked at the bags like they were treasure chests. "You're alright, you know that?" he said, grinning at you. "Most S-ranks are stuck-up assholes. You're a stuck-up asshole with good priorities."

"Thanks, I think."

"That was a compliment. Take it."

You drove him home because you were pretty sure he couldn't carry all those bags on public transport. He lived in an apartment building that had definitely seen better days, maybe in a different decade. He got out of the car, struggled to grab all the bags, and then turned back to you.

"Same time next week?" he asked.

"I'll probably have another Gate before then."

"Even better. More free food for me." He paused. "You should actually eat something tomorrow too. You look like you're gonna keel over if someone breathed on you."

"I'll think about it."

"Don't think. Do. That's an order from your Guide." He said this with a completely straight face and then ruined it by cackling at his own joke.

You watched him haul his bags of food into the building, and then you drove home feeling something you hadn't felt in a while. Content, maybe. Or at least less actively miserable.

Your apartment was still exactly as you'd left it that morning- clean and impersonal. It was clear that its occupant was never home long enough to make it lived-in. You sat down at your desk, opened your laptop, and pulled up the Bureau's internal portal.

There was a form for registering a permanent Guide. You'd looked at it before and always closed it immediately because the thought of committing to regular physical contact made your skin crawl. But Ruggie wasn't regular physical contact. Ruggie was a business arrangement. Ruggie was someone who understood transactions and didn't try to make it weird.

You filled out the form. Name: Ruggie Bucchi. Rank: A-rank. Reason for assignment: Compatible working arrangement. You almost wrote "he doesn't touch me" but figured that would raise questions.

You hit submit. It was 9 PM. You weren't expecting a response until at least tomorrow, maybe later given how fast the Bureau usually moved, which was to say at the speed of continental drift.

Your phone pinged thirty seconds later.

The response was from HR. Their email was in all caps and had multiple exclamation points, which seemed excessive but also very on-brand for Bureau HR.

"REQUEST APPROVED!!! We're so DELIGHTED you've finally agreed to proper guiding treatment!!! This is wonderful news for your health and safety!!! Ruggie Bucchi has been notified of his new assignment and has accepted!!! Please report to medical for a baseline evaluation at your earliest convenience (we know you won't do this but we're required to ask)!!! Welcome to the path of proper Guide-Esper partnership!!!"

But the important part was: approved. You were immediately approved with no waiting period or review because apparently the Bureau had been that desperate for you to accept regular guiding.

If only they knew.

You closed your laptop and sat there for a moment in your quiet apartment. Ruggie was now your official Guide. You had an arrangement that would let you keep avoiding physical contact while maintaining the appearance of following medical protocol. You'd eaten real food and felt more human than raccoon in years. The Bureau thought you'd finally seen reason.

Everyone was happy. You'd scammed the system and the system was thanking you for it.

You got ready for bed feeling something unfamiliar. It took you a minute to identify it.

Peace. You felt peace.

You climbed into bed and closed your eyes. For the first time in months, you fell asleep without the background anxiety of knowing you'd have to endure unwanted touching tomorrow. Tomorrow you'd have Ruggie, who'd grab your sleeve, let you drink your terrible stabilizers, and probably ask what you were buying him for lunch.

Life was good.

You fell asleep with what might have been a smile on your face, which was concerning but you were too tired to worry about it.

The next morning, Ruggie sent you a text at 6 AM that just said "we need to go to HR."

You stared at your phone with the confusion of someone who'd just been told they needed to report to the dentist for a mandatory root canal when they don't even have teeth. 

"Why," you typed back.

"Bonuses. If I'm your official Guide I can get bonuses for successful partnerships or whatever. Bureau pays extra for Guides who maintain long-term assignments with difficult Espers."

"I'm not difficult."

"You're literally paying me under the table to NOT guide you. You're the definition of difficult. Anyway I want that bonus money. Pick me up in 20."

You picked him up in twenty. He got in your car holding a coffee that he'd definitely made himself because it was in a travel mug with a logo for a grocery store chain.

"Morning," he said cheerfully. "You eat breakfast?"

"Coffee."

"That's not breakfast."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine but I'm not your keeper. Just your fake Guide." He took a sip of his own coffee. "Okay so here's the plan. We go to HR, I tell them about our amazing partnership, they give me paperwork for the bonus program, I fill it out, we get money. Well, I get money. You already have money."

"Sounds fine."

"It will be fine. HR loves this shit. They live for successful Guide-Esper pairs. Makes their metrics look good or whatever."

He was right. When you walked into the HR office, the person at the desk looked up and their entire face transformed into joy so pure it was almost unsettling.

Then you actually looked at them and your stomach dropped.

You knew this person. This was the same HR representative who'd processed your paperwork when you'd first registered as an Esper, years ago. You'd been younger, significantly more naive, and not yet aware that your life was going to become a series of increasingly absurd situations held together with spite and caffeine.

They looked at you. Their eyes got shiny.

"Oh my god," they said, voice wobbling. "You've grown so much."

You froze. What the fuck was happening.

"I remember when you first came in," they continued, and oh god they were getting emotional. "You were so young. So powerful. So angry at the consent forms. And now look at you! You have a Guide! A registered Guide! You're taking care of yourself!"

They sniffled and actual moisture appeared in their eyes.

"I'm so proud of you," they said, and you desperately wished for a natural disaster to occur so you could escape this conversation.

This person had apparently decided that your professional relationship with the Bureau was some kind of weird fucked up child-growing-up situation and they were the emotional parent figure. You had no idea how to process this. You didn't want to process this. You wanted to leave.

"Uh," you said, because your brain had completely abandoned ship.

Ruggie, blessed Ruggie, immediately stepped forward with the energy of someone who'd sensed an opportunity.

"Hi! Ruggie Bucchi, A-rank Guide, newly assigned to this wonderful Esper here." He gestured at you like you were a prize he'd won. "We're here to register for the Guide partnership bonus program. I've got all my documentation, they've got their approval, we just need to iron out the details."

The HR person wiped their eyes and immediately shifted into professional mode, though they kept glancing at you with the expression of someone watching a particularly moving commercial about dogs.

"Of course! Yes! Let me pull up the forms. This is so wonderful. I'm just so happy you're finally accepting proper care."

You decided to focus very intently on anything that wasn't this conversation. You turned slightly and looked out through the glass wall of the office into the common area where other Guides and Espers were milling around.

There was a pair sitting on one of the couches. The Guide was a guy who looked like he baked bread as a hobby and possibly wore cardigans voluntarily. He had green hair and glasses and the overall vibe of someone who'd never raised his voice in his life. He was currently patting the back of an Esper who appeared to be vibrating at a frequency visible to the naked eye.

The Esper was talking rapidly, gesturing with their hands, bouncing slightly in their seat like they'd consumed their body weight in sugar and were now experiencing the consequences. They looked like a caffeinated squirrel that had achieved human form.

The Guide just kept patting their back with the patience of a saint. His expression was calm, almost serene, like this was just a normal day for him. The Esper said something that involved very aggressive hand gestures. The Guide nodded thoughtfully and said something back. The Esper's vibrating intensified.

Poor bastard, you thought. That Guide looked way too calm and collected to deserve being partnered with someone who had that much energy. 

Then again, maybe he was into that. Maybe he found it charming. People were weird about their partnerships.

"Okay so I just need you to sign here, and here, and initial here," Ruggie was saying, and you tuned back into the conversation to find him surrounded by paperwork. The HR person was still looking at you with damp eyes.

"You've really matured," they said to you, unprompted. "Taking responsibility for your health and accepting help. I'm just so glad you found someone compatible."

"Yep," you said, because what else could you say? "Sure did. Found him. Very compatible. Much health."

Ruggie made a sound that might have been a suppressed laugh.

"All done!" he announced, straightening up with a stack of papers. "Bonus program registered, direct deposit set up, everything's official."

"Wonderful!" The HR person clasped their hands together. "You two are going to do amazing things together. I can feel it. Please don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything. Anything at all. I'm so invested in your success."

"Great," you said, already moving toward the door. "Thanks. Bye."

You basically fled. Ruggie followed, still clutching his paperwork, making absolutely no effort to hide his amusement.

"They really care about you, huh?" he said once you were safely in the hallway.

"Apparently I'm their weird emotional support project."

"Could be worse. Could be nobody giving a shit if you live or die."

"I guess."

Your phone buzzed. You pulled it out and saw a Gate notification. Grade S, downtown location, estimated threat level high, report immediately.

You jerked your head toward the exit and looked at Ruggie.

He saw your expression and grinned.

"Ooh, Gate time already? Man, I love this job." He started walking toward the exit with you. "Okay so today I'm thinking sushi. There's this place that does all-you-can-eat. And it's fancy sushi. You ever been so full you regretted your life choices?"

"No."

"Well today's your lucky day! You're gonna learn what true suffering feels like, and that suffering is eating so much salmon that you start to become the salmon."

You walked out of the Bureau building together, Ruggie already pulling up the map to the restaurant on his phone, you mentally preparing for whatever dimensional horror show was waiting in the Gate.

The HR person waved at you through the window, still looking proud.

Your phone buzzed with the Gate details. Ruggie was now showing you pictures of sushi platters.

The Gate was a Grade S, which meant it was really annoying but not immediately life-threatening unless you did something spectacularly stupid.

You did not do anything spectacularly stupid. You went in, you fought monsters that looked like someone had designed them during a bad trip, and you were handling it fine.

The problem was that there was another Esper in there with you.

He had red hair styled in a way that suggested he spent actual time on it, and his uniform was so perfectly pressed it looked like he'd ironed it that morning with a ruler and a protractor. Everything about him screamed "I have my life together and I'm mad that you don't."

You'd heard about him. Everyone had heard about him. He was the Esper who took discipline so seriously that he'd apparently once written someone up for breathing too loud during a mission briefing. He treated the Bureau rules like they were holy scripture and anyone who violated them was personally offending him.

You were wearing gloves.

This was apparently a problem.

"Excuse me!" he shouted over the sound of a monster dying in the background. "Are those extra layers?!"

You looked at him. You looked at your gloves. You looked back at him.

"Yeah?" you said, confused about why this was a conversation.

"Extra layers compromise mobility and are against regulation Gate gear protocols!" He was getting red in the face, which was impressive given that he was also actively fighting a monster. "Section 6, subsection 7 clearly states that Espers should minimize unnecessary equipment to maintain optimal combat efficiency!"

"They're gloves."

"They're a VIOLATION!"

This guy was really upset about your gloves. You'd been wearing gloves into Gates for months and nobody had ever said anything. Mostly because the gloves meant you could avoid skin contact during the initial Gate entry checks, but that wasn't something you were going to explain to this incarnation of a hall monitor.

You stuck your tongue out at him.

His face went from red to purple. "How DARE you—"

He actually swung at you. His power flared and you had to dodge before he took your fucking head off with what looked like a very aggressive playing card that had been sharpened to a molecular edge.

"WHOA," you yelled, because what the fuck.

"REMOVE THE GLOVES!"

"They're JUST GLOVES!"

A monster tried to eat both of you during this argument. You both killed it without looking, still arguing.

"Regulations exist for a REASON!"

"The reason is to make people like you feel important!"

You spent the rest of the Gate fighting monsters and also occasionally ragebaiting  the world's angriest Esper. It was honestly kind of fun. He was so mad. So incredibly mad about your gloves. Every time you caught him looking at your hands his eye would twitch.

When the Gate finally cleared, you walked out feeling pretty good about yourself. You'd survived monsters AND a disciplinarian with anger management issues. 

Ruggie was waiting on a bench near the Gate perimeter, scrolling through his phone. When he saw you, he straightened up and pulled something out of his jacket.

Your stabilizers.

He'd brought them. He'd remembered. You felt something warm in your chest that was either affection or the early stages of a heart attack.

"Rough one?" he asked, handing you the first bottle.

"There was this one guy who tried to kill me because I was wearing gloves."

"What?"

"He was very upset about regulations."

"Espers are fucking weird, man." Ruggie shook his head. Then he reached out and grabbed your gloved hand, his grip loose and casual. "Drink up."

You downed the first stabilizer and it tasted like Satan's cough syrup as usual. Ruggie just held your gloved hand to maintain contact for appearances while you suffered through your liquid punishment.

When you finished the first bottle and reached for the second, Ruggie shifted slightly.

"You sure you don't want actual guiding?" he asked, and his tone was different. "Like, I can actually do my job if you need it. I know the stabilizers aren't as good for S-ranks."

You looked at him and he stared back. There was no judgment or frustration in his expression and it didn't seem like he wanted to push you into it. 

"I'll be okay," you said.

"Alright," he said immediately, and dropped it.

He accepted your answer and went back to holding your hand while you drank poison. You fucking loved that about him. The fact that he got it and didn't push.

You finished the second stabilizer, then the third. Your energy levels were dropping back to normal, the dangerous crackling feeling fading into something manageable. Ruggie let go of your hand and pocketed the empty bottles.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah."

You stood up, stretching out the residual tension in your muscles. Your body felt like you'd been put through a blender and then reassembled slightly wrong, which was pretty standard for a Grade S Gate. Ruggie stood up too, already pulling out his phone to check whatever restaurant he'd picked.

"Okay so the sushi place is like fifteen minutes from here," he said, starting to walk toward the parking area. "They got this deal where if you choose the all-you-can-eat option, you can sit in front of the conveyor belt and go ham on everything. I'm talking salmon, tuna, eel, those little egg things, the whole deal. You ever had eel?"

"No?"

"Well you're having it today. Come on, car's this way."

He started walking ahead, already absorbed in his phone, probably looking at the options and planning his attack strategy.

You stood there for a second, just watching him. This guy who'd agreed to scam the system with you for the price of free food. Who brought your stabilizers without being asked. Who held your hand through gloves and didn't make it weird. Who offered real help but backed off immediately when you said no.

Something in your chest felt warm and full, and it had nothing to do with Gate energy or stabilizers.

You caught up to him in two quick steps and ruffled his hair.

He made a sound of protest and swatted at your hand, but he was grinning.

"Dinner's on me tomorrow too," you said.

His eyes lit up like you'd just promised him a winning lottery ticket. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. And the day after that, probably."

"Oh shit, are you getting sentimental on me?" He was still grinning, already trying to fix his hair where you'd messed it up. "Am I your favorite person now? Are we bonding?"

"Don't push it."

"Too late, I'm pushing it. You love me. I'm the best Guide you've ever had and you know it."

"You're the only Guide who doesn't make me want to fake my own death."

"I'll take it!" He laughed, that slightly hyena-like sound that suggested he was deeply amused by his own fortune. "Okay boss, you got yourself a deal. I'll follow you forever if you keep feeding me like this."

He said it like a joke, but something about the way he said "boss" made you grin.

"Lead the way then," you said.

He did, practically bouncing toward your car while narrating his plans. You followed, feeling lighter than you'd felt in months.

The angry Esper from the Gate walked past you in the parking lot, saw your gloves, and made a sound of disgust. You waved at him cheerfully. 

Ruggie laughed so hard he almost tripped.

You were watching Ruggie systematically demolish the entire sushi conveyor belt with focused determination like he'd been personally challenged by the concept of leaving food uneaten. He had plates stacked in front of him like he was constructing some kind of delicious Jenga tower, and he showed no signs of slowing down.

"Oh shit, is that the fancy tuna with the gold flakes on it?" he said, his eyes tracking a plate as it went by. He snagged it with the precision of a hunting bird. "Yeah, that's definitely mine. You see this? They put actual gold on it. I'm eating gold. I'm fancy as hell right now."

"You have rice on your face," you observed.

"That's how you know I'm doing it right." He shoved the gold-flaked tuna in his mouth and made a sound that was borderline pornographic for a family establishment. "Oh man, that's the good shit. Why does expensive fish taste so much better? Is it the suffering? Do the fish suffer more?"

"I don't think that's how it works."

"Well something's different because this tastes like the ocean personally blessed it." He was already reaching for another plate, this one loaded with salmon that had some kind of crispy topping. "And this one, oh this one's got the crunchy bits. I love the crunchy bits."

You were picking at your own considerably smaller pile of sushi, managing to actually eat some of it because watching Ruggie experience what appeared to be religious ecstasy through fish made eating seem less like a mandatory biological function. You'd gotten through maybe four pieces, which was practically a thanksgiving feast by your recent standards.

"Oh hey," you said, remembering something that had been lurking in the back of your mind like an unwanted dental appointment. "I've got my yearly checkup this weekend. The whole power measuring circus."

Ruggie looked up from his plate, still chewing what looked like an entire roll he'd just shoved in his mouth whole. He swallowed. "The one where they make you shoot lasers at stuff to see how dead you can make things?"

"Something like that. More like controlled energy output in a reinforced room while people with clipboards take notes and judge me."

"Sounds like a great time. Very fun. Much excitement." He grabbed another plate off the belt. "What time?"

"Seven AM. It's a whole thing that takes like two hours. They do the power measurement, then medical evaluation, then they poke at me some more just for fun probably."

"Cool, I'll be there," Ruggie said, like this was already decided and you had no say in the matter.

You blinked at him. "You don't need to come. It's boring as hell and also kind of depressing. You'd literally just be sitting there watching me get examined like a weird science experiment."

"Yeah but I'm your Guide now, right? Official and everything. I should probably show up to this stuff so it looks legit." He grinned at you, his teeth showing. "Plus breakfast is on you after."

"I just said you don't need to be there," you repeated, though you could already feel yourself losing this argument.

"And I'm saying I'm coming anyway. You can't stop me. I know where the testing facility is. I'll just show up and tell them I'm your emotional support Guide." He was already looking way too pleased with himself. "So you better give me a ride or I'll take the bus and show up anyway and then you'll feel bad."

"I won't feel bad."

"You absolutely will. You'll see me standing there all sad because I had to take public transportation at six in the morning, and you'll feel terrible." He pointed his chopsticks at you for emphasis. "Just admit defeat now and promise me pancakes after."

You sighed, because he was right and he knew it and there was no point in arguing. "Fine. Pancakes."

"Excellent!" He moved to high-five you but then seemed to realize both his hands were completely occupied with holding plates and chopsticks. He paused, assessed his options, and then just smacked your shoulder with his tail instead.

You stared at him. "Did you just tail-slap me?"

"Sure did! That's what happens when you make important business agreements while I'm in the middle of eating." He looked entirely too proud of himself. "Consider yourself officially tail-fived. Now shut up, there's more eel coming and I need to focus on my strategy."

"You have a strategy for conveyor belt sushi?"

"Of course I have a strategy. You think I got this good at eating by just randomly grabbing shit?" He was already eyeing the approaching plates like a general surveying a battlefield. "Eel first, then those little egg ones, then I'm gonna grab like three of the salmon because they keep running out. This is a science."

You watched him continue his systematic destruction of the restaurant's sushi supply and felt something in your chest that might have been fondness or possibly just indigestion from eating more than your usual nothing.

You picked Ruggie up from his apartment building at six-thirty in the morning, which was an absolutely criminal time to be awake, and found him waiting outside looking somehow more alert than you'd ever been in your entire life. He bounced into your car holding the same travel mug from last time.

"Morning, boss!" he said with the kind of cheerfulness that should be illegal before eight AM. "Ready to get poked and prodded by people in lab coats who are definitely going to have opinions about your life choices?"

"I hate everything about this already," you said.

"That's the spirit! Very positive. Great attitude." He took a sip of his coffee and made a face. "Man, this coffee tastes like it was filtered through someone's gym sock but I'm too tired to care."

The checkup facility was located in a reinforced building on the outskirts of the city, and the structure looked like it had been designed by someone who'd watched too many disaster movies and decided to prepare for all of them simultaneously. You'd been coming here once a year since you'd first registered as an Esper, and every single time you hated it more than the last.

The "doctors" were all retired Guides, which made sense from a practical standpoint because they needed people who could handle Esper energy output without immediately dying. What made less sense was why they felt the need to maintain physical contact during the entire goddamn process.

You walked into the examination room and immediately wanted to walk back out. There were three doctors waiting, all wearing expressions that suggested they were already exhausted and the day had barely started. The lead doctor was an older woman who looked like she'd been doing this job since before you were born and had seen enough shit to fill several horror anthologies.

"Good morning," she said in a tone that suggested it was not, in fact, a good morning. "Standard annual checkup today. We'll be doing power output measurement, energy stability evaluation, and baseline guiding assessment. The whole process should take approximately two hours. Your Guide can wait in the observation area."

Ruggie immediately sprawled into one of the chairs set up behind a wall of reinforced glass that probably cost more than most carsr. He pulled out his phone and settled in like he was about to watch the world's most boring movie.

"Right then," the lead doctor said, turning her attention to you. "Let's begin with the power output measurement. We'll need you to channel your abilities at progressive intensity levels while we monitor your readings. Physical contact will be maintained throughout to ensure you don't accidentally obliterate the building."

And there it was–the thing you hated most about these appointments.

They were going to make you unleash your power in a controlled setting, which was fine, you'd done it a million times. The problem was they insisted on grabbing onto you the entire time, their hands clamped on your shoulders or arms, their Guide energy flowing into you to keep everything stable. It felt invasive in a way that made your skin crawl, clinical and detached, like you were a dangerous lab rat they needed to study while wearing protective equipment.

You gritted your teeth and let them position you in the center of the room. Two doctors moved to either side and grabbed your arms after rolling your sleeves up.

The sensation of their hands on your bare skin made you want to peel your own arms off and throw it at them.

"Begin with twenty percent output," the lead doctor instructed, her tablet at the ready.

You channeled your power, letting it flow out in a controlled stream. The air around you started crackling with visible energy. The doctors' grips tightened immediately, their own power pressing into yours to keep it from going wild.

"Thirty percent."

You pushed harder. Your power flared brighter, distorting the air around you like heat waves off asphalt. The doctors were murmuring to each other in that annoying medical professional way where they talked about you like you weren't even there.

From behind the glass, you saw Ruggie look up from his phone. He caught your eye and immediately crossed his eyes while sticking his tongue out to the side, making himself look absolutely deranged.

Despite the discomfort and the invasive hands and the general awfulness of the situation, you almost laughed.

"Forty percent. Maintain focus, please."

The energy was building now, hot and uncomfortable under your skin. Your power at this level wanted to be used, wanted to destroy something, and keeping it contained while people grabbed you felt like trying to hold onto a live electrical wire. The doctors were channeling more energy into you to keep you stable, and the sensation was like being squeezed from the inside out by hands you couldn't see.

Ruggie was doing something new now, making his hands into little mouths that appeared to be having an argument with each other. One hand-mouth was clearly very angry. The other hand-mouth looked shocked and offended. He was doing voices under his breath that you couldn't hear but could definitely see based on how his mouth was moving.

He looked like a complete fucking idiot. It was helping.

"Fifty percent."

This was where it started to actually hurt. Your power at half capacity was not something that enjoyed being restrained, and your body was very firmly suggesting that maybe you should stop listening to these doctors and start listening to your basic survival instincts that were screaming. The doctors had their eyes closed now, concentrating on keeping you stable, their energy wrapped around yours like chains.

Ruggie had apparently abandoned the hand-mouth theater and was now making faces that suggested he was watching something deeply disgusting. He looked like he'd just witnessed a crime against nature. His whole face was scrunched up in exaggerated horror.

Your concentration wavered slightly. The lead doctor said something sharp and medical-sounding. You refocused.

They pushed you up to seventy percent before finally calling it quits. By the time they released you, you were shaking slightly, your power subsiding back down into something that wouldn't accidentally level the building. The doctors immediately turned away to consult their tablets, comparing numbers and graphs that probably meant something terrible.

"Alright," the lead doctor said after a moment, her professional mask firmly in place. "Power output is consistent with last year's measurements. No significant degradation in your ability levels. Now we need to perform the baseline guiding assessment to evaluate how your energy system responds to external stabilization."

This was somehow even worse than the power measurement. At least when they were testing your output you were doing something active, channeling your power, staying engaged. The guiding assessment was completely passive. You just had to sit there like a lump while they poked around in your energy pathways and made judgmental observations.

You sat down in the designated examination chair, which was about as comfortable as sitting on a pile of rocks. The lead doctor positioned herself directly in front of you and placed her hands on your temples with the clinical efficiency of someone who'd touched a thousand foreheads and was tired of all of them. Another doctor moved behind you and put their hands on your shoulders. The third doctor stayed at the monitoring equipment, watching screens that were probably displaying your imminent demise in graph form.

"Try to relax," the lead doctor said, which was possibly the most useless instruction anyone had ever given you.

Their energy flooded into you like water being poured into a container that really didn't want to be filled, seeking out the pathways in your system, checking for blockages and damage and whatever else they were looking for. It felt like being turned inside out and then examined by someone with ice cold hands. You could feel them encountering the rough spots, the places where your energy didn't flow quite right anymore, the patches of your system that had started deteriorating like old pipes.

The lead doctor's expression changed. Her eyebrows drew together in a way that suggested she'd just found something she really didn't want to find. She looked distressed, which was concerning because these people were supposed to be professional enough to maintain their poker faces.

It was always like this. Every single year, the same progression. Initial examination, growing concern, that specific look that meant they'd confirmed whatever terrible thing they'd suspected.

She pulled back, removing her hands from your temples like you'd burned her. The other doctor let go of your shoulders and stepped away.

"We need to discuss your results," she said, and her voice was doing that thing where it was carefully professional but you could hear all the concern lurking underneath like a shark under calm water.

Ruggie had straightened up in his observation chair behind the glass. Even from this distance you could see his expression shifting from bored to alert.

"Your energy pathways are showing significant deterioration," the lead doctor said, pulling up something on her tablet and turning it to show you. The screen was full of graphs and charts and numbers that were probably meant to convey something important but mostly just looked like evidence of your bad decisions rendered in visual form. "Specifically in your primary energy channels. This pattern is entirely consistent with long-term stabilizer dependency without adequate guiding supplementation."

"Okay," you said, because you already knew this and had known this for a while now.

"This level of deterioration is not sustainable," she continued, and now she was doing that thing doctors do where they explain terrible news in calm measured tones like maybe if they say it gently enough it'll hurt less. "At your current rate of decline, within approximately two years you'll experience one of two outcomes. Either your pathways will collapse entirely and you'll lose your abilities permanently, or you'll experience catastrophic energy overflow that your compromised system won't be able to contain."

She said it all clinical and professional, but what she actually meant was: your powers are either going to disappear or they're going to kill you, pick your favorite.

"I know," you said.

Her expression shifted to something that looked like frustration mixed with concern, which was apparently the standard medical professional response to patients who acknowledged their problems but refused to fix them. "Then why are you continuing to rely primarily on stabilizers? You need regular proper guiding sessions. Real guiding, not whatever arrangement you have with—" She glanced at Ruggie behind the glass. "Multiple sessions per week at minimum. This isn't optional anymore."

"I know," you said again, because what else was there to say?

She looked like she wanted to argue, wanted to lecture you about responsibility and health and all the things that responsible Espers did to not die horribly. You could see her gearing up for it.

"Thanks for the checkup," you said, standing up before she could get started. "Same time next year?"

You didn't wait for her response. You just walked out of the examination room, through the hallway, and out toward the parking lot with a purposeful stride, fleeing a conversation you qbsolutely did not want to have.

Behind you, you heard Ruggie scrambling to grab his stuff and follow.

He caught up to you in the parking lot but didn't say anything. You could feel him vibrating with unasked questions, could sense all the words building up behind his teeth like water behind a dam, but he kept his mouth shut and just walked next to you in silence.

You drove to the pancake place. The silence in the car was so thick you could have cut it with a knife and served it on a plate. The waitress sat you at a booth with a cheerful greeting that you barely managed to reciprocate, completely unaware that she was seating two people who were both having internal crises of different varieties.

Ruggie ordered his chocolate chip pancakes with extra whipped cream and enough butter to constitute a heart attack. You ordered coffee that you had no intention of drinking.

When his pancakes arrived, he picked up his fork, ate a few bites, and then put his fork down and pushed the plate away.

Ruggie Bucchi, the man who treated food like a religious calling, the guy who'd nearly cried tears of joy when you'd first offered to buy him dinner, was leaving pancakes uneaten on his plate.

"Not hungry?" you asked, even though you knew the answer.

"Nah, I'm good," he said, which was such a blatant lie that you didn't even bother calling him out on it.

The silence stretched between you and Ruggie kept looking at you, then looking away, then looking back like he was trying to solve a puzzle but couldn't find the right pieces. His tail was doing something anxious and twitchy that you'd never seen before, moving in small jerky motions that suggested his body was expressing the agitation his mouth was holding back.

You paid the bill without looking at it. You drove him home with the radio off and the windows up and the silence pressing down on both of you like a weighted blanket made of discomfort.

When you pulled up outside his apartment building, he didn't immediately get out. His hand was on the door handle but he wasn't pulling it.

"Look—" he started.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm just saying, maybe you should—"

"Ruggie. Please."

He went quiet. His hand was still on the door handle, gripping it tight enough that his knuckles were going white. Then he turned in his seat, reached over, and squeezed your hand.

His was hand on yours with no gloves between you, skin to skin, warm and slightly callused and real.

You should have hated it. You should have jerked your hand away and told him to back off and reminded him that the entire point of your arrangement was avoiding exactly this. That was your whole thing, the reason you'd gone through all this trouble in the first place.

But you didn't pull away because you didn't feel disgust.

Because this wasn't some Guide performing their job duties. This wasn't clinical therapeutic contact meant to stabilize your energy or fix your problems. This was just Ruggie, who'd clearly been freaked out by what he'd heard in that examination room, trying to offer some kind of comfort in the only way he could think of.

The contact lasted maybe three or four seconds. Then he let go, got out of the car, and headed into his building without looking back, his shoulders hunched in a way that made him look smaller than usual.

You sat there in your parked car for a long moment, staring at your hand where he'd touched it, feeling the residual warmth fading from your skin.

Then you put the car in drive and went home.

You didn't let yourself think about the doctor's words. You drove home, parked in your building's garage, took the elevator up to your floor, unlocked your apartment, and sat down on the floor next to your couch in the growing darkness as the sun set outside your windows.

Two years, give or take.

Two years before your powers either disappeared entirely or killed you in some dramatic energy-related disaster that would probably make the news.

You'd known this, obviously. It wasn't new information. The doctors had been hinting at it for the past few checkups, getting progressively less subtle about their concerns. But hearing it stated outright as a medical fact, seeing it displayed on graphs and charts, watching a professional look at you with barely concealed pity while delivering your prognosis, that made it real in a way it hadn't been before.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out to find a text from Ruggie.

"Thanks for breakfast boss"

You stared at the message for a long time, your thumb hovering over the keyboard, before finally typing back.

"anytime"

You meant it more than you'd meant anything in a while.

You put your phone down, leaned back against your couch, and stared at your ceiling in the dark, trying very hard not to think about anything at all.

The Gate energy readings had pinpointed a location in the industrial district, which meant you were currently standing around outside a garage that smelled like old tires, waiting for a dimensional rift to tear open reality so you could go fight monsters. 

Ruggie was sitting on a concrete barrier next to where you were standing, scrolling through his phone with a focus that suggested he was either reading something very interesting or avoiding thinking about something very concerning. You were betting on the latter based on the way his eyebrows were doing that worried furrow thing they'd been doing ever since the checkup.

You were grateful he hadn't brought it up again or tried to lecture you about your health or your terrible life choices or the fact that you were apparently speed-running your way toward either power loss or death. He'd just gone back to the normal routine like nothing had changed, showing up when you needed him, grabbing your sleeve, letting you drink your stabilizers, and then taking food as payment.

But you could see the worry on his face. It was there in the tightness around his eyes, the way he kept glancing at you when he thought you weren't looking, the unusual quietness that had replaced his normal running commentary about food and money and whatever else popped into his head.

Some absolutely deranged part of your brain looked at that worried expression and thought, "I want to kiss that away."

You immediately slapped both your cheeks hard enough that it made a sound.

Ruggie looked up from his phone, startled. "The fuck was that?"

"Nothing. Impulsive thought. Had to murder it."

"You good?"

"Extremely not good but we're not talking about it."

"Fair enough," he said, and went back to his phone, but the worry was still there on his face and you had to look away before your brain produced any more thoughts that needed to be violently suppressed.

There was another Esper standing nearby, a B-rank rookie who looked like he took his job very seriously and also possibly did his own stunts. He had dark blue hair and an earnest expression that suggested he still believed in things like justice and doing your best. You'd heard he'd gotten in trouble recently for something spectacularly stupid, but he'd apparently learned from it and was now trying very hard to follow all the rules.

He was looking at you with concern. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice doing that thing where it was trying to be casual but came out worried anyway.

"I'm fine," you said. "Just tired."

"Oh! Okay, well, you're doing great!" He moved like he was going to clap you on the back in a gesture of camaraderie, his hand already coming up, but then he paused mid-motion like he'd suddenly remembered something important.

He'd remembered your reputation. The fact that you were the S-rank Esper who hated being touched and had a whole thing about it.

The pause was kind of adorable, actually. Here was this earnest rookie who'd been about to make a friendly gesture and then stopped himself because he'd done his research and knew about your boundaries. Most people either didn't know or didn't care.

You waved him off. "It's fine, go ahead."

His face lit up and he patted your back with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever who'd just been told he was a good boy. "You're gonna do great in there! We're all gonna do great! I've been training really hard for Gate scenarios!"

You saw Ruggie's eyebrows furrow even more, his expression shifting into something that looked almost annoyed. You were about to ask him if he was jealous, because that would be funny and also completely ridiculous since there was nothing to be jealous of, when the air started doing that thing where it felt like reality was about to have a structural failure.

The Gate opened and it was a swirling vortex of purple and black energy that made your teeth hurt and your eyes water and generally made you regret every choice that had led you to this career.

Everyone straightened up immediately. The Guides started moving away from the Gate perimeter, heading to their designated waiting area where they'd sit around being anxious until the Espers came back out either victorious or dead. Ruggie stood up from his concrete barrier, gave you a look that clearly meant "don't die in there," and walked off with the other Guides.

You and approximately fifteen other Espers, including the earnest B-rank rookie, headed into the Gate.

The inside was a mess.

There were monsters everywhere, which was expected, but they were respawning, which was significantly less expected and much more annoying.

You'd kill a group of them and then thirty seconds later more would just appear out of thin air like the world's worst magic trick.

"They're respawning!" someone yelled, which was obvious but people tended to state the obvious when they were stressed.

"We need to find the core!" someone else shouted, because apparently this Gate had a core that was generating the monsters and if you destroyed it the respawning would stop.

What followed was approximately two hours of the most tedious combat you'd ever experienced. The monsters themselves weren't particularly strong, mostly low-rank creatures. But there were so many of them, and they kept coming, and finding the core required actually exploring this fucked up dimensional warehouse while fighting off waves of angry goat adjacent nightmares.

You used your power constantly. You didn't have to keep it at high output because you didn't need to blast everything into atoms, but the constant sustained use of your abilities was like running a marathon where every step required you to punch someone in the face. Your energy reserves were draining steadily, and you could feel your body starting to protest the extended exertion.

The earnest B-rank rookie was doing pretty well, actually. He had some kind of ability that involved summoning things that hit really hard, and he was using it quite well.

Eventually, someone found the core. It was this pulsating crystal thing that looked like it was having a very bad day. Everyone converged on it and hit it with everything they had. It exploded in a very satisfying way, and suddenly the monsters stopped respawning.

Cleaning up the remaining creatures took another twenty minutes. By the time the Gate stabilized and you could leave, you were exhausted in a way that went beyond physical tiredness and into something that felt like your soul was tired.

You stumbled out of the Gate and immediately knew something was wrong.

Your vision was blurring at the edges. Your breathing felt strained, like someone had replaced your lungs with smaller, less efficient lungs that were really struggling with the whole oxygen thing. Every step felt like you were walking through mud.

You looked around for Ruggie and found him about thirty feet away, apparently in the middle of yelling at another Guide. The other Guide was shorter than Ruggie, had lavender-purple hair, and was holding what looked like a Guide emergency kit. Ruggie was gesturing aggressively and his face was doing that thing where he was clearly furious but trying to keep it professional. You couldn't hear what he was saying over the general noise of Espers and Guides and Bureau personnel doing their post-Gate routines.

Ruggie saw you approaching and his expression immediately shifted from angry to guilty to worried in the span of about two seconds.

You made it to a nearby bench and basically collapsed onto it. Your breathing was getting worse. You could feel your energy levels fluctuating wildly, unstable and chaotic, because you'd used too much power for too long without proper stabilization and now your system was having some kind of crisis about it.

Ruggie sat down next to you immediately, close enough that his shoulder was almost touching yours. "That fucking rookie Guide put apple juice in the stabilizer kit instead of actual stabilizers," he said, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. 

You'd stopped buying and bringing your own stabilizers. The official Bureau-provided ones were supposed to be better quality, more effective, and you'd been relying on having access to them after Gates recently. You were really regretting that decision now.

Your vision blurred more. You had to press a hand against your chest because breathing was becoming actively difficult, like your ribcage had decided to stop cooperating with the whole respiration process. You were taking gasping breaths that didn't seem to be getting enough oxygen.

"What's wrong?" Ruggie asked, and his voice had gone from angry to worried. "Hey, what's happening?"

You tried to answer but all that came out was another gasping breath. Your energy was spiraling out of control inside you, too much of it with nowhere to go, and your compromised pathways couldn't handle the strain. You felt like you were going to shake apart from the inside.

"Okay, fuck this," Ruggie said, and there was decision in his voice. "Let me guide you. Right now."

You managed to nod, because you were too busy trying to breathe to argue and also because you were pretty sure you were going to die if someone didn't stabilize you in the next sixty seconds.

"Okay," he said, and then his hands were on you.

His hand took yours, fingers interlacing, the other hand moving to your head. "C'mere," he said softly, and guided your head down to rest against his shoulder, your face ending up in the crook of his neck.

Then he started guiding you.

His energy flowed into you and it was completely different from every other time you'd been guided. The doctors in the examination room had felt invasive, clinical, like being examined by someone wearing rubber gloves who didn't particularly care about you as a person. The Guides who'd tried to stabilize you after Gates had felt impersonal and rushed, just doing their job and doing it efficiently.

This felt warm. This felt safe. This felt like coming home after a brutal exam to find your mom had made your favorite meal and was waiting to tell you it would be okay. 

Ruggie's energy wrapped around yours carefully, almost gently, finding all the places where you were spiraling out of control and slowly, patiently, bringing everything back into balance. His hand in yours squeezed slightly, grounding you. His other hand was petting your head in slow, soothing strokes that you would have found condescending if it was anyone else but somehow just felt comforting.

You could feel your breathing starting to even out and the painful pressure in your chest was easing. 

You pressed your face further into his neck and just breathed. He smelled like coffee and something else you couldn't quite identify, something that was just him. His hand kept moving through your hair in steady, rhythmic strokes. His energy kept flowing into you, warm and steady and safe.

When he finally finished, pulling his energy back slowly and carefully, you felt better than you had in years. You felt better than you'd felt since you'd gotten your powers. Your energy pathways felt clear, your power settled and calm, your body relaxed in a way you'd forgotten was possible.

"You okay?" Ruggie asked quietly, and his voice was right next to your ear because your face was still pressed into his neck.

You pulled back slightly to look at him, and he was so close, and he was looking at you with those eyes that were worried and relieved and something else you couldn't quite name, and your brain decided that now was the perfect time to stop thinking entirely.

You kissed him.

You leaned in and pressed your mouth to his, and he made a small surprised sound and then immediately kissed back with an amount of enthusiasm that suggested he'd been thinking about this too.

You pulled him closer and he came willingly, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, the other still holding your hand like he was afraid if he let go you'd disappear. His mouth was warm and he tasted like the coffee he'd been drinking earlier and something sweet, and when you deepened the kiss he made another sound that went straight to somewhere in your chest.

When you finally pulled apart because breathing was once again necessary, he immediately hid his face in your neck, and you were almost certain you could feel him purring. Like, actually purring, a low rumbling sound that you could feel more than hear.

"Are you purring?" you asked, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

He bit your neck in retaliation, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. "Shut up."

"You are! You're purring!"

"I said shut up," he mumbled into your neck, but his tail was doing something happy and his whole body was relaxed against yours in a way that suggested he was extremely okay with this situation.

You wrapped your arms around him and just sat there on that bench, holding him, feeling more satisfied and fulfilled than you could remember feeling in your entire adult life.

Around you, other Espers and Guides were finishing their post-Gate routines, people were filing reports, the Bureau machinery was churning along as usual. Nobody was paying attention to the two of you sitting on a bench in a increasingly intimate embrace.

"We should probably talk about this," Ruggie said eventually, his voice muffled against your neck.

"Later," you said. "Right now I'm enjoying the part where I feel like a functional human being for the first time in months."

"Fair enough," he said.

You sat there together as the sun started to set, and you thought that maybe you'd finally found something worth pushing on for.

Ruggie Bucchi had learned early that nothing in life comes for free, and anyone who told you otherwise was either lying or trying to scam you.

When his Guide powers awakened, some Bureau representative had shown up at his tiny hometown and offered him a spot in the city training program. They'd talked about duty and service and protecting humanity, but what Ruggie heard was "guaranteed income" and "escape from poverty." He'd packed his bags that same day.

The city was expensive in ways that made his hometown look like a charity case. Everything cost money. Breathing would probably be monetized if the landlords could figure out how to charge for it. But Ruggie was determined to squeeze every possible advantage out of his situation, so he lived frugally in a shitty apartment that had character, which was realtor-speak for "things are broken and we're not fixing them," and he sent most of his paycheck back to his grandma.

Being a Guide paid okay. Not great, because Guides weren't the ones diving into hell dimensions and fighting monsters, but okay. The problem was that Espers made significantly more money and also got significantly more respect, which Ruggie thought was bullshit because Guides were the ones keeping those maniacs from leveling cities, but nobody had asked his opinion when they were setting up the pay scale.

The Espers themselves were a mixed bag of psychological issues wrapped in superpowers.

Some of them begged for guiding, practically throwing themselves at Guides after every Gate like they were desperate for someone to hold them and tell them everything would be okay. Others acted like they were too good for guiding, like accepting help was beneath them somehow. And then there were the ones who only wanted extremely high-ranked Guides, who'd turn their noses up at anyone below S-rank.

Ruggie had watched more than one Esper try to request Vil Schoenheit specifically, despite the fact that Vil was bonded to his Esper partner and literally could not guide anyone else even if he wanted to, which he definitely didn't because he'd made his feelings on the matter very clear in several public statements. Idiots, all of them.

Ruggie's strategy was simple: show up to as many active Gate sites as possible to collect the attendance bonus, but stay far enough back that he wouldn't actually have to exert himself guiding anyone unless absolutely necessary. He was getting paid to be present, not to be helpful. If someone specifically requested him, fine, he'd do his job. But otherwise he was perfectly happy to stand around looking official while scrolling through his phone.

This strategy had been working great for months.

Then you showed up and ruined everything by being weird.

Ruggie had been minding his own business, leaning against a barrier and contemplating whether he could afford the good instant ramen this month or if he was stuck with the cheap stuff that tasted like salted cardboard, when you'd approached him with an expression that suffested you were about to ask for something insane.

"I need you to pretend you're guiding me," you'd said, and Ruggie's brain had immediately gone "what the fuck?"

He'd seen Espers do a lot of stupid things, but he'd never seen one actively try to avoid being guided. Most of them were desperate for it. The fact that you were an S-rank, clearly in-demand based on the quality of your gear, made it even weirder. Why would someone with your power level want to fake it?

Then he'd actually looked at your face and recognition had hit him like a truck.

You were that Esper. The one who'd almost thrown a Guide across a parking lot for grabbing you without warning. The incident had made it into the Bureau gossip network, complete with eyewitness accounts and speculation about your psychological issues. Everyone knew you had a thing about being touched.

Which explained the request, actually.

"What's in it for me?" he'd asked, because Ruggie didn't do charity work and he wasn't about to start now.

The promise of dinner had sealed the deal. Free food was free food, and you'd said "anywhere you want" which meant Ruggie could pick somewhere expensive and you'd apparently just pay for it. He'd grabbed your sleeve, you'd drunk your stabilizers, and it had been the easiest money he'd ever made.

The ongoing arrangement you'd proposed afterward was even better. He got to sit around doing absolutely nothing, you got to avoid actual guiding, and Ruggie got paid and fed on a regular basis. He could send more money home to his grandma. He could buy himself nice things occasionally instead of living on nothing but instant ramen and spite.

It was perfect.

At first, your stabilizer dependency seemed like a preference thing. Some Espers were just weird about guiding and would rather rely on the pharmaceutical option. Ruggie didn't care. It wasn't his body being slowly destroyed by inadequate medical treatment.

Then he started noticing things.

The way you'd wince sometimes when you thought nobody was looking. The slight tremor in your hands after particularly tough Gates. The fact that you looked like you'd forgotten what a full meal was and had been surviving on coffee and protein shakes that probably tasted like despair.

He realized this wasn't just a preference. This was bad. This was actively harmful. Your system was suffering and you were choosing to let it happen for reasons Ruggie couldn't understand.

But also, he wasn't your mother or your lover. Why would he care? If you were determined to make terrible life choices, who was he to question you? You were an adult who was paying him. His job was to grab your sleeve and look official, not to fix your life.

When he'd asked you to come register the partnership officially at Bureau HR, he'd expected you to say no. Rich people usually didn't go out of their way to do things that benefited the people they were paying. But you'd just agreed and driven him there without complaint.

The HR person had gotten weirdly emotional about you having a Guide, which was uncomfortable to witness but also kind of funny. You'd looked like you wanted to sink into the floor.

The more time Ruggie spent with you, the more he realized you were actually a decent person.

You seemed to understand his nature, the fact that he wanted things and wasn't ashamed of it. Most people either judged him for being mercenary or tried to take advantage of it. You just accepted it and worked with it. You spent freely on him, taking him to expensive restaurants and letting him order whatever he wanted, buying him things when he mentioned wanting them.

And it didn't feel like bribery. It felt like you actually cared about his quality of life. It was almost like you cared about him as a person and not just as a convenient accessory to your medical avoidance.

The sushi place had been when Ruggie started suspecting he might be in trouble.

You'd been watching him eat with this expression on your face, open and fond, like watching him enjoy food made you happy. When he'd said he'd come to your power checkup in exchange for breakfast, your whole face had lit up in a way that made his heart do something uncomfortable in his chest. You tried telling him he didn't need to but the ways your eyes lit up made him abandon the thought of taking it back.

He'd hidden it with humor, smacking you with his tail and pretending he was too busy with food to properly touch you, because the alternative was acknowledging that he was developing feelings for his Esper which was definitely a bad idea.

The power checkup had been horrible for Ruggie in ways he hadn't expected.

He'd sat behind the glass watching them test your power output, watching you endure their invasive touching, watching them guide you for the assessment. You'd looked miserable the whole time but you'd done it because it was mandatory.

And then the doctor had said it.

Two years. Maybe.

Two years before your powers either disappeared or killed you.

Ruggie had sat there in his observation chair feeling like someone had punched him in the stomach with a fist made of ice. What the fuck did they mean you'd die in two years? How could that be? You were strong and powerful and yeah you made terrible choices but surely that didn't mean you deserved to die?

But you'd never stop being an Esper. That was clear. This was your job, your identity, your entire life. Which meant you were going to die.

You were going to die and you knew it and you were just accepting it like it was inevitable.

The pancakes had tasted like ash in his mouth. He'd barely managed three bites before pushing the plate away, his appetite completely gone. You'd driven him home in silence and he'd squeezed your hand before getting out, some desperate attempt to convey something he didn't have words for.

For the first time in a long time, Ruggie had cried that night.

He'd sat in his shitty apartment with its broken heating and water stains on the ceiling, and he'd cried for you. For the fact that you were going to die. For the fact that you'd accepted it. For the fact that he couldn't do anything about it except watch it happen.

The next few Gates passed in a blur. Ruggie tried to hide his concern because he knew you hated it when Guides tried to overstep, when they pushed and prodded and insisted they knew better. You'd chosen him specifically because he didn't do that. He wasn't about to ruin the best thing in his life by suddenly developing opinions about your medical care.

But it was hard.

It was hard watching you come out of Gates looking progressively more exhausted. Hard watching you chug stabilizers that he knew weren't working well enough. Hard knowing that every Gate was bringing you closer to that two-year deadline.

The Gate in the industrial district had been particularly bad.

You'd been waiting outside with him before it opened, and that earnest B-rank rookie had asked if you were okay. You'd said you were fine, and the rookie had moved to pat your back in what was clearly meant to be a friendly gesture.

And you'd let him.

You'd smiled at this kid and told him it was okay and let him touch you, and Ruggie had felt something bitter and hot in his chest that he recognized as jealousy.

Why couldn't you let Ruggie guide you properly? Why couldn't you let him touch you without the barriers of gloves and sleeves? Yes, you'd let him squeeze your hand that one time, but you were smiling at this rookie like he was harmless and friendly and meanwhile you were going to die because you wouldn't let people help you.

Then the Gate had opened and you'd gone in and Ruggie had spent the next two hours trying not to have a panic attack.

He'd checked the stabilizer kit out of nervous energy and found apple juice. Actual fucking apple juice because that rookie Guide had apparently grabbed the wrong bottles and not bothered to check.

Ruggie had been in the middle of crashing out on him, explaining in very clear terms exactly how badly he'd fucked up, when the Espers started coming out.

They all looked tired and beat up, which was normal. What wasn't normal was when you came out and sat down on a bench and your eyes were unfocused in a way that made Ruggie's blood run cold.

He'd explained about the stabilizers while watching you, and then he'd seen you press your hand to your chest. Your breathing was labored, gasping, like your body had forgotten how to process oxygen. Your energy levels were probably spiraling out of control without stabilization.

"Let me guide you," he'd said, and it had come out more desperate than he'd intended.

You'd nodded, and Ruggie had never moved faster in his life.

He'd taken your hand, interlacing your fingers with his, and guided your head down to rest in the crook of his neck. Then he'd started channeling his energy into you, trying to make it as gentle and non-invasive as possible.

He loved you. He loved you desperately. He'd known it for a while now but he'd been avoiding thinking about it because it was complicated and messy. But he loved you, and he wanted you to stay alive, and he was going to guide you properly even if it killed him.

Your energy had been a mess, chaotic and painful, and Ruggie had carefully wrapped his power around yours and brought everything back into balance. He'd petted your hair because it seemed to help, keeping his touch steady and soothing. You'd pressed your face into his neck and just breathed, and Ruggie had felt his heart doing something complicated.

When he'd finished and pulled back to check if you were okay, you'd kissed him.

Ruggie's brain had short-circuited for a solid three seconds before catching up and kissing back with all the enthusiasm he had because he had been wanting this for weeks and had finally gotten permission.

You'd pulled him closer and he'd gone willingly, completely unable to resist, one hand coming up to hold the back of your head like he could keep you there through sheer determination.

When you'd pulled apart he'd hidden his face in your neck because he was definitely purring and he didn't want you to see how stupidly happy he was.

You'd teased him about it and he'd bitten your neck in retaliation, but he couldn't stop purring and honestly didn't want to. You'd wrapped your arms around him and just held him, and Ruggie thought that maybe he'd finally found something worth more than money.

You were warm and solid and alive, and your energy felt stable and healthy for the first time since he'd known you. Maybe this was fixable. Maybe you didn't have to die in two years. Maybe if he could just guide you properly on a regular basis, your pathways would heal and you'd be okay.

Maybe he could keep you.

"We should probably talk about this," he mumbled into your neck, because they definitely needed to discuss what had just happened.

"Later," you said, and Ruggie decided later was fine.

His tail was doing something happy. His whole body felt warm and settled. For the first time since the checkup, Ruggie felt like maybe things would be okay.

Life was significantly better when you actually let yourself be guided properly. It also helped that the Guide was your partner whose touch was something you welcomed.

Ruggie guided you regularly now, real guiding with actual energy transfer and physical contact, and the difference was frankly embarrassing. Your energy pathways had started healing, slowly but noticeably. The constant background ache you'd gotten so used to that you'd stopped registering it had faded. You felt more stable, more grounded, less like a disaster waiting to explode.

You'd also weaned yourself off the stabilizers entirely, which meant you no longer had to drink liquid suffering. Your last checkup had shown significant improvement, enough that the doctor had looked genuinely shocked and then immediately launched into a lecture about how you should have been doing this the whole time. You'd nodded politely and let Ruggie drag you out before you said something deeply mean.

The other major change was that you had an appetite now. You were eating real meals, plural, sometimes multiple times a day. It was still a work in progress because your stomach had apparently shrunk to the size of a walnut during your years of coffee-and-protein-shake existence, but you were getting there.

Ruggie was insufferably smug about all of this.

"Remember when you were all 'I don't need guiding, I'll just slowly kill myself with stabilizers'?" he said for approximately the fifteenth time this week. "Remember when you were basically a suicidal emo teenager with a death wish disguised as professional preference?"

"I was not emo," you protested from where you were standing in the kitchen of the apartment you now shared, which was significantly nicer than either of your previous apartments.

"You were absolutely emo. You had the whole tragic brooding thing going on. Very 'I must suffer alone for the greater good' energy." He was sprawled on the couch looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I'm pretty sure if you'd had a diary it would've been full of sad poetry about the burden of your powers."

"I'm going to bite you."

"Promises, promises."

You abandoned your juice and walked over to the couch with clear intent. Ruggie saw you coming and his grin got wider, the menace. You grabbed him and pushed him down into the cushions, and he laughed with the delight of someone who'd absolutely been trying to provoke exactly this reaction.

"What're you gonna do, boss?" he asked, still grinning up at you. "Gonna punish me for being right?"

You leaned down and bit his cheek, not hard enough to actually hurt but definitely hard enough to make your point. He made a sound that was half-laugh and half-something else.

Then you kissed him properly, and he immediately melted into it with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he'd been hoping this would happen. His hands came up to grab at your shirt, pulling you closer, and you let yourself sink into the kiss and the warmth of him and the general rightness of this entire situation.

When you pulled back slightly for air, Ruggie looked up at you with eyes that were doing something soft and fond that still made your chest do weird things even though you'd been together for months now.

"Bond with me," he said between kisses, his voice doing that thing where it was trying to sound casual but came out sincere instead.

You looked at him. He looked back. Bonding was permanent, the kind of commitment that meant your energy would be linked forever, that you'd be each other's designated Guide and Esper until one of you died.

"Yeah," you said, because of course the answer was yes. It had always been yes. "Yeah, okay."

His face lit up in a way that made your heart do acrobatics, and then you were pressing him back into the couch and kissing him harder, channeling your energy toward his in the specific way that would initiate the bond.

Ruggie arched up into you, his hands gripping you tight enough to leave marks, and the bond snapped into place with almost audible click in your mind.

It was overwhelming and perfect and you kissed him through it, swallowing his sounds as the bond settled and solidified into something unbreakable.

When it was done, when you were officially bonded and linked forever, you collapsed onto him because  your bones had temporarily stopped working. Ruggie made a pleased sound and immediately curled into you, tucking his face into your neck and wrapping himself around you like a particularly affectionate octopus.

You lay there together on the couch, breathing hard, feeling the new bond thrumming between you like a live wire.

Then you remembered something and groaned out loud.

"What?" Ruggie asked, his voice muffled against your neck.

"We have to tell our assigned HR guy about this," you said with the tone of someone contemplating their own execution. "They're going to be so emotional. That same person is going to cry again and tell me they're proud of me."

Ruggie started laughing, his whole body shaking with it. "Oh man, they're gonna lose their shit. They're gonna think this is the best thing that's ever happened. You're their weird emotional support project and now you're bonded to your Guide? They're gonna throw a party."

"I hate this. I hate that you're right."

"You love it. You love me. You literally just bonded with me forever." He propped himself up slightly to grin at you. "Can't take it back now, boss. You're stuck with me."

"I know," you said, and you couldn't keep the smile off your face even though you were trying to maintain your dignity. "I regret nothing."

"Liar. You definitely regret the upcoming HR conversation."

"Okay yes I regret that specifically, but nothing else."

Ruggie kissed you again, soft and sweet and lazy, and the bond hummed contentedly between you. You could feel his happiness mixing with yours, amplifying it until you felt like you might burst from how good everything was.

He was your home. The person who'd agreed to scam the system with you for the price of free food and had somehow become the love of your life. The Guide who'd saved you from yourself without ever making you feel like you were being saved.

You wouldn't trade this for anything. Not for unlimited stabilizers, not for a promotion, not for all the money in the world.

Well. Maybe you'd trade it for the ability to skip the HR conversation, but that was it.

Ruggie snuggled back into your neck, and you wrapped your arms around him and decided that the HR conversation was a problem for future you. Right now you had a bonded partner who loved you and a really comfortable couch.

Life was good.

Life was really, stupidly, embarrassingly good, and you were going to enjoy every second of it.

"Love you," Ruggie mumbled into your neck.

"Love you too," you said, and meant it with every fiber of your being.

Masterlist ; Series Masterlist

[solxamber]

HR's Worst Nightmare || Floyd Leech

You’re an SS Guide who accidentally pioneered hands-free grounding. Floyd is an Esper who pioneered new ways to terrify HR.

Together you form a two-person apocalypse.

or: Guideverse!

Series Masterlist

The world used to be aggressively uneventful.

People got up, trudged to their jobs, stared at spreadsheets that multiplied like they were reproducing asexually, and convinced themselves they were stable as long as they had sugar, caffeine, and the vague hope that the weekend wouldn’t punch them in the throat. 

Humanity lived inside a loop of boredom so intense that the universe probably filed a complaint for lack of entertainment value.

Then a Gate opened inside a grocery store.

It randomly materialized between the discounted lawn chairs and the rotisserie chicken display, swirling like someone blended the concept of “doom” with the color palette of a migraine. 

A creature crawled out with the posture of a damp cat and the screech of a malfunctioning car alarm. Customers watched, confused, because humans do not process danger until it physically makes contact with them. 

Several people tried to poke it. One person tried to adopt it. The Gate responded by spitting out a second creature, this time shaped like a spiky refrigerator with legs.

And that was the planet’s new normal.

Gates kept popping up everywhere. One opened in the middle of a dentist’s office and ruined someone’s root canal. One appeared behind a high school during finals week and caused at least thirty students to try bargaining with it for better grades. Another tore itself open in front of a yoga studio and inhaled someone’s emotional support water bottle. 

Everyone panicked loudly, except for a small subgroup of unhinged individuals who immediately tried livestreaming the apocalypse because clout does not respect mortality.

The Gates triggered mutations in a microscopic portion of the population. 

These new Espers woke up with powers they did not ask for. Some blasted psychic beams out of sheer confusion. Some caused gravity to malfunction around them. One poor soul sneezed and accidentally levitated their neighbor’s car. 

Espers learned very quickly that their powers were not majestic or cinematic. Their powers responded to emotions in the most disrespectful way possible. A stressful email could cause an Esper to crack the pavement. A mild inconvenience could generate a shockwave. 

There was an Esper who once obliterated a hot dog cart because someone cut in line.

And just when the world thought things could not get worse, Guides appeared.

Guides were supposed to stabilize Espers. They were supposed to bring balance. They were supposed to keep society from exploding every time an Esper had feelings. 

What actually happened was that Guides were exhausted by default, operating on sleep deprivation, stale snacks, and the thin thread of sanity that had never been designed to bear this responsibility. 

They could calm an Esper’s powers, yes, but every time they did, they looked like they wanted to file for early retirement, fake their own death, and move into a cave with zero human contact.

Governments tried to create Guide-Esper programs, but the programs immediately devolved into chaotic messes. Compatibility tests melted. Training centers caught on fire. One Guide had a breakdown in the middle of orientation and accidentally grounded every Esper in the building so hard that several chairs disintegrated. 

The agencies kept hiring people despite this because the alternative was the world turning into a crater.

Meanwhile, civilians pretended everything was fine. People still clocked in for work even if a Gate opened in the parking lot. 

Students still got graded even if their Esper classmates accidentally bent the classroom doorframe. 

Grocery stores stayed open even when an Esper meltdown caused all the shopping carts to glide around the aisles like malfunctioning Roombas.

Life went on, wobbling violently, making strange noises, occasionally catching on fire, but still somehow refusing to collapse. 

The world had become an ongoing group project with no supervisor, no instructions, and too many psychic explosions, but humanity kept showing up because quitting would require entirely too much paperwork.

Being an SS-ranked Guide sounded glamorous on paper, yet the reality was closer to being a rare endangered bird everyone wanted to kidnap. 

You were powerful. You were in demand. You were also constantly being hunted down by Espers who behaved like they were lining up for BTS tickets. 

Your entire working life before The Incident™ involved sprinting down hallways, dodging overly enthusiastic rookies, and escaping break rooms because someone had gotten emotionally unstable about their lunch going missing and wanted you specifically to calm them down before they accidentally shattered the microwave for the third time that month.

Guides were supposed to need physical touch to ground Espers. Hand-to-hand, aura-to-aura, calm-to-chaos. That was the rule. And that was the biology. 

Except you had always been a little overpowered, and your presence alone could settle most rookie Espers just by standing next to them and breathing. Which meant Espers followed you like hungry cats hoping you’d drop food. Or emotional stability. Same thing to them.

The constant pestering would have been manageable if they didn’t escalate. But Espers were dramatic creatures. They fell into two categories:

(1) “I can handle this myself” types who absolutely could not, and

(2) “If you don’t guide me right now I might spontaneously combust” types who said that while holding your sleeve.

You spent months enduring this circus of desperate Espers, screaming psychic auras, and training supervisors who pretended this was fine because you were one of their strongest Guides and therefore clearly durable enough to withstand the emotional hurricane that was your job. 

You were not durable. You were very tired.

Then came the meltdown.

It started as a routine orientation session with a room full of rookie Espers whose emotional regulation skills were nonexistent. 

Someone’s aura spiked because they found out their boyfriend had eaten their leftovers. Someone else panicked because someone else panicked. A third person began crying loudly for no reason. It was a disaster. You tried to mediate the situation calmly, the way Guides were taught to do. You held your composure for as long as humanly possible.

Then one rookie made the mistake of grabbing your shoulder without permission and shouting, “PLEASE FIX US I’M FREAKING OUT.”

Something in your soul snapped.

Your aura detonated outward with the intensity of a psychic bomb. Every Esper in the room dropped flat to the floor like someone had turned off their power switches. The entire building shook. Several light fixtures imploded. A vending machine shorted out. And most importantly: you guided them without touching a single one of them.

That had never happened in recorded history. Guiding without physical contact was considered biologically impossible. 

You changed that rule by accident. Not through training or technique but through raw emotional instability.

The Bureau immediately shoved you onto a fully paid year-long vacation. They said it was for your safety. They said it was to avoid further mutation. They said this in the tone of people who were deeply afraid of whatever you might become if allowed to continue working while emotionally compromised.

So you took their money, vanished from public life, and spent the next twelve months sleeping, stress-eating, binge-watching shows, and ignoring all Bureau requests for check-ins. Your aura calmed. Your nerves settled. You remembered the joys of not being surrounded by feral psychics.

Unfortunately, vacations eventually end.

Which is how you now found yourself back in the Guide Bureau lobby, staring at the same flickering lights, inhaling the same stale coffee smell, and regretting your life choices before you even clocked in.

You expected some attention of course. You expected whispers. You did not expect to be ambushed with the speed of a predatory crow who spotted a shiny object.

One second you were walking.

The next second, your entire body was wrapped in limbs.

Floyd Leech—B-class Esper, chronic menace, professional chaos gremlin—had thrown himself at you like he was reenacting a dramatic reunion scene from a show only he remembered. His arms locked around your middle. His entire body clung to you with barnacle determination, and he began shaking you so enthusiastically that your vision briefly rattled.

“YOU’RE BACK!” Floyd announced with the joy of an overly caffeinated sea monster. “Shrimpy! You’re really back! I knew you’d come back!”

Your spine tried to resign from your body amd you contemplated turning around and returning to your hermit life.

“Floyd,” you gasped, “you’re compressing my entire ribcage.”

He ignored that. Entirely and enthusiastically.

“Be my Guide!” he demanded, tightening his grip in a way that suggested he believed physical pressure was persuasive. “C’mon. Say yes. Say it. I wanna go first. I already told Jade you’re mine. I told Azul too. And the receptionist. And the security guy. They all know.”

“You cannot claim me like a prize token.”

“Too late!” Floyd chirped, delighted with himself. “I already did.”

You pried at his arm. He clung harder.

“Floyd Leech,” you said, channeling every ounce of Guide authority you had left after a year of blissful avoidance. “I have been in this building for less than two minutes.”

“That’s why I’m fast!” Floyd replied, as if speed was a virtue. “Now no one else can snatch you. I’ve been waiting all year.”

You stared at him.

You stared at the ceiling.

You regretted returning to society.

But beneath the chaos, you noticed his Esper energy and it was wild, intense and electric. He was absolutely the type of Esper who needed grounding every three business minutes.

Your Guide instincts, traitorous thing, perked up.

You shoved that sensation deep into denial where it belonged.

Floyd nuzzled his cheek against your shoulder with a delighted hum, clearly convinced this was destiny. “You’re gonna guide me,” he said with absolute certainty, “and it’s gonna be so fun.”

You were deeply concerned about that definition of fun.

Floyd’s grip was still a full-body situation. His arms were wrapped around you like he was trying to fuse your ribcage to his soul, and every time you attempted to wiggle free he just tightened, humming like this was the highlight of his week.

You were running out of viable escape routes. The hall was wide. Floyd was tall. Your dignity was shriveling.

Then salvation swept through the corridor in the form of pure, simmering irritation.

A sharp, clipped voice cut through the air like someone was slicing frustration into neat pieces. You turned your head just enough to see a very familiar figure marching down the hall. 

The Guide in question moved with graceful precision, the kind that suggested he’d been overqualified for this job since the day he was born. His hair—long, dark, and styled with the exact kind of perfection that made other Guides quietly hate him—flowed behind him as he dragged an Esper by the ear with the posture of a man whose patience had been boiled, evaporated, and replaced entirely with spite.

The Esper flailed dramatically. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad!”

The Guide tugged harder without breaking stride. “You set the break room on fire.”

“I said I was sorry!”

The Guide stopped walking just long enough to inhale in the slow, dangerous manner of a man sustaining himself purely on resentment and tea. His hair didn’t move despite the chaos around him, which was how you knew he had long since transcended mortal stress responses.

Floyd perked up instantly. “Oooh, look at him go. Bet he’s been holding that in all morning.”

He loosened his arms a fraction to lean forward and stare.

A fraction was all you needed.

You shoved your shoulder sideways, ducked under his arm, and slid out of his grip with the skill of someone who had escaped far too many unstable Espers over the years.

By the time Floyd whipped around, you were already halfway down the hall.

“Shrimpy! Hey! That’s cheating!”

You didn’t respond. You slipped into HR like you were escaping a wild animal.

You shut the door. You leaned on the door. You contemplated nailing the door shut. HR person stared at you with that expression reserved for employees who arrive in crisis before they even clock in.

“Rough morning?” they asked, tone soft and supportive in the way someone talks to a recently escaped hostage.

You gave a dignified nod that communicated “I have lived several lifetimes in the past eight minutes.”

HR gestured for you to sit. “We’re glad you came in. Really. Everyone’s been looking forward to your return, but we want to be careful after… the incident.”

Ah yes. The meltdown. The classroom pancake event. The day you accidentally grounded twenty-six rookie Espers without touching a single one. Non-physical grounding had been considered impossible until you emotionally detonated and forced the universe to reconsider its stance on you.

“We don’t want you jumping straight into a dedicated partnership,” HR continued. “Not yet. It’s too soon for that level of intensity. And after last year, well… we want to make sure you’re stable, safe, and supported.”

You appreciated the careful phrasing. “So what’s my assignment?”

HR slid a folder toward you. “First responder rotation outside Gates. Low-risk guiding and short sessions. You’ll only regulate Espers right after they exit a gate—quick stabilization, then pass-off to the regular staff.”

You blinked. “No long-term pairing?”

“We’d like to start slow.”

The words settled over you like a blanket. Warm, reasonable and manageable. After twelve months rotting in bed like a depressed croissant, the idea of having a purpose again lit something in your chest you hadn’t felt since before the meltdown.

You’d joined the Bureau because guiding meant something to you. Because balancing Espers, steadying minds on the brink, giving someone enough control to breathe—those moments mattered. Even when it was exhausting. Even when you were drowning. The purpose had always outweighed the chaos.

And maybe—just maybe—you were ready to feel that again.

“I can do that,” you said. “Actually… I’d like to.”

HR smiled, visibly relieved. “Then welcome back. We missed having you.”

You were back.

And even if the world was absolutely still a disaster… you were needed again.

Your first Gate back should have felt nostalgic, maybe even comforting in a strange “I survived my burnout and now I’m contributing to society again” sort of way. 

Instead, the moment you stepped onto the perimeter line, you immediately understood that the world had grown significantly more unhinged during your year-long absence. Espers weren’t just emotionally chaotic anymore.

They had evolved into something far more desperate, vibrating with the energy of people who had run out of coping skills and decided the solution was to latch onto the nearest Guide like a koala clinging to a eucalyptus tree. 

You watched in stunned silence as a small cluster of unassigned Espers closed in on a blue-haired Guide who looked painfully introverted and dangerously close to passing out. He held his tablet like a shield while the group circled him with the  enthusiasm normally seen in flash mobs and cult recruitment. 

One tried grabbing his arm, another attempted to hand-feed him snacks, a third delivered an unrequested speech about how they were “meant to sync,” and the poor Guide made a strained noise that sounded like the life leaving his body.

It was only when his actual Esper stumbled out of the Gate—smoking slightly, muttering about respawn timers, and clearly one misstep away from a panic spiral—that the crowd dispersed. 

The introverted Guide practically scrambled behind his Esper, and you watched the whole ordeal thinking both “poor guy” and “thank the universe that it wasn’t me.” You had dealt with your share of Esper drama, but in the year you’d been gone, it looked like the entire population had collectively opened the door to feral behavior and walked through proudly. 

In a valiant attempt to preserve yourself, you retreated behind a trash can. 

It wasn’t glamorous, but it offered shade, emotional safety, and a decent barrier from being pounced on by unassigned Espers with too much enthusiasm and not enough self-control. 

You crouched there trying to regulate your energy and whispered a plea to the universe to send you a mild Esper for your first outing back.

A B-class with a stable temperament would suffice. Even a tired C-class. Someone who needed a gentle reset and would thank you politely before shuffling off. You would guide them, breathe a sigh of relief, and go home where no one could cause you to explode psychically again. That was your entire plan.

The Gate pulsed.

A silhouette emerged.

And you made a sound so high-pitched and miserable that only dogs would understand the emotional nuance behind it.

Of course it wasn’t a stable Esper. It was Floyd.

He emerged from the Gate like an aquatic calamity that had been temporarily evicted from the ocean and was ready to ruin everyone’s day. 

His aura crackled around him in jagged, neon flashes. His shirt was ripped at the side, his cheek was marked with a fresh bruise, and he wore a look of irritation so sharp it could slice a filing cabinet. 

Every Guide in the vicinity took one look at him and instantly pretended to be extremely busy doing absolutely anything else. It would have been funny if you weren’t hiding behind a trash can hoping he didn’t notice you.

But Floyd noticed everything. He scanned the area with a slow, simmering frustration that practically shook the air, and the moment his gaze drifted near your hiding place, you pressed yourself tighter behind the trash can like a raccoon caught inl headlights. 

You debated staying put until he left. You debated pretending to be unconscious. You even debated rolling the trash can over yourself like some kind of improvised bunker. 

But there was no denying the truth: Floyd was hurt. His aura was jagged, unstable, and barely holding together. As terrifying as he could be, he had always been strangely gentle—or at least uniquely tolerable—with you. That flicker of familiarity made your Guide instincts twitch.

You stepped out from your hiding place with the energy of someone volunteering for a task they absolutely did not want but could not ignore. 

Floyd’s head snapped toward you immediately, eyes brightening with something that resembled recognition layered over irritation. He stalked toward you, posture tense, sparking with leftover adrenaline. He looked ready to find the monster that injured him and start a rematch inside the Gate.

“Shrimpy,” he said, voice low, annoyed, and yet unmistakably relieved. “One of those ugly things clipped me, and I’m gonna go right back in and rip something off it.”

He looked like he meant it.

Actually, he looked like he would enjoy it.

“Bench,” you said.

He blinked. “What?”

“We’re going to the bench.”

“I’m not sittin’—”

“Bench.”

He stared at you for a moment, tension radiating from him in waves, but you didn’t flinch and he sensed it. You grabbed his sleeve again and tugged.

And Floyd—menace, chaos incarnate, emotional hurricane—allowed himself to be dragged.

You hauled him across the field like someone escorting a violent golden retriever. He followed you even while complaining, allowing himself to be dragged with the reluctant compliance of a large, dangerous creature that had decided one particular handler was acceptable.

He glared the entire time. “Shrimpy, if you’re tryin’ to shove me into some dumb meditation thing, I’m gonna bite somebody. Maybe you.”

“Bench.”

“You’re real bossy today.”

“Bench.”

“Say bench again and I’m throwin’ you over my should—”

“Sit.”

He plopped down.

You didn’t even need to think about it. Your hand moved to his jaw. You steadied his cheek. You lowered your forehead toward his and began guiding.

His eyes went wide for a fraction of a second.

Then all the tension in his body collapsed like a sandcastle in the tide.

He leaned against you with all the tension melting away from his frame, settling heavily like someone who finally reached a safe place after sprinting too long. His voice, when it finally returned, had none of the sharpness from earlier; it was soft, tired, unusually honest. “Feels good,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “Lemme stay like this.”

You kept guiding him, feeling the neon storm of his aura settle into a low hum against your own. You hadn’t expected your first Gate back to be a disaster, but guiding like this—calming him, grounding him, watching him trust you so completely—reminded you why you joined the Bureau in the first place. Even if everything else had changed, this part of you hadn’t. This part still knew how to help, how to ground, how to bring someone back from the edge.

You missed this.

And for the first time in a long time, guiding felt like something you could love again.

Lunch with other Guides was supposed to feel like a reunion, maybe even something healing, like reconnecting with coworkers who understood the psychic horrors of your job. 

Instead, the moment you dropped your tray onto the table, you realized you had walked straight into a support group meeting where no one admitted they needed support. Almost every single person at the table radiated the same emotional posture as overworked servers on a holiday weekend. 

The atmosphere was a combination of trauma, denial, and cafeteria curry.

The first Guide you locked eyes with was the one assigned to a certain lazy, sand-dusted, lionlike SS-rank Esper who napped aggressively and insulted everyone with equal enthusiasm. Except today, that Guide looked like they had reached the end of several lifetimes’ worth of patience. 

They slumped over their plate with the energy of someone who had aged a decade since breakfast. When you sat down, they looked up at you with big, haunted eyes and said, “He told me he chose me. And told me he didn't think I'd forget him”

You blinked. “Your Esper?”

“Yes. This morning. He just stared at me and said, very casually, ‘I picked you. So why did you pick me?’ And now I have to come up with an answer. What am I supposed to say? That when we met, he radiated the energy of a lion who might maul me if I made direct eye contact? That he terrifies me? That he naps with one eye half open like a lizard guarding a treasure chest?” The Guide sagged. “He wants a meaningful answer. I think he won’t stop asking until he gets one.”

You reached over and gently pushed their water glass toward them because dehydration would finish them off faster than Leona’s existential fishing expedition. You did remember their first meeting but who were you to step into someone else's romantic(?) endeavors. 

Next to them sat the Guide assigned to that loud, green-haired rookie who had the vocal volume of a malfunctioning fire alarm. 

The Guide wasn’t eating. They weren’t blinking. They weren’t moving. 

They stared at their mashed potatoes with the kind of hollow dread people get after seeing ancient horrors. You waved your hand in front of their face. Nothing. 

Then, after a long, static pause, they whispered, “He started shouting about valor at sunrise. I wasn’t awake. I think he yelled me awake from a different room. My ears won’t stop ringing. I hear echoes of honor in my dreams.”

You nodded with the solemnity of someone bearing witness to a tragedy. The green-haired rookie’s enthusiasm had claimed another soul.

Across from you sat Floyd’s brother who looked composed and was smiling. 

The picture of polite serenity.

If this lunch table were a battlefield, he would be the general calmly sipping tea while everyone else fought for their lives. His hair was perfectly tied back, his uniform crisp, his posture controlled in a way that said he had never tripped over anything in his entire existence. 

You could practically feel the other Guides shrinking away from him because cheerful composure in a crisis is always a terrifying red flag.

His phone pinged. Then pinged again. Then kept pinging until the table began vibrating. He checked it once and smiled, the same smile one might give a child who just handed them a rock as a gift. “My Esper is asking how they can repay me for assisting them earlier. It seems they are determined to show gratitude.”

You and the other exchanged looks of mutual horror. 

His Esper was incredibly powerful. His Esper was absolutely not prepared to deal with the psychological labyrinth that was Floyd’s brother. 

You sent up a brief, silent prayer for the Esper in question. A very honest, very heartfelt prayer that they would survive whatever mental chess match they were being dragged into.

You looked around at this table of broken people and felt a deep, silent moment of clarity settle over you. For a whole year, the world had spun on without you, and in that year, it had absolutely gone to shit.

So thoroughly, so poetically, so spectacularly, that you almost considered turning around and walking straight back into your year-long isolation pod.

Before you could spiral into that thought, a group of bright, enthusiastic rookie Guides from another table wandered over, holding smoothies that were too colorful for the current emotional climate. They carried the kind of optimistic energy that felt illegal in the Bureau. 

One of them beamed at you and said, “We’re thinking of going to the farmer’s market tomorrow! They renovated it after the corn explosion, and it’s supposed to be even better now. Do you want to come with us?”

Normally you would have said yes. Farmer’s markets meant snacks, little drinks, and emotional enrichment. But the moment they invited you, a deep, ancient part of your Guide soul shuddered. Your instincts—which had kept you alive through multiple psychic catastrophes—muttered a very clear, very urgent no in the back of your brain.

You smiled politely but firmly. “I think I’ll stay home.”

They tried to coax you, but the dread wouldn’t leave. Eventually, you escaped the cafeteria with your dignity intact and your soul feeling strangely light.

The validation arrived two hours later in the form of your phone buzzing with the furious desperation of someone trying to reach a runaway pet.

It was Floyd.

The messages came in aggressively fast.

shrimpy shrimpy are you stuck in the gate say smth don’t tell me ur one of the losers who got trapped in the farmer’s market gate answer before i come lookin

You stared at your screen in disbelief. 

You typed back slowly, hands trembling with secondhand horror.

I didn’t go.

Floyd responded in under a second.

good stay that way you woulda been annoying to fish out

Then another message.

also im laughing so hard rn

You set your phone down and exhaled. Hard.

Your instincts had saved you.

The world was a flaming disaster zone. Again.

And apparently, your coworkers had been swallowed by a Gate in the middle of a stall selling microgreens.

This was your life now.

The annual compatibility event was supposed to be a civil, orderly day where unpaired Espers and unassigned Guides politely tested their resonance with each other in a professional manner. That was the stated goal. 

The real atmosphere felt more like a speed-dating event run by overworked scientists and refereed by Guides who had lost all hope in humanity. You hadn’t attended one of these in two years, and you’d forgotten how much psychic desperation hung in the air. 

The room felt like it was vibrating. Espers were shifting anxiously, Guides were clutching clipboards like lifelines, and every now and then someone’s energy would spike in a way that made furniture tremble.

You had been hoping to get a mid-rank pairing to test with. Something light and reasonable. Maybe a nervous A-class or a focused B-class who just needed someone to reassure them they were not about to implode. 

Instead, when your name was called, you were handed a folder with the unmistakable marking of an SS-ranked Esper. You stared at the assigned name, felt your aura twitch, and immediately recognized the description.

Red-haired. High control levels. Precision aura. Zero emotional tolerance. A terrifying perfectionist who decimated threats in the field with the ferocity of a tiny, well-dressed hurricane. The kind of Esper who made rookie Guides faint and made senior Guides consider early retirement.

He was standing across the room when you looked up.

And the moment your eyes met, you understood that you were not ready.

He radiated the kind of tight, coiled tension usually seen in students about to flip tables over group projects. His posture was immaculate but brittle. His energy felt like a violin string pulled half a millimeter from snapping. 

And his expression… oh, the expression. It wasn’t anger. It was worse. It was that polite, suffocating brand of repressed rage that came from someone who had rehearsed being normal for so long he might combust if one thing went wrong.

You stood perfectly still.

He stared back with judging intensity.

You felt your organs stop functioning in self-defense.

Compared to this, Floyd’s unhinged chaos was practically soothing.

Your survival instincts, which had been mostly dormant except once since your return, shot up like they were trying to seize control of your limbs. You did not want to guide this SS-ranked Esper. 

You respected him. You admired him from a distance. You also strongly suspected that if you guided him even once, you might spontaneously combust from the pressure of holding his emotions in place.

You made a decision.

A very impulsive, very irresponsible, very necessary decision.

You pulled out your phone under the table and typed the two fastest messages of your life.

get here now

You could practically hear Floyd in your head when the message read “Delivered”: annoyed, unpredictable, mischievous, and entirely too pleased that you were summoning him like a chaotic sea demon.

Technically, Floyd was supposed to be at this event too. All unpaired Espers were required to attend. But Floyd considered bureaucratic obligations to be optional suggestions at best, so he had simply not shown up. The organizers looked exhausted just thinking about tracking him down.

So you waited.

Your assigned Esper approached with a crisp, elegant stride that made you straighten by instinct. He opened his mouth, probably to say something polite and terrifying, when the door behind you slammed open with the energy of a feral cat kicking its way inside.

Floyd walked in, looking disheveled and irritated.

He looked like he had abandoned whatever plans he was making just to show up and cause problems.

He also looked like the exact opposite of the disciplined SS-ranked Esper in front of you.

Your assigned Esper’s energy bristled immediately. A flicker of disgust. Then annoyance. Then something dangerously close to outrage. You hadn’t known a person’s shoulder tension could spike so sharply without their collarbone snapping.

Floyd saw the other Esper glaring and smirked in a way that sent two interns fleeing the room. “Ohhh? Why’s he lookin’ at you like that, Shrimpy? Did someone try to grab you again? I can break somethin’ if you want.”

You panicked in the calmest, most professional way possible.

You grabbed Floyd’s wrist and marched him toward the organizers’ table before anyone else could react. The event supervisor looked up at you with a hopeful, tired expression, seen in people who desperately want things to go smoothly but have long accepted that nothing ever does.

You cleared your throat. You unfortunately were here to send that hope straight to hell.

“We’re compatible,” you said.

The supervisor blinked. “Pardon?”

You gestured toward Floyd, who gave a toothy smile that radiated violence and affection in equal measure. “He’s my Esper. I would like him to be my assigned Esper for all Bureau matching purposes going forward.”

The supervisor’s left eye twitched. “Are you… sure?”

You nodded with the commitment of someone jumping off a cliff and fully accepting their fate. “Yes. I would like to exclusively guide him now.”

Floyd leaned down, voice low and pleased. “Hear that? Shrimpy picked me. Lucky me.”

Your assigned SS Esper was still watching from across the room, energy flaring so sharply that nearby Guides subtly moved behind furniture to avoid being caught in the emotional crossfire. His expression hadn’t changed, but his posture had stiffened into something silent and severe. You were relieved you would not be the cause of his inevitable meltdown today.

The supervisor looked between the two of you.

One unstable, exceptionally powerful Guide.

One unstable, exceptionally powerful Esper.

No one sane would approve this pairing. But you were terrifying, and Floyd was scarier, and the supervisor clearly wanted to live long enough to retire.

They stamped the form.

“Approved,” they said quietly.

Floyd beamed. “Told ya they’d say yes.”

You suddenly realized that your life was never going to be peaceful again.

You had only wanted to get to the fifth floor. You weren’t even trying to guide anyone or file trauma reports or deal with Floyd-related catastrophes. You just needed to hand in a form. You’d even told yourself, optimistically, that the elevator ride would be peaceful.

Instead, the elevator made a strange grinding noise the moment you stepped inside. You froze, stared at the ceiling like it personally offended you, and tried to decide whether you should trust a government-issued elevator that definitely had not been maintained since the first Gate incident. Before you could press the “Door Close” button, a blur of teal and dangerous enthusiasm slid through the narrowing gap.

Floyd.

He grinned as soon as he saw you. “Shrimpy! You tryin’ to ditch me? That’s mean.”

You were not ditching him. You didn't even know he was there. 

But Floyd had always operated under his own definitions, so you stepped aside as he sprawled against the far wall like he was posing for a magazine cover no one asked for. 

The doors shut. The elevator moved two inches upward. Then it shuddered violently, made the sound of someone chewing metal foil, and stopped dead.

You both stared at the unmoving doors for a long beat.

Then Floyd gave an incredibly unhelpful observation. “We’re stuck.”

You inhaled slowly. “Yes.”

He tilted his head, watching your expression like it was the most interesting thing he’d seen all morning. “You gonna freak out? Should I freak out? Ooh, we can freak out together.”

“I would prefer if neither of us freaked out.”

He let out a disappointed hum and slid down the wall until he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring up at you with bright, curious eyes. “So what now?”

“Now we wait.”

He considered this. You watched his energy twitch in that way that suggested he was already at maximum boredom. Floyd and waiting had always been natural enemies. 

You tried to stand still and pretend this elevator wasn’t the worst possible place to be trapped with someone whose emotional range swung like a pendulum on caffeine.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then Floyd perked up in the exact way that made you nervous. “Okay, Shrimpy, I got an idea.”

“Oh no,” you muttered, because life had taught you to fear that sentence.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper—badly folded, ink smudged, Bureau forms printed on the back. He smiled with a kind of slow, mischievous warmth that implied he had been saving this moment like a treat. “I wrote a quiz.”

You blinked. “You… what?”

“A quiz,” he repeated, incredibly pleased with himself. “It’s important. I gotta know if you actually pay attention to me or if you’re just good at pretendin’.”

You pressed the emergency call button, purely for emotional support. It did nothing. Floyd, on the other hand, was thriving.

He patted the floor beside him. “Sit. C’mon. If you sit, I’ll read the easy questions first.”

You sat because the alternative was standing awkwardly while Floyd’s energy spiraled into a storm cloud of hyperactivity. He unfolded the paper with exaggerated care, like he was unveiling something sacred, and cleared his throat with theatrical seriousness.

“Question one,” he announced, “What’s my favorite thing to eat?”

You tried to remember if he had ever given a coherent answer to that question. “Takoyaki?”

He clicked his tongue sharply. “Wrong! I like takoyaki, but my favorite is that chip you eat when you’re stressed. It tastes interestin’.”

You decided not to examine that declaration too closely.

He continued without giving you time to recover. “Question two: if I got turned into a sea creature by a weird spell, what kinda creature would I be?”

There was no correct answer to this. You knew it. He probably knew it. Still, you thought about it seriously because the alternative was being teased endlessly. “An eel.”

He stared at you like you were the smartest person alive. “Yes! Good job, Shrimpy. I thought you’d say somethin' stupid like octopus.”

You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment.

He moved on, cycling through questions. “Where’s my favorite place to nap? What noise do you make when you’re annoyed? How many teeth do you think I’ve chipped in fights? If we fused into one person during a Gate accident, who do you think would win control of the arms?”

Every question was more unhinged than the last. And every time you answered—even imperfectly—Floyd leaned in a little, eyes bright, expression softening in the way that made your heart trip. 

He thrived on your attention, your reactions, your refusal to treat him like something fragile or frightening. For all the chaos he radiated, there was something almost tender about the way he watched you think.

Halfway through the quiz, the lights flickered. The elevator groaned again. Floyd didn’t even glance at the ceiling. He was too busy flipping the paper over and preparing for what he called the “important section.”

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping to that familiar lazy drawl that meant he was watching you very closely, “a hard one. What do ya think I do when I get scared?”

You looked at him, at the relaxed posture and the sharp grin and the storm held just beneath the surface. It wasn’t an easy question, but it wasn’t a trick one either.

“You get angry,” you said. “Or you pretend you don’t care so no one sees you panic.”

His smile wavered into something smaller. Something honest. Something that softened the entire room, even the broken elevator.

Neither of you had to say anything else. The elevator felt strangely calm now, the silence warm instead of claustrophobic. 

Floyd leaned against your shoulder, humming contentedly, abandoning the quiz entirely because, apparently, you’d passed whatever test he actually cared about.

Eventually the elevator jerked back to life and began rising again. Floyd didn’t move. When the doors opened, he glanced at you with that lopsided, dangerous grin and said, “We should get stuck more often. That was fun.”

You responded with the patience of someone who had already emotionally resigned themselves to their fate. “I would prefer not to.”

He snorted, hooked a finger under your chin like he was checking your expression for lies, and said, “Too late. I’m puttin’ it on our schedule.”

You regretted everything.

And also, very quietly, not at all.

The Bureau’s mandatory “Interpersonal Professional Boundaries” training seminar had always been notorious, but this year’s version felt like a full-scale social apocalypse contained within a single conference room. Someone had decided every Esper and Guide pair with unresolved “boundary-related incidents” needed to attend, which meant the room was filled with Espers who had all, at some point, violated the guidelines so catastrophically that HR had made new rules specifically because of them. 

Their Guides sat beside them glaring daggers at their respective Espers, who refused to look anywhere near their partners because eye contact alone would summon the ghosts of their shared disasters.

One Esper sat so stiffly that his shoulders looked permanently elevated, clearly remembering the time he dragged his Guide into a fight without warning. Another was nervously staring at the floor, probably thinking about the incident where he climbed his Guide like a tree during a panic spike. A third one had positioned himself behind a potted plant even though everyone could see him, because apparently hiding behind flora absolved him of past crimes. 

The Guides, meanwhile, collectively radiated the energy of wronged spouses at couples therapy.

You honestly didn’t know why you were here, because you technically had no “ongoing conflict issues,” unless the incident involving Floyd trying to pick you up like a grocery bag counted. But the instructor had insisted you attend anyway “for awareness.” 

So here you were, sitting comfortably in your row with a bag of popcorn you had absolutely smuggled in because there was no universe in which you’d suffer through this without snacks. 

The instructor was droning on about “respecting personal space” while the very Espers who needed that lesson most were pretending to study the ceiling tiles like they had ascended into a spiritual plane where consequences no longer existed.

You had just popped a handful of popcorn into your mouth when someone dropped onto the seat beside you so abruptly that your entire row shook. Floyd's shoulder pressed against yours instantly, his posture unreasonably casual for someone attending a seminar about his own behavioral shortcomings.

He leaned close enough that you felt his breath warm against your cheek. “Shrimpy, this is boring,” he muttered in a low tone that absolutely carried across the room. “All these losers sitting here pretending they care about boundaries, when half of ‘em were clinging to their Guides last week like needy barnacles. C’mon. Let’s go do something fun.”

You elbowed him gently and whispered back, “If you get up now, the instructor will call you out.” Then, because you did not trust him at all, you added, “And we are not leaving. Sit still.”

Floyd huffed dramatically, leaning so far into your side that you had to stabilize yourself to keep from tipping over. “You’re no fun,” he said, clearly lying because he was already eyeing your popcorn like he intended to steal it. “Why are we even here? We didn’t break any boundaries.”

You gave him a flat look that said you remembered every time he had scooped you up without warning, pinned you to his chest during a guiding session because he “felt like being held,” or nipped your ear when you told him to calm down. You didn’t even need to say anything. Floyd recognized the look instantly and grinned, unrepentant.

The instructor tried to continue her presentation while pretending Floyd wasn’t clearly whispering commentary about every Esper present. He leaned forward slightly, tilting his head to observe a pair sitting in the corner, and muttered, “That one definitely broke a rule last week. Look how twitchy his Guide is. Bet he tried to steal their lunch again.” Then he added, with a delighted snicker, “And that one? Oh, he sat in his Guide’s lap during a mission briefing. Everyone saw it.”

Before you could warn him, Floyd’s hand drifted into your popcorn bag like a criminal testing security. He didn’t even try to be sneaky. He simply helped himself, grabbed a handful, and shoved it into his mouth with the aviation of a man who believed food tasted better when he didn’t pay for it. 

You glared at him, but he continued happily, chewing with zero remorse while leaning closer, letting the warmth of his body sink into yours in a way that made the fluorescent-lit conference room feel less miserable.

You sighed and let your shoulder rest against his, because resisting the gravitational pull of Floyd’s chaotic presence was something only fools attempted. The instructor was attempting to discuss the importance of “emotional distance during stressful moments,” which would have been meaningful if the Espers weren’t quietly dying inside while their Guides glared at them like disgruntled parents. 

In the back corner, someone raised their hand to ask whether “dragging a Guide bodily away from danger” counted as a violation if the intent was noble. Their Guide immediately buried his face in his hands.

Floyd snorted softly. “This is better than TV,” he whispered, taking more popcorn. “Look at that one. They're sweating. They know they messed up.”

You leaned deeper into his warmth, the exhaustion of the week catching up to you as he nudged his head against yours in a gesture that was far too gentle considering his usual chaos. 

If anyone paid attention, they might have mistaken the two of you for being suspiciously close, especially when he stretched his arm along the back of your chair and let it settle there like he belonged in your personal space. But Floyd didn’t care. He never cared about optics or rules or the instructor’s slow descent into frustration.

He only cared that you were here with him, eating popcorn and ignoring the rest of the room’s disasters.

And if you were being honest, watching this mess unfold with Floyd pressed beside you was far more entertaining than the training itself.

You had not slept for three entire days, which was an impressive achievement in suffering even by Guide standards, and at some point during the late afternoon your body simply abandoned the concept of consciousness. You collapsed onto your office couch the way overworked employees collapse into retirement, face-first, limbs limp, energy flickering weakly like a dying lightbulb. 

You had fully intended to take a quick nap, something modest and adult, but instead you fell into a deep, absolute, soul-crushing sleep that devoured several hours before you even had time to consider forming a dream. 

Your phone was still on the floor where you dropped it and your half-eaten snack lay forgotten on the table.

When you finally surfaced from unconsciousness, it was not a gentle return to awareness. You woke because someone was shaking your shoulder with urgency, and before your eyes even focused, you recognized the disjointed, frantic rhythm of Floyd’s movements. 

By the time your vision cleared, he was kneeling beside the couch, gripping your arm far too tightly, breathing heavily, and covered in bruises and scratches that looked fresh enough to make your stomach twist unpleasantly. There was something about the way his shoulders drooped and the slight tremor in his energy that made you sit up on instinct, your exhaustion shoved aside by the automatic reflex that came with being a Guide.

“Floyd,” you said, your voice still raspy from unconsciousness, “what happened?”

You eased him closer without bothering to ask permission, because every line of his body told you he was too overwhelmed to put up any real resistance, and you immediately began grounding his aura as gently as you could. 

You tried to assess the damage, tried to ask what happened, tried to coax some coherent explanation out of him, but he refused to say anything beyond vague grunts. His head dropped onto your shoulder in a way that made your heart seize in irritation and concern, and while you supported him with both hands, you could feel the ragged, exhausted crackle of his energy fighting to settle down.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, you remembered your abandoned phone. You reached for it with your free hand, still guiding him, and your screen illuminated to reveal a massive Gate alert that you had somehow slept through. 

The headlines alone were enough to make your blood run cold. 

An unexpected high-tier Gate had erupted far from the city center, and this one had spewed out creatures vicious enough to trigger emergency measures. 

Waves of Espers had been dispatched, reports were still coming in, and half the Bureau was calling for backup. Seeing the timestamp of the alert made you swallow hard, because Floyd had clearly gone through an ordeal far beyond the usual nonsense he dragged himself into.

You looked down at him again. He was too limp, too drained, too quiet for your comfort. 

Normally he would be talking, teasing, provoking reactions, or trying to test your patience just for fun. Instead, he pressed his face against your shoulder, refused to meet your eyes, and made himself small in a way that felt profoundly wrong for someone who radiated so much chaotic confidence on a normal day. 

“Floyd, look at me for a second,” you murmured, lifting his chin gently, but he avoided your eyes and buried himself deeper against your neck. You pressed your hand carefully to the back of his neck, trying to soothe rather than overwhelm. “Just tell me what’s hurt. Anything bleeding? Anything broken?”

He gave you absolutely nothing. Not a word or even a nod. Just a quiet, irritated noise followed by him biting your shoulder with the amount of force that communicated pure annoyance but no actual aggression. It wasn’t painful, but it was definitely a complaint.

You pressed a little harder because you needed answers, and the confusion was starting to grind at your already-thin nerves. 

You reminded him sharply that he had a brother who was a Guide, a competent one, someone capable of handling emergencies like this without hesitation, and asked why he didn’t seek help there. Floyd’s voice came out low, slurred, and fundamentally defeated. “He’s busy. He’s got his own Esper.”

There was something raw in the way he said it, something that scraped against your ribs and made anger swirl in your chest—not the screaming kind of anger, but the tired kind that comes from realizing someone you care about has made a terrible decision for the sake of self-sacrifice. 

You wanted to scold him. You wanted to remind him that he was allowed to ask for help. You wanted to shake him until he understood that showing up like this scared the life out of you. But you could feel how frayed his energy was, how desperately it clung to any stability you offered, and your irritation softened into a heavy, exasperated warmth.

You guided him more deliberately, letting your energy sink into his broken edges until the sharpness dulled and the trembling eased. His breathing steadied. His weight settled more fully against you. His hands relaxed from clammy tension into something looser, something trusting, something that needed you in a way he would never admit aloud. 

Your rank difference allowed you to handle this easily, your guiding enveloping him without strain, smoothing the static, calming the erratic emotional spikes that made him vibrate like a struck tuning fork. 

You stroked his back in a slow, grounding pace, feeling him melt deeper into the support you offered.

You sighed into his hair, in the way people sigh when the day becomes larger than their capacity to handle it. “Next time,” you murmured, “you ask for help before you drag yourself halfway across the city like a stubborn idiot.”

He didn’t argue. He just nudged his forehead into your collarbone as if that were somehow an acceptable substitute for an apology.

You stayed like that for a long while, letting him drain the chaos out of himself while your own exhaustion simmered beneath the surface. 

Despite everything—your lack of sleep, your irritation, the lingering alarm from the Gate report—you held him, steady and unshaken, because even if he made terrible decisions, even if he refused help at the worst possible times, he still came to you when he was hurting, and guiding him felt almost instinctive now.

You stayed like that not because you had to, but because some part of you understood that Floyd had chosen you on purpose, and even if it drove you insane, even if it exhausted you to the bone, you would not let him fall apart alone.

Developing feelings for an Esper was already a terrible idea. Developing feelings for Floyd was the sort of catastrophic workplace hazard that belonged in an emergency manual, preferably with illustrations. 

You had always had a soft spot for him, even before the crashout, back when his attention only made you wary and reluctant instead of warm and uncomfortably flustered. 

But now that you were back and more stable, that soft spot had grown teeth—sharp, inconvenient, romantic teeth—and your brain decided the safest course of action was immediate repression before you did something irreversible, like admit it out loud or let him notice.

You could handle your job. You could handle instability. You could even handle Floyd on a normal day. But you could not handle the way your heartbeat seemed to perform an entire Broadway show every time he leaned too close or grinned that crooked grin of his. 

So you did the only thing you thought would prevent emotional death: you avoided him with the skill of someone dodging debt collectors. You suddenly became very available to other Espers, volunteering for sessions the moment someone asked, even if they weren’t technically your responsibility. 

You started helping rookies. You started taking on overflow.

You also discovered the sick leave system allowed twelve days of “mental recalibration” per year, and you used five of them within three weeks. HR emailed you asking if you needed support. You told them you were fine. 

Every avoidance tactic had a pattern to it. Whenever Floyd roamed the halls—easily identifiable by the distant sound of either humming or panicked interns—you would hastily duck into supply closets, training rooms, or even staff bathrooms you absolutely did not want to enter. 

The worst part was that your coworkers quickly realized what you were doing. Some pretended not to notice. Others whispered gossip about “that poor Guide in damage-control mode.” One even gave you a pity snack as you rushed past like you were evading a natural predator.

And through all of this, Floyd acted like nothing was happening. At least, that’s how it looked on the surface. 

He didn’t chase you around the Bureau in dramatic fashion. He didn’t call you out in meetings. He didn’t make a scene the way he occasionally did when bored. He simply drifted through rooms with the same unpredictable rhythm as always, sometimes silent, sometimes loud, sometimes smiling in that disarming way that made your stomach crowd with butterflies you pretended were indigestion.

You had convinced yourself the plan was working.

You were very wrong.

You found out exactly how wrong you were when your shift ended early, and you thought—foolishly, tragically—that you could sneak out of the Bureau without incident. 

You moved quietly, hugged the wall, avoided the main corridor, and congratulated yourself on your stealth. You had nearly made it to the exit when you turned a corner and walked directly into a solid chest.

There was a beat of stillness before you dared to look up.

Floyd was gazing down at you with a steady, unreadable expression that made your entire spine turn to static. Not angry or playful but observant. He was looking at you with unnerving clarity, like he had been waiting for this moment far longer than you wanted to imagine.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet in a way that did not belong to him at all. “Why’re you hidin’ from me?”

Your soul briefly left your body.

You opened your mouth, prepared to lie, but Floyd stepped closer before the words could form. Not touching you—which was odd enough—but simply making it impossible to look anywhere else but at him.

“You been guidin’ everybody but me,” he said, tilting his head with a frown that wasn’t angry so much as disappointed. “And you take off real fast when I walk into a room. Thought we were good.”

Your heart thudded loudly enough to echo in your ribs.

“I’m not hiding,” you said, even though the two of you both knew that was an insult to honesty as a concept.

He leaned down slightly, the way he always did when he wanted to catch every micro-expression on your face. “Then what’s this supposed to be?”

You considered telling him the truth—that you had developed feelings strong enough to rearrange your brain chemistry and you didn’t trust yourself to stay normal around him. 

But saying that would collapse every mental barrier you had so carefully built, so instead you said something generic about feeling overwhelmed and needing time.

Floyd squinted at you like he could see right through the excuse.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he muttered.

Your pulse stuttered. “I’m not lying.”

Floyd shifted even closer until the distance between you was almost nonexistent, the warmth of him sinking into your skin in a way you absolutely did not need right now. “Then prove it,” he murmured, voice surprisingly steady. “Stop runnin’.”

You swallowed hard, the conflict inside you twisting so sharply it felt like your chest was folding inward. You liked him. Too much. Too intensely. But this was Floyd—unreliable, unpredictable Floyd—and falling for him felt like placing your heart in a washing machine and praying it wouldn’t get shredded.

But you met his eyes anyway.

And he didn’t look unhinged or dangerous or amused. He looked hurt. And that was worse than anything else.

You broke eye contact first.

Floyd turned to leave with that loose, rolling stride of his, like everything in the world drifted around him instead of the other way around. You knew you should let him go, knew this was your chance to retreat and rebuild whatever flimsy composure you had left, but something traitorous inside you fired off before your brain could intervene. 

His name tore out of your mouth in a half-whisper, half-plea that you regretted the exact second it left your lips.

He paused mid-step. Slowly, he looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow lifting in a way that made your breath catch. He didn’t look irritated or smug; he just looked curious, patient in a way Floyd rarely managed. The quietness of his expression made your pulse jump into your throat.

“What is it?” he asked, voice low.

And that was when your brain completely failed you.

You had no plan. No explanation. No thought. You had called him because your instincts rebelled against letting him walk away, and now you were left standing in a hallway with absolutely no script to follow.

You swallowed hard, your palms going clammy. “Nevermind,” you blurted, too quickly, too weakly, like someone trying to undo a text after hitting send. “Forget it, really. Just—go ahead.”

You even added a small shooing motion with your hand that betrayed exactly how panicked you were.

Floyd didn’t leave.

Instead, he turned around fully and started walking back toward you with slow, deliberate steps that carried far more intent than you were ready to handle. 

There was no grin, no teasing glint in his eyes. He looked focused, almost serious, and that expression alone was enough to send your heart into a stumbling freefall. 

You backed up on instinct, trying to regain distance, but the hallway was unforgivingly short and the wall met your shoulder blades far faster than you anticipated.

He didn’t even touch you. His presence alone boxed you in, warm and overwhelming and impossible to ignore. You tried to steady your breathing, tried to look anywhere but his face, but he leaned slightly forward to catch your eyes, searching them with quiet intensity.

“Why’d you call me?” he asked, completely calm.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Your throat tightened. Your vision blurred at the edges. Something deep inside you—something cracked and fragile and held together by too many years of forcing composure—snapped under the pressure. 

You had spent so long being the strong one, the calm one, the Guide who could hold it together when every Esper around you couldn’t. 

But being cornered by someone you cared about, someone you wanted and feared wanting, someone who saw you far too clearly, hit a trigger you hadn’t realized was still raw.

You didn’t gasp or choke or crumble dramatically. Your body simply decided to shut down and let silent tears spill over your cheeks without warning, as if releasing them was a physical reflex instead of an emotional collapse. 

Your breath shuddered, barely audible. Your hands went numb at your sides, your heart thudding like it was trying to escape your chest. You weren’t scared of him. You were scared of what this meant, of how much space he took up inside you, of how little control you had left.

Floyd’s expression shattered instantly.

The intensity vanished. The confidence vanished. Even the usual unrestrained chaos drained out of him. In its place was something soft, startled, and deeply worried—the kind of concern he never bothered showing unless it was pulled from him by force.

He stepped back so fast it was almost a jump, hands raised slightly as if afraid to make anything worse. “Hey, hey, wait—no, don’t cry,” he said, his voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Shrimpy, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

But you weren’t freaking out for the reason he assumed, and the harder you tried to stop the tears, the more your body refused to cooperate. You wiped at your face in silent frustration, shaking your head as if that would help, trying to apologize but unable to form a single coherent word.

Floyd hesitated for a heartbeat—you could see it, the internal war between reaching for you and giving you space—and then he made the gentlest decision you had ever seen him make. He approached slowly, carefully, like you were made of thin glass instead of nerves and exhaustion, and instead of trapping you again, he crouched slightly to make his posture smaller and said, “Look at me, okay?”

It took effort to get your breathing under control. It took even more effort to meet his eyes. But when you did, he softened even further, something warm flickering under the concern. He reached one hand toward you—slow, so slow—and brushed a thumb beneath your eye, catching the tear before it fell any further. His expression twisted painfully at the sight.

He waited until your breathing steadied before carefully slipping an arm behind your back, giving you enough space to refuse if you needed to. When you didn’t pull away, he eased you forward with the kind of care that didn’t match his reputation at all. You let him, too drained to argue and too shaken to deny the comfort. You leaned against him, letting the warmth of his chest anchor you, and he held you like you were something precious instead of something fragile.

“C’mon,” he murmured, voice still uncharacteristically soft. 

You were too overwhelmed to resist when he gently lifted you—not in one of his dramatic, over-the-shoulder scoops, but in a steady, secure embrace—and carried you back toward your office without a single complaint. 

His grip was warm and protective, holding you as if you weren’t a disaster of nerves and repressed emotions but someone he deeply wanted to keep safe.

And that was the moment you knew, beyond denial, beyond repression, beyond avoidance, that you were absolutely, irreversibly, catastrophically fucked.

Because Floyd Leech, chaotic menace and unpredictable nightmare, had just handled you with more gentleness than anyone else had in years.

And your heart didn’t stand a chance.

You took one more sick day. You spent the entire morning wrapped up in blankets, staring at your ceiling as if it held the secrets of the universe, trying very hard not to think about the way Floyd had carried you like something that mattered, or the way he had crouched in front of you with genuine worry instead of the usual chaos, or the way your chest had clenched so painfully when he backed away the second he realized you were overwhelmed. 

By the time the sun started rising again, you had reached two very clear, very terrible conclusions that stuck to your ribs like emotional glue.

The first truth was simple. 

It was the kind of truth you couldn’t pretend was anything else. You loved Floyd. You loved him in a way that made your stomach twist and your chest ache and your thoughts drift back to him at every impossible moment. 

You loved him in that quiet, hopeless way Guides learned to fear, because love made Espers complicated, and complicated Espers were dangerous. 

You loved him, and the knowledge settled in your bones with a kind of trembling certainty you couldn’t push away anymore.

The second truth hurt even more. You could not keep going as a Guide, not like this, not with your heart tangled around a person who could shred your emotional stability just by existing near you. 

Your crashout had taken more from you than you wanted to admit. You had been pushing yourself back into the field, back into the pressure, back into the responsibility, but walking around with your heart in your throat every time Floyd looked at you was not sustainable. 

Loving him felt like standing too close to a storm, and you couldn’t let yourself break again. 

By the time the next morning rolled around, you had written your resignation letter with the calm determination of a person walking themselves into their own funeral. 

The words felt wrong on the page, too final, too heavy, but you didn’t stop. You printed it out, folded it neatly, and placed it in an envelope as though that would make the decision hurt any less. It didn’t.

Administration was on the third floor, and you walked toward it with slow, steady steps, breathing evenly, telling yourself this was the right thing. 

As you approached the hallway, you saw a familiar tall figure ahead. Floyd was leaning against the wall, bored, restless, swinging his foot like he was waiting for trouble to appear so he could poke it. The moment he spotted you, his eyes brightened with recognition, and he started pushing himself off the wall to stride toward you.

Your heart lurched painfully, so you lifted a hand quickly and gestured for him to wait.

He froze mid-step, his excitement flickering into irritation. His brows knit together in a frown you knew too well, the kind that meant he wanted answers but was willing to hold himself in place for a moment. 

He dropped back into a nearby chair with a dramatic exhale, legs sprawled, arms crossed, his foot tapping impatiently on the floor while he watched you walk into Administration as if you were personally offending him by going somewhere without him.

Inside, the Bureau tried everything to keep you. They pointed out your rank, your experience, your value. They reminded you that SS Guides were rare and that the Bureau depended on people like you, especially with how unhinged the Esper population had become. 

They told you that stability could be re-learned, that your crashout wasn’t the end, that you still had so much to offer. But you calmly explained—because you had made peace with losing something important—that you were too unstable, too emotionally compromised, too close to breaking again in a way that could hurt people.

They listened. You could tell they hated it. But they listened.

And eventually, they accepted your resignation.

When you stepped back into the hallway, the envelope had been replaced by a strange, hollow ache in your chest. 

Floyd was still sitting there, exactly where you left him, his legs stretched out, his eyes fixed on you with a simmering impatience that made your throat tighten. 

You gestured gently for him to come closer, and he pushed himself up with a small roll of his shoulders, walking toward you with slow, deliberate steps that felt far too heavy for someone usually so fluid.

You didn’t trust your voice at first. When it finally came out, it was quiet. “Walk me out?”

He frowned again, confused, but he accepted your hand the moment you offered it, his fingers curling around yours with a warmth that nearly unmade you. 

He didn’t ask questions as you walked through the Bureau slowly, passing coworkers who gave you concerned looks you pretended not to see. Floyd stayed close, his presence familiar and dangerous, his steps perfectly matched to yours as if this were something the two of you had always done.

He didn’t speak until you reached the parking lot, your car waiting exactly where you left it.

Only then did you draw in a shaky breath and force the words out. “I’m done.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“This,” you whispered. “The Bureau. Guiding. All of it.”

You watched the shift happen in real time. Confusion first, sharp and clear on his face. Then something hotter—anger like a spark catching dry brush. 

Then something far worse: hurt blooming across his expression in a way that made your throat burn. He stared at you with this raw, open look, as if trying to piece together a puzzle he wasn’t allowed to touch.

“Why?” he asked, voice low and frayed around the edges.

You couldn’t answer. Not without telling him the real reason. Not without confessing everything you had spent weeks trying to bury. So you just shook your head, trying to breathe through the ache.

Floyd’s jaw tightened. He inhaled sharply, then exhaled through his teeth, the sound strained and unsteady. And then—without a word, without a dramatic outburst, without even one of his usual sharp comments—he turned around and walked away.

He didn’t look back.

And that broke you more than anything else.

Because that was the moment you understood what he had decided. If you weren’t a Guide anymore—if you weren’t his Guide—then you weren’t interesting to him anymore. That’s what you told yourself, anyway. That’s what your heart believed, even if something in his shoulders had looked too stiff, too brittle, too wounded for it to be true.

You got into your car with shaking hands.

You sat there as the door clicked shut.

And when the weight of everything finally became too heavy to swallow, you broke quietly. The tears fell far too easily, pooling hotly at the corners of your eyes before slipping down your cheeks in exhausted silence.

You pressed your forehead against the steering wheel, trying to breathe, trying not to crumble, trying not to regret the resignation sitting in someone’s box upstairs.

Only you and the little plush cat sitting in your passenger seat—the one Floyd had stolen for you during a Gate event because it reminded him of you for some reason he refused to explain—knew how much you cried.

And the worst part was that the plush stared back at you with its unblinking stitched eyes, far too judgmental for something so soft.

You woke up the next morning with the emotional stability of a soggy napkin. You tried to pretend you were fine, but the universe, as always, had other plans. Because just as you were thinking “maybe I should open a bakery or disappear,” someone began absolutely annihilating your front door.

The banging was so violent that for a terrible moment you wondered if a Gate had spawned in your hallway. You considered letting whoever it was break the door completely so you could claim the damages on your renter’s insurance. 

But unfortunately, you were alive, conscious, and too curious for your own good, so you dragged yourself to the door and opened it mid-bang.

Floyd stood there like a vengeful seagull holding a cardboard box he had definitely stolen from somewhere. His hair was a mess, his shirt was half buttoned wrong, and he had the of a man who had been stewing in righteous fury for at least a day.

Before you could say hello, good morning, or “why does your aura feel like a malfunctioning blender,” he shouldered past you into your apartment with such force that you spun a little in place like a confused NPC.

The first words out of his mouth were:

“Your apartment is tiny and I hate it.”

No greeting. No preamble. Just that raw, unfiltered critique of your living conditions as he walked in like he was conducting a surprise inspection.

You blinked blearily. “Good morning?”

He ignored the concept of mornings entirely and dumped the box into your arms like a disgruntled postal employee. 

The box was heavy, and when you opened it a crack, you saw a horrifying assortment of Floyd’s personal office items: the jacket he threw at interns when bored, a handful of pens he stole from HR, a stress ball shaped like a goldfish, three mission reports with dubious stains, and the shark plush he once used as a projectile during a meeting.

You stared into the box, then up at him. “Why do I have your… everything?”

He scoffed in a single huffy exhale that sounded like a cat preparing to fight its own reflection. “Because ya suck.”

Your eyelid twitched. “Okay. And?”

He gestured wildly at you like you were failing a math class you hadn’t even signed up for.  “You shoulda warned me if we were quittin’ together.”

You stared. “We—wait—both?”

He kept going, leaning closer until there was barely any space left between you, his voice lower now but not gentler, still sharp with the edge of hurt he clearly didn’t want you to see. “You’re mine,” he snapped, not in a possessive way, but in the bewildered tone of someone who had made a decision weeks ago and was confused why you hadn’t reached the same conclusion. “So how can we not quit together? Or stay together? Why would you leave me behind? What part of this is confusin’ ya?”

“The entire thing,” you said honestly, holding the box like you were cradling a bomb.

He made a noise of frustration so dramatic it could have won a theatre award. “Why would I go to work if you’re not there? I’m not gonna sit in the office alone like some boring loser while you pretend to move on with your life. That’s stupid. I’m not stupid. You’re stupid.”

You were now too tired to be offended. “Floyd… you can’t just quit the Bureau because I quit.”

He blinked at you like you had just told him water was wet. “‘Course I can.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It's exactly how it works,” he said, stepping closer like proximity would destroy your argument through sheer force of personality. “You’re mine. So we’re in this together. How’d ya not figure this out? Have you not been paying attention?”

You made a horrible, broken laugh that escaped your chest before you could stop it. The kind of laugh that said “my brain is burning” mixed with “this man is ruining my life.” “Pay attention to what exactly?” you asked, voice cracking in disbelief.

He rolled his eyes so hard you could practically hear them rotate. “To me. Duh.”

And then you finally broke in a “my last functioning neuron has snapped and I am now operating on pure emotional instinct” way.

Because without thinking or considering even one consequence, you reached up, grabbed his face with one hand, and kissed him like you were trying to short-circuit both your futures.

Floyd froze for exactly one millisecond, the sheer shock visible on his face, and then he made a low, delighted noise that absolutely should not have made your spine do that Thing. 

He grabbed your waist with both hands and dipped you so strongly that the box of stolen office supplies launched itself out of your other hand, hit the floor, burst open, and scattered Bureau property all over your rug.

He kissed you back with aggressive enthusiasm, tilting your chin, pulling you closer, and acting like this was the best morning activity he’d ever been gifted. At one point he pressed you so tightly against him that you wondered if he was trying to absorb you like a chaotic emotional sponge.

When he finally pulled away slightly—just enough to look at you, his forehead almost touching yours—he gave you a grin so smug, so unbearably pleased, that you nearly slapped it off his face.

“Knew you were mine,” he murmured. “You’re just slow.”

You dropped your forehead against his chest because your legs felt entirely unreliable.

You were doomed.

Comically doomed.

Astrologically doomed.

Emotionally doomed in six flavors.

And you loved him anyway.

Floyd had always thought being an Esper was the perfect gig. You get to punch monsters, throw yourself into glowing portals, and legally commit violence without anyone giving you a lecture about “ethics” or “property damage.” 

For a while, that alone sustained him. But eventually even chaos gets boring, especially when every Guide assigned to him trembled like a leaf trapped in a wind tunnel. Scaring them used to be hilarious. He loved watching them squeak and drop their clipboards whenever he smiled too wide. 

But after the fifteenth one fainted mid-sentence, even he lost interest. Predictability was a disease, and he was allergic to boredom.

Then you showed up.

You walked in acting like the Bureau hadn’t personally attacked your soul every day since birth. You held your clipboard like it was emotional support, you breathed like a person silently negotiating with god, and your eyes had the frantic, neurotic panic of a raccoon trapped inside a fridge. Floyd took one look at your “I’m trying so hard to function normally” energy and immediately felt nourished. Finally, someone with seasoning.

The universe must have agreed, because not long after, it launched him out of a Gate like a missile someone forgot to aim. He soared through the air, limbs flailing with the grace of a disgruntled albatross, and crash-landed straight into you. 

You weren’t even doing anything. You were just standing there like an innocent item on a grocery shelf, and he barreled into you like a shopping cart possessed by demons. But Floyd forever remembered it as “you heroically caught him,” and no amount of eyewitness correction would change that.

Before he could say anything, you touched him and instinctively guided him, and that tiny flicker of stability hit him like someone had thrown a warm blanket over his brain. Floyd made a noise that would haunt weaker Guides.

It was the sound of a man experiencing emotional stability for the first and last time in his life.

He melted on the spot. It was embarrassing. It also felt great. So when you kept guiding him afterwards, voluntarily and without the Bureau forcing you at clipboard-point, Floyd officially decided you were his new favorite thing.

Naturally, right when he was getting ready to poke at you more—see what made you twitch, what made you huff, what made your carefully neutral expression fall apart—you crashed out. You crashed like your mental health saw a cliff and said “bet.” 

It was dramatic, Bureau-alarming, paperwork-generating. They yanked you away and slapped you into a full-year paid vacation like you were a ticking bomb made of feelings. Floyd hated it. The world lost color. Missions felt like static.  Floyd found this whole situation deeply inconvenient. 

Without you, missions were boring again. Monsters were boring. His coworkers were boring. Even bullying rookies felt like eating cereal without milk. He wandered the halls like a neglected housecat whose favorite human had gone on holiday. 

Jade kept trying to talk to him about “processing emotions,” which was rich coming from a man whose emotional range went from “smiling politely” to “smiling ominously.”

Then one day you came back. You walked into headquarters looking like you had fought god and lost, but you were still you, and that was enough.

And Floyd decided instantly that you were going to be his Guide forever. Who cared that you were SS-ranked and he was B-ranked? 

Rank differences? Fake. 

Bureau rules? Fake. 

The concept of professional boundaries? Fictional. 

But your guiding was not fake. And he wanted it forever. Touching you felt good in a way he refused to analyze, so obviously he needed more of it.

Then he went into another Gate. A strong one this time, too strong for his rank—but Floyd loved ignoring rank restrictions, so he charged in happily. Some ugly creature managed to scratch him, and Floyd got so offended that he almost marched right back inside to beat it into soup. 

But before he could exact revenge, you appeared from behind a trashcan, dragged him bodily to a bench like he weighed nothing, and guided him until he shut up completely. 

He pretended to be annoyed but secretly enjoyed every second of you fussing over him, especially the part where he got to lean on you with zero shame.

Later, Jade mentioned something about a bunch of Guides getting trapped in a farmers market Gate because they were shopping instead of being smart. Floyd’s first instinct was to cackle loudly and call them all idiots. 

But then he had another thought, a horrible intrusive one: “Shrimpy would absolutely get trapped in a farmers market.” 

So he grabbed his phone and sent you a message pretending he was checking for the purposes of mockery.

In reality, he typed “don’t tell me ur one of the losers who got trapped in the farmer’s market gate” and hovered his thumb over send for longer than he would ever admit.

When you replied that you were safe and not stuck in some overpriced vegetable carnival, Floyd felt his shoulders drop, not that he was going to acknowledge that sensation out loud. His brain went, “oh thank fuck,” but his mouth said, “lol losers.”

It was at that moment that Floyd—though he would rather chew gravel than tell you directly—realized you had become his comfort human. His stabilizer. His favorite emotional toy. His certified interesting thing.

And he wasn’t planning to let anyone else have you.

Not then.

Not ever.

Even if he had to steal you directly from the Bureau.

Which was also why Floyd ended up at the compatibility event—a hellscape he had vowed never to set foot in unless bribed with prizes or explosives. But you asked him so he came. 

Did he admit that he went because of you? Absolutely not. Did he glare at everyone in the room like they were personally insulting his outfit? Yes.

Then he saw you standing next to another Esper and he short-circuited.

His entire brain became one long dial-up noise.

You were standing next to someone who had the nerve—the audacity—the GALL—to breathe near you like you were an available romance option in a dating sim. 

Floyd’s eye twitched with enough force to cause seismic damage. He considered removing the man from the timeline entirely. But he pretended he was okay, and approached you with the same smug grin you were used to. 

But then you immediately abandoned the other guy like he was expired yogurt. You walked straight to Floyd, grabbed him by the wrist, dragged him to the coordinator, and declared compatibility with him. Floyd didn’t even have to gloat. He just felt the warm, smug glow of the universe aligning itself correctly for once.

From that point on, you were his. Permanently. The compatibility event had spoken, and Floyd didn’t question fate when it benefitted him.

Naturally, he decided that since you were his, you should know things about him. And since he didn’t trust your coworkers not to interfere, he followed you into the Bureau’s ancient elevator—a relic older than the invention of the wheel. It immediately broke down, trapping you both inside with flickering lights and the faint smell of existential failure.

Floyd, delighted by the ambiance, pulled out a quiz he had prepared on stolen paperwork. You, deeply exhausted and emotionally vulnerable, made the mistake of indulging him. 

You answered every single question—favorite snacks, death count estimates, hypothetical fusion body-part control—without hesitation. And somewhere in the middle of “how many monsters do you think I’ve bit?” Floyd realized a horrifying fact:

You had been watching him too. 

He pretended he wasn’t thrilled. But his internal emotional raccoon was screaming.

Then came the massive Gate.

It was the kind of Gate that would make rookies cry and senior Espers file their wills. Floyd went in excitedly and came out annoyed because something hit him hard enough to bruise his ego.

He also remembered tye previous day, where Jade’s Esper—the SSS-ranked monster with enough power to shatter a city block—staggered out of the Gate looking half-dead. And Jade, who never made expressive faces unless he was about to ruin someone’s day, suddenly looked terrified.

Floyd had nearly vomited.

He had hated how it made him feel. Because he wanted someone to look at him like that.

Specifically: you.

So he refused every attempt at treatment, shoved the medics, threatened the healers, hissed at a rookie, and limped all the way back to headquarters like a wounded raccoon committed to revenge.

He went straight to your office.

You were passed out like a dead NPC.

He shook you awake because subtlety was for cowards.

And the second you opened your eyes and saw blood on him, your entire face shattered into fear, affection, and something dangerously close to heartbreak. All of it laid out for him to see.

He drank it in like water.

He didn’t want to answer your questions. He didn’t want to explain what happened. He just wanted you to touch him, guide him, hold him until the buzzing in his chest settled. And when you did—when you dropped every concern and simply focused on getting him to breathe properly again— Floyd knew exactly what that meant.

You cared.

You really cared.

And that was enough for him.

In that moment, as your hands steadied him and your voice softened around the edges, Floyd decided with absolute certainty that he didn’t need compatibility tests or Bureau approval or logic.

You were his.

And now that he’d seen your face look like that because of him, nothing was ever going to change his mind.

Floyd had always known you carried panic in your bones. It was part of your charm. Even before your crashout he could feel that buzzing tension sitting under your skin like a fire alarm only you could hear.

But the new habit you’d developed—slipping through rooms like you were avoiding debt collectors—that was different. He watched you dip behind pillars, vanish behind interns, and once even use a spinning mail cart as cover. 

At first he let it slide. Guides sometimes needed space. He figured you’d come back around once your brain stopped sizzling.

Except you didn’t.

Five days passed. Then a sixth. And Floyd started to feel that crackle under his ribs that only showed up when something important was getting away from him. 

So the next time he caught you trying to escape a hallway by flattening yourself against the wall like a distressed gecko, he stepped directly into your path and asked what your deal was.

You tossed out a half-answer that didn’t even qualify as a real sentence. He stared. You tried to slip past. His eye twitched. He turned on his heel and walked off, visibly annoyed enough that anyone with survival instincts would have let him go.

But then you called out his name. Soft. Uncertain. Like you weren’t sure you wanted him to hear it.

He stopped and looked back. That tiny sliver of hope flickered—and then you told him “never mind.”

Something in him snapped sideways.

He moved back toward you without thinking, walking you backwards until your shoulder blades touched the wall. You weren’t trapped by force; you were trapped by confusion and the fact that Floyd was extremely tall and extremely unwilling to drop the question.

He expected you to push back or complain or finally spit the truth out, but instead your breathing went thin and sharp and your eyes glazed over with that look Guides get when the world has worn them down to raw wire. 

You didn’t break loudly. Instead, you broke inward, silent tears sliding down your face, your whole posture folding in on itself. It wasn’t dramatic or manipulative. It was the kind of collapse that comes from long-term damage.

And Floyd hated it instantly.

Not because you were crying—though that made something uncomfortable twist through him—but because you looked defenseless, and he could not stand seeing you crushed like that. 

He stepped back immediately, hands up, giving you more space than anyone would’ve expected from him. The wild part of his energy dimmed, replaced by something careful and strangely gentle.

He scooped you up only when you’d gone so still he wasn’t sure you could walk. The way you leaned into him without resisting struck him harder than the Gate monster that bruised three of his ribs last month. 

He carried you back to your office with quiet steps, as if noise might shatter you further, and waited nearby until your breathing evened out again.

While you collected yourself, he did some collecting too—mostly ideas, none of which would pass any psychological test. 

Leaving the Bureau together. Wandering. Causing problems in places with no paperwork. You at his side where he could keep track of you. You far away from the things that drained you. You alive, not hollow. And maybe him biting whoever tried to drag you back into danger.

It made sense in his head.

Then the next day he found out you’d resigned.

No warning. No message. No “hey Floyd, I’m about to wreck your entire worldview, heads up.” Just… gone.

And he felt something heavy sink into him, not the usual tantrum-madness but something quieter and sharper. You were supposed to tell him things like that. He kept track of you. You were supposed to keep track of him. That was how this worked in his brain.

Betrayal wasn’t a feeling he had often, but this hit like a truck. You were his. His Guide. His person. His shiny thing. His emotional enrichment object. And you left without even warning him?

He quit on the spot after you left. Poorly. Very poorly. 

Administration tried to ask for justification, and he absolutely threatened to give them one. In blood. 

They stamped the papers and sent him out.

He spent the night gathering his things—mostly stolen items, half-finished snacks, doodles on official forms, a plush he liked throwing at rookies—and shoved them all in a box. 

Do you know how many things he steals in a week? Too many to pack alone.

Then he went to your apartment the next morning, because stewing alone was not one of his skills.

He banged on your door like he was trying to knock the building down. When you opened it, he barreled inside, declared your apartment too small for someone as interesting as you, and handed you his resignation-box because he fully expected you to react. 

He wanted a confrontation. An explanation. Something. 

He demanded to know why you didn’t warn him. You sputtered. He ranted. You blinked at him like a confused kitten. He insulted your apartment size. You apologized for reasons unclear.

You looked overwhelmed—which was not the satisfying reaction he’d come for—and he found himself snapping before he could stop it, asking why you thought you could run off without him following.

You tried to answer, but your confusion was so… you that it knocked the anger right out of him. He just stared at you, half annoyed, half relieved you weren’t hurt, fully annoyed again that you had made him pack things alone.

Then you reached for him and kissed him like your brain finally lined up with his.

He felt your whole body lean into the kiss, and something inside him slid into place with ridiculous ease. He dipped you because it felt right. You clung to him because it felt right. Your thoughts finally matched his because it was about time.

You didn’t need to say it out loud. Floyd already knew.

Finally.

Finally you got with the program.

You’re a little slow on the uptake, but that’s okay.

He likes you that way.

You don’t go back to the Bureau.

Floyd doesn’t either.

Between the two of you, there’s enough savings from years of guiding and monster-punching to coast for a long while, maybe forever if neither of you develop a sudden taste for yachts or solid gold kitchen appliances. 

There’s no supervisor tracking your hours anymore. No Gates pulling you in at dawn. No panicked rookies clinging to clipboards. No compatibility tests waiting to ambush you in the hallway.

Just Floyd. And you. And the entire world outside the Bureau’s walls.

It’s a strange sort of freedom—one that still makes your stomach flip like you’ve forgotten an assignment. But Floyd seems immune to that particular anxiety. 

He takes the idea of wandering as easily as he takes everything else in life: no planning, no hesitation, just enthusiasm that occasionally terrifies you but always pulls you forward.

Your stamina doesn’t match his. It never has. Floyd can walk for hours without slowing down, hopping over rocks and obstacles like the world is one long playground built specifically for him. 

You get tired after a while, sometimes earlier than you want to admit. You try to hide it once or twice. It never works.

He never lets you fall behind.

If you lag, he loops back immediately, grabbing your hand or your backpack strap or your shirt sleeve like he’s reeling you in. 

If you sit down, he plops down with you, even if he was mid-rant about how boring the path was or how he wanted to walk all the way to the next city before sunset. 

If you sigh too heavily, he mutters something about Guides having fragile little bodies and scoops you up onto his back like it’s a requirement.

He complains sometimes, but it never means what it sounds like.

“Shrimpy, you walk so slow.”

“You’re tired already? I’m barely warmed up.”

“You can’t keep up with me at all.”

But his hands keep steady on you. His steps remain paced to match yours. Every time he talks, you can hear the affection threaded into the irritation like it can’t help leaking out.

And at the end of every day—no matter where you are, no matter how long you’ve walked—the two of you settle down somewhere quiet. 

Sometimes it’s a cheap inn with creaky floors. Sometimes it’s a tiny rented room with mismatched blankets. Sometimes it’s a beach, or a hillside, or under a tree that looks like it’s seen too many seasons.

He always pulls you against his chest when you lie down.

It's never done half-heartedly, it's always wiith the full-body insistence of someone who believes proximity is a basic human need. His legs tangle with yours. His arm wraps around your middle. His chin rests in your hair or on your shoulder, depending on how he’s feeling. 

He falls asleep like that—holding you like the world can’t take you away if he keeps a firm enough grip.

And you always relax.

For the first time in years, there are no Gates waiting to snap open or explosions of psychic energy or  psychic static crawling under your skin.

And most importantly, there's no fear of losing someone in a fight you weren’t even present for.

It's just you and Floyd’s heartbeat under your ear which is stubborn proof that he’s here and staying here.

And in that wide, quiet moment—pressed against him with his arm heavy and protective around your ribs—you feel a peace so complete it startles you. A peace you never thought your body would know how to feel.

Because he’s not going anywhere.

And you’re not losing him.

You close your eyes, and the last thing you hear is Floyd mumbling something half-asleep and smug, something about how he told you you’d be happier like this.

He’s right.

Of course he is.

You fall asleep smiling.

Masterlist ; Series Masterlist

[solxamber]

Workplace Hazards: Romance || Idia Shroud

You're a feral SS-class Esper with no off switch. He's an anxious shut-in SS-class Guide just trying to game in peace. Through lies, HR nightmares, dramatic near-deaths, and one candy ring proposal, you accidentally become soulmates. Government benefits may or may not be involved.

Series Masterlist

Life, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to take a sharp left turn off the highway of normalcy and drive screaming into the wormhole of cosmic horror.

One day you’re just a person trying to buy goat milk, and the next, the sky rips open like a microwaved burrito, belching out monsters that look like someone tried to 3D print your worst nightmare with a spaghetti code of malice and slime. Scientists call them "Gate manifestations." Everyone else calls them "oh no no no NO—"

But humanity, being the scrappy little infestation it is, adapted. Not by solving the actual problem (of course not, that would require shutting up billionaires and redirecting global funds from "missile measuring contests"), but by evolving. Or rather, mutating—suddenly a percentage of the population started exhibiting terrifying, physics-optional powers. 

These people are called Espers—a sanitized title that really just means "Congratulations! You are now licensed to punch interdimensional horrors in the face and traumatize yourself in the process."

Now, if the Espers were just laser-wielding sad little soldiers, that would be one thing. But no, their powers came with a side effect: unmanageable psychic noise. Think psychic radiation plus the emotional intensity of a sleep-deprived theatre kid on their third espresso shot. 

This is where Guides came in. Not to lead anyone (the name is misleading, like “boneless chicken wings” in Ohio), but to stabilize Espers before they exploded into a Category Five Meltdown and leveled half a city block because someone forgot to restock the vending machine.

Guides don’t just talk you down—they shove their psychic aura into your brain like a weighted blanket made of competence and condescension. They are therapists, emotional janitors, and living surge protectors. Some are kind. Some are terrifying. Some, unfortunately, are hot.

So now the world runs on a system: gates appear, Espers go in and fight, Guides catch them when they fall out twitching and covered in monster goo. Rinse. Repeat. Cry. Go to therapy if you’re lucky. Take a nap if you’re not. Don’t die. (Please. HR paperwork is a nightmare.)

And if you’re very unlucky—like catastrophically, cosmically doomed—you fall in love with your Guide.

But that’s not your fault. That’s life now, baby.

You’re an Esper. A good one, actually. Or you were. You were ranked S-Class and living the dream: minimum paperwork, maximum destruction, and you had a Guide who made you drink tea and pretend your trauma was a garden to be tended. You even humored him and tried to visualize your “inner zen koi pond” until the koi started screaming back. Good times.

But then came The Incident.

Now, to be fair, the gate had looked normal. It wasn’t your fault it turned out to be a Class Alpha Instability Spiral—whatever the hell that means; you don't read the reports, you're just the explosion part of the team.

It also wasn’t your fault the emotional stress made you unlock a new tier of Esper abilities mid-battle. And it definitely wasn’t your fault that you accidentally bent the laws of physics so hard that five square kilometers of space-time decided to just... sit this one out.

But sure, blame the walking psychic warhead. Classic.

Congratulations! You're now SS-Class. The extra “S” stands for “Somebody please help.” Your previous Guide has politely resigned, citing “irreconcilable sanity differences.” HR gave you a pamphlet called So You’ve Accidentally Become a Government Weapon, and you were told your new classification required a compatibility reassignment.

Soul-sorting algorithms that spat out exactly one name. One room number. One very troubling lack of further details. Because while every other high-ranking Guide had reviews, commentary, threat assessments—your new match had... whispers.

"Doesn't take anyone."

"Turned down a whole squad of Espers."

So naturally, you knocked on the door.

Then knocked again.

And on the third knock, after contemplating whether this was some elaborate prank designed to push you into spontaneous combustion, you heard it: a whispered, "Come in," like the voice of someone who’d been emotionally concussed by mere social interaction.

The office was dark. Not ominous-dark, more... someone-didn’t-want-to-pay-the-electric-bill dark. The curtains were drawn. The monitor light was the only glow in the room, and behind it was a figure so slouched, so cocooned in hoodie and existential dread, you almost mistook him for a sentient couch cushion.

Idia Shroud.

SS-Class Guide. The Anti-Social Sorcerer. The Mothman of Mental Stability.

He looked up at you like you were the ghost of an unpaid internship and visibly recoiled.

"Hi," you said, very brightly, like this wasn’t clearly a mistake and the man before you hadn’t just contemplated leaping through the window to escape human contact.

He blinked. Slowly. "You're the SS?"

“Apparently,” you replied, sitting down calmly and very much not vibrating with barely-leashed doom energy. You folded your hands in your lap like someone who hadn’t just melted part of the training center during compatibility testing. “And you're going to be my Guide.”

That clearly short-circuited something in his brain because he made a strangled wheeze that sounded like a laptop dying.

So, obviously, the next logical step was pretending to be emotionally stable.

“Yes, I’ve been told I have excellent boundaries,” you said, lying through your teeth. “I meditate. I go to therapy. I drink water.”

Your nose might have twitched at the last one. Idia squinted.

“I’ve... seen your incident reports.”

Ah. Well. Time to double down.

“And yet,” you said, flashing a smile that could win awards for Most Suspicious Aura, “the test matched us. Fate, right?”

Idia looked at you like fate had personally wronged him.

You maintained eye contact. Calm. Cool. Collected. Just another emotionally well-regulated citizen of the world, absolutely not about to snap and launch a fireball into a vending machine if it ate your coins again.

And to your surprise, after a long, tense silence and a muttered line that sounded suspiciously like, “If I ignore it, maybe it'll leave,” he didn’t kick you out.

He just sighed. Opened a drawer. Pulled out your file like it physically hurt him.

And so it began.

You and the man who looked like a sleep-deprived curse word.

Esper and Guide.

Chaos and more chaos. 

Willing participant and deeply unwilling participant.

Honestly, this was going to go great.

Idia sits next to you like someone forced him into a live-action horror movie adaptation of his worst social nightmares. He perches at the very edge of the couch, knees turned sharply away from you, shoulders hunched like he’s expecting to spontaneously combust just from proximity. He’s sweating. Actively. You can hear it.

He doesn't look at you—doesn’t dare to. Eye contact might trigger some kind of emotional subroutine he’s buried under six years of anime quotes and avoidance. So instead, he glares at the floor like it owes him money and says in the driest, most pained voice you've ever heard:

“…I’m going to initiate touch now.”

You blink. “Cool. I won’t bite.”

“Statistically, there’s still a 17% chance.”

Before you can ask how he got that number, he reaches over—very gingerly—and clasps your hand like it’s a ticking time bomb. It’s the least affectionate, most clinical hand-hold imaginable. And yet—

Your brain goes silent. Completely. All the psychic noise, the static, the ghost of that one Gate entity that’s been whispering “eat drywall” for three weeks straight—gone. You breathe out, deeply, for what feels like the first time in months.

“Oh,” you say, blinking slowly. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”

Meanwhile, Idia has gone stiff as a corpse. He looks at you, then at your hand, then back at you like you’ve just transformed into a philosophical dilemma.

“How are you alive?” he asks, genuinely horrified. “You’re… you’re an unstable esper. Your baseline resonance is like an overcooked spaghetti noodle wrapped around a hand grenade. You should be fried. You should be paste. What the hell have you been doing for guidance?”

You shrug. “My last guide made me listen to podcasts. And sometimes put a warm towel on my neck.”

Idia just stares at you in disbelief. “A warm towel?! A warm towel?! That’s like trying to fight a house fire with herbal tea!”

You grin at him, relaxed in a way you haven’t been since your promotion. “Hey. I’m adaptable.”

Then you wink.

He jerks his hand back like you just slapped him with a legally binding marriage proposal. “Okay, what does that mean?! Are you flirting? Threatening me? Both?!”

You stretch luxuriously on his couch, now absolutely high on the absence of psychic distress.  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Guide boy?”

He looks at you like he’s re-evaluating every decision that led him to this moment—including being born.

You close your eyes, content, while Idia frantically Googles “how to tell if your newly assigned Esper is insane.”

You don’t need to see him to know he’s panicking.

But you feel better than you have in weeks.

You exit the Gate with all the dignity of a baby deer on roller skates. Technically alive, mostly upright, and riding the high of “I didn’t die today” like it’s a stimulant. There’s smoke rising from your gloves, your hair’s doing a very bold interpretation of ‘windblown,’ and you’re about three seconds from either vomiting or adopting nihilism as a full-time lifestyle.

And then—you spot him.

Your Guide.

Idia Shroud.

He’s lurking in the far corner of the clearing, half-shielded by a vending machine and what looks like pure, unfiltered spite. His hood’s up, his glowstick hair is practically vibrating, and he’s watching the post-Gate Espers like a cornered Victorian orphan who’s about to throw hands over the last piece of bread.

One comes within five feet of him and he physically recoils, clutching his comms tablet like it’s a crucifix. You're ninety percent sure he hissed.

So naturally, you make a beeline for him.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” you chirp, still crackling with energy like a downed power line.

He jolts like you just poured emotional commitment down his spine.

“Oh my GOD,” he mutters, dragging you by the sleeve like you’re radioactive (which, in fairness, you might be). “What took you so long?! I was standing here surrounded by—by unregulated feelings and eye contact and—oh my god, one of them tried to hug me.”

You let him pull you behind a barrier, where he sits you down with the dramatic flair of someone absolutely done with his entire existence. He doesn’t even wait—just snatches your hand and starts stabilizing you like he’s diffusing a bomb, holding on like letting go might summon the apocalypse.

Instant, blessed silence.

Your brain, which had been screaming like a dial-up modem on fire, goes quiet. Your chest unknots. You remember that oxygen exists and taking it in is actually encouraged. You sigh, blissed out, while Idia makes a face like he just stuck his hand in radioactive soup.

“I know it was, like, a gate collapse or whatever,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the skyline like he’s begging some higher power for patience. “But maybe next time don’t take so long to get out? You were in there for seventy minutes. I counted. Every second was emotionally damaging.”

You grin, eyes still hazy. “Aw. You missed me.”

“I panicked,” he snaps. “There’s a difference. I had a backup plan. It was called ‘run.’”

You lean toward him with a smug little hum. “You care.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately, voice cracking like a damaged violin string. “I just don’t want you getting so emotionally unhinged you come back here all weepy and soulbond-seeking and—” he gestures vaguely. “Clingy.”

“I’m not clingy,” you say, still not letting go of his hand.

“You’re currently latched onto me like a trauma koala,” he deadpans.

You wink. “So you do care.”

Idia looks at you like he’s actively calculating how many regulations he can violate before someone notices. His expression lands somewhere between “why me” and “I should’ve become a dental assistant.”

But he doesn’t let go.

In fact, he shifts slightly so you can lean against him more comfortably. Not that he says anything about it. No. That would imply emotional maturity and gross things like “communication.”

Instead, he mutters, “You smell like space lightning and poor decisions.”

You beam at him. “Thanks. It’s my natural musk.”

And despite everything—despite the chaos, the imminent paperwork, and the looming threat of another Esper trying to trauma-bond with him—Idia doesn’t move away.

You’d like to think it’s because of your immense charm.

He’ll tell himself it’s just because it’s the most efficient way to keep you from frying your nervous system.

But deep down—deep down—he’s already doomed, and you both know it.

Congratulations. You’ve adopted a reclusive Guide with the emotional range of a scared wet cat.

And he cares.

Desperately.

You were having a very productive day doing absolutely nothing.

Flat on your bed, hoodie pulled over your face, limbs at the exact angle of maximum immobility, you were experiencing true stillness. The kind of stillness monks meditate decades to achieve. You hadn’t moved in hours. If someone were to enter your apartment right now, they’d probably mistake you for a corpse, but with worse fashion sense.

And then your phone rang.

You ignored it. Of course you did. Whoever it was could wait. You were on a spiritual journey to become one with your mattress. But it rang again. And again. And then came the messages. Ping. Ping. Pingpingpingping—

With the groan of someone who’s known true peace and been dragged back to hell, you reached for the phone.

[Guidia]: B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. He's monologuing. [Guidia]: SOS. EMERGENCY. COME NOW. I’M NOT KIDDING.  [Guidia]: HE'S OUTSIDE MY OFFICE. HE HAS A CLIPBOARD.  [Guidia]: I’M HIDING BEHIND MY ROLLING CHAIR.  [Guidia]: IF YOU DON’T COME I’M FAKING MY OWN DEATH.

You stared at the messages. Debated pretending you didn’t see them. Debated harder. Lost.

Twenty minutes later, you're standing in front of the office building, internally mourning the loss of your free day and dressed like a walking stress nap with an energy drink in hand. You shuffle into the building, make your way to the guide floor, and as soon as you turn the corner—

There he is.

A junior Esper. Knocking on Idia’s door with the determined rhythm of someone trying to summon either a guide or God himself.

You slow down, then stop completely a few feet away, watching the scene with mild interest and the deadpan curiosity of someone who’s just been pulled out of bed to witness this madness.

He looks fresh out of training. Blue hair perfectly combed, posture painfully upright, shoes that don’t have a single scuff on them. He’s also got that nervous, earnest vibe that screams “will fill out extra paperwork if asked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

He turns, a bit startled, then gives you a hopeful little smile.

“I’m here to meet Guide Shroud,” he says. “I heard he’s an SS-Rank and that he has only one Esper on his schedule, so I came to ask if he’d consider guiding me!”

You blink slowly. “You’re…?”

“B-Class!” he says proudly. “But I’ve been training hard. My instructors say I’ve got potential!”

You resist the urge to say “uh-huh” and pat him on the head. It is bold, you’ll give him that. You’d admire it more if you weren’t already picturing Idia foaming at the mouth behind the door.

Before you can respond, the door opens a crack—and a pale hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, and yanks you inside like you’re being abducted.

The door slams shut behind you. You spin and there’s Idia, crouched behind his desk, wide-eyed and absolutely vibrating with panic.

“WHY is he still out there,” he hisses.

You shrug. “He’s got dreams?”

“I SAW THE CLIPBOARD.”

“What’s on the clipboard, Idia.”

“I DON’T KNOW. GOALS? AMBITIONS? A LIST OF ICEBREAKER QUESTIONS?”

You give him a flat look. “So you dragged me out of bed—on my day off—because a baby Esper wanted to talk to you?”

“Did you SEE him?! He’s wearing a BUTTON-UP. He brought a PEN.”

“And your solution is what? Hide in your office until he dies of old age?”

“YES,” he says, without shame.

You sigh, long and dramatic. “Fiiiine.”

“You’ll get rid of him?”

“Yes.”

“WITHOUT making a mess?”

“No promises.”

You step out of the office, roll your shoulders, and walk up to the junior Esper with your best tired-but-stern government-employee face.

“Hey,” you say. “Guide Shroud can’t take you.”

His face falls. “Oh. Why not?”

“He’s bonded.”

“Oh.” He looks down, disappointed. “Wait—bonded? Like, permanently?”

“Yep.”

“…To who?”

You tilt your head and flash a smile. “Me.”

A beat passes.

“Oh,” he says again, eyes wide. “I—I didn’t know. That’s amazing. Congratulations! You two must have a really powerful connection.”

You nod solemnly. “We do. He definitely doesn’t hide under the desk every time I sneeze.”

“I hope someday I get to experience something like that,” he says, eyes shining.

You pat his shoulder like the elder cryptid you are. “Maybe. But for now, go back to your training. Don’t skip on the cardio. Gates love people who skip cardio.”

He scurries off with a polite bow and a visible resolve to become the best version of himself.

You reenter the office. Idia’s peeking from behind his chair like a horror movie extra.

“Gone?”

“Gone.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’re soul-bonded to me and emotionally unavailable.”

Idia goes still. Then slowly slinks out of hiding and collapses into his chair like a dying star.

“I can’t believe you just lied to a government-registered Esper,” he mutters.

“I can believe I did it to get my day off back.”

“…Fair.”

You yawn, stretch, and head for the door. “Anyway, congrats on our fake bond. I expect fake anniversary gifts.”

“I'm gonna submit a fake complaint to HR.”

“Romantic.”

Idia glares.

You blow him a kiss and leave.

You realize just how feral Espers are for high-grade Guides when one tries to poach yours in broad daylight, in public, with the social grace of a raccoon trying to steal your fries at a bus stop.

You’ve just finished a gate run, which—if you ignore the part where you took on three more phantoms than assigned, broke your regulator, and got launched through a wall—went rather well. Minor details, honestly. 

Idia, however, is not ignoring any of that. He is, in fact, still cataloging your crimes in a tired monotone that suggests he’s preparing a very long, very strongly worded complaint for HR. Possibly engraved on stone tablets.

“You absolute menace,” he mutters, slumped against the wall beside you. “You promised—promised—you wouldn’t go after the untagged ones unless backup arrived, and what did you do? You ran at it. With a stick. A stick.”

“It was a long stick,” you say helpfully, grinning as you lean a little more of your weight against him, fully aware he’s too drained to push you off.

“I had to leave my desk, you tyrant,” he hisses. “Do you know what it’s like being forced to cross a city-wide barrier while wearing socks with holes in them?! My soul is chafing.”

You laugh, and the sound is light and easy, the kind that says this is all routine for you now—him grumbling, you ignoring, the two of you attached at the hand like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow just work.

It’s been nearly a year since you first met, and though Idia still resembles flight response in human form, he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore. He doesn’t hide behind walls of screens and sarcastic muttering. These days, he’ll even look you in the eye if he’s feeling particularly emotionally reckless.

And today, you’re halfway draped against his side, gripping his hand like it’s your personal grounding wire, while he complains about your irresponsibility with the dulled, weary cadence of someone who has long accepted his fate.

Everything is calm. Peaceful. Slightly sweaty, but serene.

Until it happens.

You feel it first—a disturbance in the air, a sort of psychic shift like a mosquito entering your periphery. And then a hand—not yours—wraps around Idia’s other hand.

You both freeze.

You turn your head slowly, like a haunted doll in a horror movie, and lock eyes with the offending Esper: a stranger, grinning with the unnerving intensity of someone who’s never once respected personal space in their life.

Their grip is firm. Their eyes are gleaming. You get the immediate and unshakable impression that they brush their teeth with motivational speeches and do pushups while listening to alpha wave affirmations.

“Hey,” they say brightly. “I felt your energy from across the lot. You’re an SS-ranked Guide, right? I need a sync. This is urgent.”

You blink. They just walked up. Grabbed his hand. Started a conversation. Like you’re not right there. Like you’re not holding his hand already.

Idia makes a noise. A terrible, high-pitched, panicked noise that sounds like a dying computer fan combined with a stress wheeze. His grip on your hand turns into a death clamp so intense you briefly lose sensation in your fingers.

You can feel his aura spiking erratically, his hair going from blue-flame to fire-hazard, his whole body broadcasting something between fight and flight but mostly error404.human.exe has stopped responding.

The other Esper keeps smiling.

So naturally, your half-dead, gate-fried, emotionally responsible brain decides to handle the situation with grace, poise, and logic.

“That’s my bonded Guide, how dare you?” you say loudly, voice ringing across the field like you’ve just declared war at a royal banquet.

The Esper blinks. “Wait—bonded?”

You stare them down with the weight of a thousand lies and the calm of someone who has absolutely no plan but is fully committed to whatever this is now. “Yes. Bonded. Anchored. Spiritually entangled. Aether-twined in the eyes of the Bureau and every known deity.”

The Esper takes a step back. “Oh. I—I didn’t realize, you weren’t listed—”

“It’s private. Sacred. We don’t believe in paperwork,” you say solemnly, as if this is an ancient vow passed down from your ancestors and not something you just made up to avoid watching Idia break down like a damsel in the middle of a syncing field.

“I—I’m sorry,” they stammer, already backing away like you’ve slapped them with a restraining order made of pure energy. “I didn’t mean to—good luck with your, um. Bond.”

And then they run. They actually run. Kick up dust and everything.

You turn back to Idia, who’s frozen in place like his entire reality has blue-screened.

“What,” he croaks, “the hell was that?”

“A problem solved,” you say, settling back into your lean like nothing happened. “You’re welcome.”

“You told them we were bonded. In public. Do you have any idea what you just—? That’s a federal registration. There’s ceremonies. There are retreats. I’m going to start getting targeted ads for matching sync robes!”

You shrug, resting your head on his shoulder with the peacefulness of someone who knows, with every fiber of their being, that they have zero intention of fixing this. “Eh. If the ad algorithm knows something before you do, maybe it’s just fate.”

“You’re the worst,” he whispers, deeply and with feeling.

And yet, his grip doesn’t loosen. Even with both your hands clasped like that, even after the emotional equivalent of a car alarm going off in his soul, he keeps holding on.

So really, you figure everything’s fine.

After one little white lie (okay, two), things spiraled faster than you expected. Who knew that telling two different Espers that you and Idia were bonded would spread like someone set the office gossip group chat on fire and dumped rocket fuel on it?

Now you’re both sitting in HR.

The room is sterile in that special, soul-draining way that only HR offices can achieve—walls too white, chairs too plastic, a single wilting plant in the corner that’s seen more existential dread than most therapists.

You’re slouched in your seat, one leg bouncing like a ticking bomb, while Idia sits stiffly beside you, arms folded, looking like he wants to sink through the floor.

He's glaring at you with the intensity of a thousand blue suns. You can feel the judgment radiating off him like he's trying to guilt-force an apology through sheer mental anguish.

"Look," you mutter, nudging his boot with yours. "It’s not that bad."

"You told people we were bonded,” he hisses under his breath. “Twice. You turned it into an office-wide feature presentation. They sent us an official celebration cake, do you understand how terrifying that?”

You grin. “People love love.”

“I’m allergic to attention,” he snaps. “Do you know how many people tried to make eye contact with me this morning?”

“I made your life more efficient. Think about it—if we just roll with it, you never have to guide another Esper again. No more weirdos grabbing your hand in public. No more field calls. No more small talk.”

Idia pauses. You can see the moment he processes it. He goes very, very still, like a prey animal realizing the trap is actually a very comfy bed with Wi-Fi.

“…If I say we’re bonded, you're the only Esper I’ll ever have to guide,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s consulting an invisible divine entity. “I could work from home forever. No more missions. No more rando Espers breathing at me. I could build an AI version of myself for you to sync with. I wouldn’t even need to be conscious.”

“There you go!” you whisper, triumphant. “Fake it till we make it. Just smile, nod, and look like you tolerate me.”

“I don’t know how to smile on command.”

“Perfect. That’s our natural chemistry.”

Before he can spiral further, the HR door opens and a clipboard-toting, tired-eyed official waves you both in.

You sit. Idia sits like he’s never sat before. The HR guy folds his hands and gives you both that “I don’t get paid enough for this” expression all HR personnel master within the first week of their job.

“So,” he says. “You’re claiming a bond. You understand that means your sync scores, mission pairings, and emotional resonance charts are now considered federal data.”

“Absolutely,” you say confidently.

“Nope,” Idia says at the same time.

The HR guy pauses. “Right. Let’s just verify a few details.” He flips through the clipboard. “When did you begin your relationship?”

“About eleven months ago,” you reply smoothly.

“Two months ago?” Idia echoes, blinking. “Wait, what?”

“Where was your first official sync?”

“Field 17,” you say.

“The cafeteria,” says Idia.

A silence. You shoot him a quick look and whisper, “Why would we sync in the cafeteria—”

“I was thinking of lunch!” he hisses back.

HR guy clears his throat loudly.

“Okay,” he says, clearly fighting for patience. “Can you describe the moment you knew you were psychically compatible?”

You nod solemnly. “He touched my hand during decompression and I felt peace.”

“...When I almost blacked out from terror on field 206” Idia mutters.

You both blink at each other. There’s a horrible, choking silence.

The HR guy just sets down his pen, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs like he’s about to file for retirement. “Are you sure this is a real bond?”

Panic grips you like a sudden gust of wind. You think, fast. There’s only one thing left to do, one final act of desperation.

You rise from your chair.

Idia blinks. “What are you—oh no.”

You drop to one knee. “Oh yes.”

You pull out a ring. It’s a candy ring, the one you were saving in your jacket pocket for a sugar crash emergency. It sparkles like cheap sugar-coated destiny.

“Idia Shroud,” you say, with all the theatrical sincerity of a soap opera star in a season finale. “From the moment we synced, I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”

Idia makes a noise that’s one part static feedback, one part soul exiting the body.

“Will you continue this extremely bureaucratically convenient charade with me?” you say, offering the candy ring with reverence. “For the tax write-offs and the peace of never having to talk to anyone else ever again?”

The HR guy is stunned. Mouth open. Not blinking. Probably buffering.

Idia stares at the ring. Then at you. Then at the HR guy. Then at the ring again.

“…I hate you,” he whispers, but lifts his hand anyway. “It better be lemon flavor or I walk.”

You slide the ring onto his finger like this is a fairy tale gone deeply, deeply off script.

HR makes a note. “...Right. Well. You’ll receive your bonding paperwork in three to five business days.”

And just like that, the meeting is over.

You and Idia walk out in silence, side by side, your new “engagement” ring glinting like the chaos it truly represents.

“...I hope you choke on candy,” he mutters.

“You love me.”

“No one will believe we’re bonded.”

“Oh, honey,” you grin, linking your arm through his. “They already do.”

These days, you and Idia have reached what scientists might call a stable orbit, and what HR calls a “gross misuse of company time and space.” But whatever. That’s between you, Idia, and the slowly dying office fern neither of you have watered in months.

You don’t bother him too much anymore—which is to say, you only rearrange his collectible figurines once a week now instead of every time you enter his office. And in return, he no longer looks at you like you’re an invasive species he’d like to report to pest control. Progress.

Sometimes, your days are quiet. Idia’s hunched over in his gaming chair, absolutely violating some poor boss monster on screen while whispering insults under his breath like, “Die, you HP-bloated RNG hellbeast,” and you’re sprawled face-first across the couch like a very emotionally fulfilled potato.

You’ve made a perfect depression nest out of spare jackets, your limbs dangling off the side like you’ve been freshly thrown there by fate itself.

You should be working. Technically. But Idia’s the one who put the “Do Not Disturb Unless You’re On Fire” sign on the door, so really, you’re just honoring the sanctity of that promise.

Other times, you swing by with takeout—because you both forgot to eat lunch, and if left alone, Idia will subsist off instant noodles and spite. You shove a container into his hand and collapse next to him on the couch, your thigh pressed against his as he awkwardly elbows you for space but doesn’t actually move away. Not that you’re keeping score.

(You are. You're absolutely keeping score.)

"Okay," he says, opening his container. "So this season's adaptation is garbage—they cut the backstory arc, the budget tanked, and the studio didn’t even animate the hair properly, it’s criminal. But the original light novel? Peak fiction. High literary art. Shakespeare is in shambles.”

You nod sagely as you munch on your fries. You don’t know what the hell he’s talking about—something about time loops and cursed bloodlines and a vampire love interest who’s actually a sentient program??—but you listen anyway.

Not because you care about the plot.

But because he talks with his whole soul, voice quickening, eyes gleaming like he’s just rolled a nat 20 on the Charisma check against social anxiety. He flails with one hand, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks like a tiny conductor of chaos, while his other hand never leaves yours.

And sometimes, in those moments—when he’s mid-rant, flushed with nerd rage, and you’re half-listening, half-dozing, fingers tangled with his—you catch yourself looking at him a little too long.

You catch the sparkle in his eyes, the way his shoulders drop around you, the way he stops stuttering when he gets excited and trusts you to listen even if you don’t understand.

And it takes every single molecule of willpower in your rapidly melting brain not to say anything.

Not to say how much you like these moments. Not to say how much you like him.

Because, sure, you’re fake-bonded. Pretending. Faking it for HR and for peace and quiet and to stop weird Espers from flirting with your favorite (and only) antisocial Guide.

But maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind if it weren’t pretend at all.

Despite being a somewhat unmotivated little gremlin who once filed a formal complaint about being asked to show up to a meeting before noon, you have a bad habit of pushing yourself too far when it came to gates.

Not for glory. Not for stats. Not even for the sweet, sweet serotonin of a job well done. No, you did it because you’d seen what happened when gates breached—when help came too late, when the wrong Esper got caught in the crossfire, when someone broke apart in a way no guide could patch back together.

You remembered one of your old friends, a Guide with the sunniest smile and a laugh that always rang louder than anyone else’s. Until one day it didn’t. They’d walked out of a particularly bad gate breach in stunned silence, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like they wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t. They handed in their resignation the next day.

So yeah. Maybe you were lazy about laundry and paperwork and showing up on time. But when it came to gates, you didn’t play around.

You fought like hell to make sure no one else had to go through what your friend did. You fought out of bounds. You fought monsters that weren’t yours. You fought so Idia never had to wear that hollow, too-still expression you remembered from that day.

And today?

Today was bad.

A sudden gate, not enough backup, and you were the highest-ranked Esper present. Which meant it fell on you.

You lasted twelve hours in there. Twelve hours of back-to-back fights, suppressing, clearing, burning through your stamina like your life—and everyone else’s—depended on it.

By the time the gate sealed and spat you out, you were barely standing. The world tilted hard to the left, your vision turned into that weird static-y filter they use in horror movies right before someone dies, and your stomach made a noise that might’ve been a scream. You took one step before your knees gave out.

You didn’t hit the ground.

Because suddenly, there were hands on you—arms catching you just before you collapsed, dragging you out of the danger zone with a surprisingly solid grip for someone whose most strenuous physical activity was switching charging cables.

You didn’t even need to see him to know who it was.

Idia. Your Guide. Your terribly anxious, semi-voluntarily associated handler, whose voice was sharp with panic as he dragged you to the safe zone and sat you down with all the gentleness of a malfunctioning robot.

“Oh my god—oh my god, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to die? Is this your new thing? Is this a hobby now?!”

You tried to respond but only managed a weak groan and a half-choke that might’ve been, “I’m fine,” or “I’m dying,” honestly it was 50/50.

He pressed his hands against your temples and started guiding immediately, energy steady and practiced. You felt the tightness in your chest start to ease, your pulse gradually slowing, your lungs actually filling up for once instead of fluttering like a dying balloon.

It was kind of nice. You hadn’t realized how close to blacking out you were until the static started fading. And then—

SMACK.

“OW—!”

“Shut up,” Idia hissed, yanking his hand back after slapping your shoulder hard enough to knock your soul a little looser. “You—you absolute fool of an Esper, you think I have time to be picking your half-dead corpse up off the ground like this?! I have three games on cooldown and a raid to prepare for next week and a life, you inconsiderate idiot!”

You opened one eye. “Wow, you’re yelling so much. Are you worried about me or just mad your stream got interrupted?”

“I’m both,” he snapped, color rising fast in his cheeks. “This—this can’t happen again. If you do this again, I’m gone. I’ll walk. I’ll— I’ll turn off my communicator. I’ll delete my file. I’ll fake my death. I will abandon you.”

You hummed, barely keeping your head upright. “You’d never.”

“I would.” His voice cracked like glass under pressure. “Don’t—don’t you dare test me. I mean it. I don’t want to… I don’t want to see you like that. Not again.”

You blinked at him slowly, the weight of exhaustion settling back into your limbs now that the adrenaline had burned out. And maybe it was the guiding haze, or maybe it was just him, but you let yourself rest.

Just for a little.

Because despite the dramatics and the hissy fit and the aggressively uncoordinated yelling, you knew what that panic meant. You knew what his hands trembling over yours meant.

And if your Guide was threatening to fake his own death for you, well… wasn’t that kind of romantic?

You took a few days off after The Incident™, otherwise known as You Being A Reckless Maniac Who Nearly Died On The Job While Your Guide Watched In Real-Time. The official report called it “extreme physical exertion in a high-risk environment.” You called it “a regular workday.”

But now, by some miracle of medical leave and your supervisor’s desperate plea for you to “please just stop doing this to us,” you were free.

And what did you do with your precious, well-earned downtime?

You healed your soul.

Which, for the record, looked a lot like wearing the same hoodie for three days, eating spicy chips with reckless abandon, and watching a reality show so unhinged it had to be imported from three countries over and aired exclusively at 3 a.m. due to moral concerns.

It was everything you wanted. Stupid people making stupid choices while you lived vicariously from the safety of your couch.

You were mid-cringe—some poor contestant had just confessed their love to the wrong twin—when someone knocked on your door.

You paused the TV and blinked. You weren’t expecting anyone. Delivery? Nah, you hadn’t even ordered anything today. Maybe the neighbors—

You opened the door and froze.

Idia stood there. Hoodie too big. Hair slightly frizzed as usual. One hand holding a plastic bag that looked like it could house a small cow, the other awkwardly dragging a suitcase. A suitcase.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

Then, without saying a single word, he walked right in. No greeting, no explanation, just brushed past you like he’d done it a hundred times before and knew exactly where he was going.

He set the bag down with a thunk, the suitcase with a thud, plugged a drive into your media player with all the confidence of someone who had practiced this, and loaded up an anime you didn’t even recognize—something with neon colors, probably three timelines, and a cast of beautiful characters with extremely tragic backstories.

Then he turned to you.

And stared.

Not a single word. Just pointedly stared until you sighed, flopped back down on the couch, and scooted over to make room for him.

He joined you immediately. Threw a blanket over the both of you with the elegance of a man conducting a sacred ritual. Pulled your hand into his and laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Still didn’t say anything.

You glanced at him. “So… are you living here now?”

No answer.

“Did you bring me snacks at least?”

He reached into the bag with his free hand, pulled out your favorite candy, and passed it to you without looking.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re really committing to the whole silent anime protagonist thing, huh?”

He finally opened his mouth.

“Shut up. The sad backstory part is about to start.”

And that was that.

Apparently, your healing arc had a guest star now. One with a suitcase, great taste in melodrama, and a grip on your hand that never loosened.

You wake up with a distinct sense that something’s wrong.

Not life-or-death wrong. Not “gate-breach-imminent” wrong. More like “you-fell-asleep-in-a-position-that-defies-basic-anatomy” kind of wrong.

Your limbs are a mess. There’s a hoodie-clad arm loosely wrapped around your waist. Your face is very much pressed into someone’s collarbone. Someone who is radiating body heat like a human furnace. And you, like the enlightened creature you are, sniff before you register what your eyes are seeing.

Wait.

Wait.

You blink blearily, and that’s when you realize: the human furnace is Idia Shroud.

You’re practically draped over him. Your leg is slung over his hips like you own him. His fingers are curled gently in your shirt like you’re his last tether to life. It’s less “sleepover” and more “Netflix and accidental marriage.”

And just as you situation begins to settle in, he stirs.

You freeze.

He opens his eyes.

And then—it happens.

He makes a sound. A terrible, wretched sound. Like a dying Roomba. Or a haunted fax machine possessed by a demon with asthma.

Then he squints down at you, eyes wild with confusion and betrayal.

And with a trembling breath, he whispers, “…I hate you.”

You blink. “What.”

“I hate you,” he repeats, louder this time, like you’re hard of hearing and he’s your dramatic high school ex. “I hate you. This is all your fault.”

You squint. “Did the genre shift? Are we friends to enemies now? Or, like, lovers to enemies to something worse?”

He sits up with you still partially on him and gestures dramatically at the tangled blankets like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Look at this. Look at what you’ve done to me. I used to be a recluse. I used to avoid human interaction. I had peace. Quiet. I had ten hours of gaming time per day.”

“You still have that,” you point out. “You just make me sit in the room now and pass you snacks.”

“Exactly!” he snaps. “I started liking it! I started looking forward to your dumb commentary during boss fights! I started… craving your presence like some kind of socially-adjusted moron!”

You stare.

He rants on, wild-haired and red-faced and approximately one and a half steps from throwing himself out a window. “You fake proposed to get out of HR trouble! And then you stole my hoodie! And you keep showing up in my space and making it better and more tolerable and I hate you for it!”

Your mouth twitches. “You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”

He glares at you. “Don’t flatter yourself. I am merely experiencing symptoms of long-term emotional contamination. Also known as affection. A known virus."

You’re laughing now, arms still loosely wrapped around him. “So you like me.”

“I can’t believe I fell for you,” he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of all the people in this world, I had to fall for the unhinged disaster gremlin who pretended we were bonded because it was ‘funny.’”

“You asked me to keep the lie going!”

“Because you said we were soulmates in front of an HR rep with a clipboard!”

You grin. “Okay, but was I wrong?”

He makes a noise that sounds like a tea kettle having an emotional breakdown.

Then he slumps like he’s aged thirty years in three seconds and mutters, “Just reject me already so I can go die in some cold, dark corner of a server room.”

You kiss him.

It’s soft and simple and smug. Mostly because he’s still glaring at you and now he’s also short-circuiting. His ears go bright pink.

You smile against his lips and ask, “So. You wanna make the fake bond real?”

He glares harder. “You’re the worst.”

And then he kisses you again like he’s never been more offended to be in love in his entire life.

Idia hated that he was a high-class Guide.

It was like being the rare shiny Pokémon everyone wanted to catch, except instead of admiration, it came with a nonstop barrage of overcaffeinated Espers trying to hold his hand without warning and HR emails that read like increasingly desperate dating profiles: “This one is only mildly feral! Just give it a shot :)”

He didn’t want to “give it a shot.” He wanted to crawl into his anime pillow fort and watch seventeen episodes of Mecha Scream Force: Ultimate Uncut Directors’ Deluxe Edgelord Edition in peace.

And then your file landed in his inbox.

Subject: SS– BATTLE-LEVEL ESPER. NOTES: Known anomaly. Exhibits unpredictable energy flux due to post-gate mutation. Possibly cursed. Re: Sync pair recommendation – IDIA SHROUD. Good luck. [Attached: a video of you almost biting into a monster’s neck mid-fight]

Idia stared at it for a full minute. Then he closed the file, reopened it, and checked the name. His name.

“Whyyyy me?” he whispered to the heavens, even though he was indoors and had blackout curtains drawn so tightly it looked like the void itself lived there.

Clearly, he’d wronged someone in a past life. Probably a whole list of someones.

When you walked into his office, he expected chaos. He expected explosions. He expected you to tackle him to the ground screaming “LET ME ABSORB YOUR AURA” or something equally traumatic.

Instead?

You looked at him, grinned like this was a lunch break, and approached him. 

Then you stuck your hand out like you were offering him a pen.

“Yo. You guiding or nah?”

Idia blinked. The sheer normalcy hit him like a truck. 

You just kept smiling, not even a glimmer of feral gate trauma in your eyes, and said, “Wanna do the hand thing or are you one of those forehead touchers?”

Idia was so caught off guard he actually stuttered, “J-just hands is fine.”

“Neat,” you said, and took his hand like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t allegedly suplexed a gate beast using only your pinky. Like you didn’t have a file thicker than some light novels.

And… that was it.

You let him guide you. No whining. No dramatic speeches. No weird vibes. Just sync.

When it was over, you looked at him and said, “Wanna grab noodles?” and then skipped off to bother a vending machine.

Idia stood there for several minutes, buffering like a corrupted cutscene.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t clingy. You didn’t even try to oversync. And your handshake? A solid 8.5/10. Firm, but not emotionally traumatizing.

He texted Ortho:

“I think I found a non-feral one. Do you think they’re a spy.”

Ortho replied:

“Or maybe they’re just not like the others.” “Bro do NOT fall in love.”

Idia stared at your file again that night. He looked at the chaos reports, the combat records, the notes scribbled in red pen by HR.

And then he thought about your stupid little grin and how you didn’t even complain when he made you wait twenty minutes while he charged his noise-canceling headphones.

Maybe—just maybe—you weren’t going to ruin his life.

Yet.

The first time Idia waited outside a gate for you, he genuinely thought, How bad could it be?

Spoiler: it was bad.

He was standing there with his coat flapping awkwardly in the breeze, hunched like a socially anxious gargoyle, trying to blend into the concrete.

But alas—there was no blending in when you were wearing a neon SS-rank Guide badge that practically screamed, “HELLO! I’m high value and emotionally unavailable for syncing, please invade my personal space immediately!”

Espers began swarming.

Like moths. No. Like moths with abs.

“Yo, you synced up with anyone?” said one particularly muscular guy who was chewing gum with the intensity of someone trying to seduce through molar power.

“Wanna test compatibility?” offered another, already reaching out like this was some kind of handshake.

“I could use a cool-headed Guide like you,” purred a woman who looked like she bench-pressed trucks in her downtime.

Idia, for his part, simply froze. Not because he was considering it. No. He was buffering. His brain was lagging so hard it was displaying the mental equivalent of the spinning beach ball of doom. Why were they all so close? Why was that one flexing?

He wanted to vanish. He wanted to dissolve into the sidewalk. He wanted you to COME OUT OF THE GATE ALREADY.

And then, like some kind of disaster-themed magical girl, you stumbled out of the gate with your jacket halfway falling off your shoulder, a smear of monster goo on your cheek, and your smile crooked from adrenaline.

You blinked at the scene. Idia surrounded by sparkle-eyed Espers. And you? You grinned like a menace and called, “Aww, were you being courted while I was gone?”

He immediately flushed three shades of cherry blossom pink and hissed, “W-would it kill you to come out faster?! I almost got bond-napped!”

You just laughed, clapped him on the shoulder (with the force of a medium earthquake), and said, “Don’t worry, Shiny Badge. I’ll be faster next time.”

And shockingly… you were.

Next gate, you practically threw yourself out as soon as the rift closed, stumbling directly into Idia like you were being ejected from a monster meat blender.

He squeaked. You beamed. And every other Esper in a ten-foot radius suddenly looked like they’d just found out their crush was married.

“You happy now?” you asked, trying to wipe blood off your face with a wet napkin. “Did I make it in time to preserve your purity?”

“I am never wearing that badge again,” Idia muttered, clinging to your arm like you were his emotional support chaos.

But secretly?

He was just a little happy you’d listened.

A few months into this partnership—not that Idia was counting (he totally was, he had a spreadsheet tracking your interactions and categorized emotional events, but that’s beside the point)—he was enjoying what he considered peak compatibility.

You didn’t ask invasive questions. You brought snacks. And most importantly, you didn’t try to poke at his psyche with metaphorical chopsticks like all the other Espers seemed to enjoy doing.

So when a baby B-class Esper showed up outside his office and refused to leave, he had one reaction.

Panic.

He were earnest. Bright-eyed. Starstruck. Speaking through the office door in a tone that suggested he was auditioning for a sports anime.

“I just believe it’s my destiny to be guided by the best! And the system says you have many open slots!”

Idia, crumpled in his gamer chair like a depressed shrimp, texted you in the most pathetic SOS syntax he could manage.

SOS. B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. They’re monologuing.

To his relief and eternal confusion, you actually showed up. On your day off. Dressed in sweatpants and judgment, hair a mess, holding an energy drink in one hand and existential dread in the other.

He thought—great, you’d flex your seniority, threaten the rookie with HR, maybe gently suggest they find a less traumatized Guide.

But no.

You looked at the Esper, and said, “Sorry. He’s bonded. To me. Permanently.”

The B-class Esper’s eyes widened with sparkling heartbreak. “O-oh. I didn’t… I didn’t see a bond registration?”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s private. For, uh… spiritual reasons.”

The kid left with a sniffle and a salute—a salute, like they’d just witnessed a great romantic tragedy.

And you?

You slurped your energy drink and said, “You’re welcome. You owe me dinosaur nuggets.”

And Idia, poor Idia, just sat there in the background with his hands halfway to his face, mumbling, “I’m gonna fling you out the window. Then I’m gonna follow.”

He just curled up in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and began calculating how long he could fake his own death before HR caught on.

And the worst part?

The lie worked too well.

Idia had survived a lot of things in life.

He’d survived MMORPG guild drama. The Y/N self-insert fic someone wrote about him that got 80,000 kudos and a spin-off comic. That fic someone wrote about him marrying Malleus in a pasta-themed AU that still somehow had an 8k comment thread.

But this?

This was unforgivable.

He was in HR. Again. With you. And no one had even punched a hole in the wall this time. This was all preemptive HR. Preventative HR.

The worst kind of HR, because it meant someone somewhere thought he might be a problem. Him! A problem! As if he didn’t already take up negative space in most social situations!

And you—you, the original source of his misfortune—you were just sitting beside him like you hadn’t just committed the equivalent of marriage fraud by loudly claiming, in front of at least seven witnesses and a vending machine, that the two of you were bonded.

Permanently. Irrevocably. Like a pair of idiot soulmates who'd stumbled out of a romcom written by an unpaid intern.

As if the “we’re bonded, teehee” debacle with the B-class Esper wasn’t enough to shave a year off Idia’s already stress-shortened life, it had happened again.

Some random esper held his hand post-gate when you were both still high on adrenaline and trauma, and instead of, Idia didn’t know, punching them or using your words like a normal person, you just went “excuse me, that’s my bonded Guide, how dare you,” like you were a jealous ex.

That was the moment the rumors really took off.

And now here you were. Both of you. In HR.

Because HR had questions. Many questions. And neither of you had done the bare minimum, which was maybe talking about what fake answers you should give in advance. Like you didn’t even rehearse. Not a single shared Google Doc. No coordinated lies. Just vibes.

So when the HR guy (who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, including the bottom of a sulfur pit) asked, “When did the bond occur?” you said October 3rd and Idia, with absolute confidence and zero hesitation, said March 22nd.

There was a pause.

Not a silence. A pause. The kind that echoes through generations.

“And where did it happen?” the man asked again, in the voice of someone whose therapist was going to be hearing about this in excruciating detail later.

You, smiling: “Field 17.”

Idia, barely restraining a grimace: “The Cafeteria.”

Another silence. This one more like an oncoming freight train.

“Do you at least know each other’s middle names?”

Idia blinked. “They have a middle name?”

You, helpfully: “His is ‘Trouble.’”

The HR guy looked like he aged six years in that moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed deeply, and began massaging his temples in slow, pained circles like a man who had seen the abyss and wished it had swallowed him.

And then.

Then you moved.

Idia saw it happen in slow motion. You stood up. Reached into your hoodie pocket. And pulled out something shiny and crinkly. Something artificial. Something glowing with malevolent intent.

A Ring Pop.

A goddamn Ring Pop.

“Don’t do it,” Idia whispered, “I swear to everything, if you—”

You dropped to one knee in the middle of the HR office like you were auditioning for a live-action soap opera.

“From the moment we synced,” you said, voice loud, clear, and completely free of shame, “I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”

ILLEGALLY.

CLAIM.

GOVERNMENT BENEFITS.

In front of HR. 

Idia's soul left his body. Again. He was nothing but a faint outline of smoke and anxiety in the shape of a man.

The HR guy did not react. He simply stared into space like he had become untethered from time and reality. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s computer pinged. A bird hit the window. The printer made a noise like it was trying to weep.

Idia looked at the Ring Pop. It better not be raspberry flavored. The worst possible option. The flavor of betrayal and poor decisions.

“If it’s not lemon, I walk,” he muttered, even as he extended his hand like the fool he was.

You beamed like you’d just won a reality show. Slipped the candy ring onto his finger with great ceremony. He stared down at it, sticky sugar starting to melt onto his knuckles, and wondered what series of decisions had led him to this moment.

You leaned close as you walked out of the office and whispered, “We’re truly fraudulently bonded now. I hope you’re happy.”

“I’m the opposite of happy,” Idia hissed. “I am… anti-happy. I am negativity incarnate. We are legally entangled. We have created an HR file. I’m going to have to explain this to Ortho.”

You smirked.

“Tell him it was a shotgun wedding. He’ll love it.”

You didn’t let go of his hand.

And—God help him—he didn’t let go of yours either.

It definitely got worse before it got better. 

Ortho, for one, did not let him live it down. Not for a second. There was a party. A full-on celebratory bash. With banners. One of which read “Congrats on Your Emergency Government Sanctioned Soul Marriage!” in Comic Sans.

Idia had tried to crawl into the floor. The floor, unfortunately, remained solid. He was forced to attend the party in body, if not spirit.

Ortho had even made a slideshow, complete with sparkly transitions and lo-fi music, documenting “every known moment of you two being disgustingly bonded.”

There was cake. The cake said “Congrats, You Played Yourself.” It tasted like guilt.

But… after the glitter and humiliation settled… things became weirdly good.

You didn’t treat him differently. That was the weird part. You still flopped dramatically across his office couch like you’d just fought a battle with gravity and lost.

You still made horrendous snacking noises and tried to convince him to watch cursed reality TV. You still made offhanded jokes during his games that were so sharp and stupid that he had to pause the cutscene and stare into the screen like it was a black void of disbelief.

He never laughed—obviously—but his shoulders shook a little sometimes. Just from rage. Definitely.

Sometimes, you brought him takeout. Unprompted. Just dropped it on his desk like a raccoon delivering tribute and started poking through your own container.

You always let him talk about whatever show had emotionally ruined him that week. You even listened. Like, actually listened. Nodded at the plot twists. Called the villain a loser. Asked about the fan theories. Like what he said mattered.

And sometimes, when you were too distracted counting shrimp in your fried rice, brows furrowed like you were solving a shrimp-based tax puzzle, Idia would stare at you.

Not in a creepy way. Just in a very... intense... anime-protagonist-moment kind of way. Like if someone added a wind filter and dramatic music, it would be a whole romantic B-plot arc.

He’d stare and think: Please don’t change. Please don’t leave. Please let this be real, even if it’s dumb. Even if it’s fake government paperwork and Ring Pops and nonsense. Please let this nonsense stay mine.

And then you’d look up mid-chew, mouth full, and say something like, “Do you think shrimp ever get existential crises about tempura?”

He’d immediately look away, ears red, heart a mess.

He was doomed.

Absolutely, sugar-glazed, takeout-fed, soul-bonded doomed.

There was an emergency gate.

Idia was outside. He’d been outside for twelve hours. That was twelve hours of sunlight exposure, twelve hours of people trying to talk to him, twelve hours of not knowing if you were dead or just being dramatic. Which, okay, to be fair, the line between the two was thin when it came to you.

He paced. He vibrated. He glared at anyone who so much as breathed in his direction. Someone tried to hand him a water bottle and he hissed like a wet cat.

Every five minutes, he checked his comms, even though he wasn’t cleared for internal updates. SS-ranked Guide my ass, he thought bitterly, hands twitching. Can’t even get an accurate live feed on the one maniac I’m synced to.

He told himself—repeatedly—that he was only mad because he had to wait outside for twelve whole hours. That it was purely logical rage. That the sun had permanently crisped his skin and fried his nerves and this was just normal vitamin-D-overload fury.

He was a filthy liar and he knew it.

He was anxious. He was anxious because you were in there alone. Well, not alone—technically there were other Espers—but they were all juniors. Babies. Snot-nosed kids who couldn’t fight their way out of a tutorial level.

You were the highest rank inside. Which meant you would push yourself. Which meant he had to sit there for twelve hours imagining every possible worst-case scenario his very creative and extremely deranged brain could come up with.

So when you finally stumbled out—filthy, bleeding, and doing your best impression of a half-dead Muppet—Idia didn’t even think. He caught you before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you like instinct.

You were half-conscious, mumbling something about how the last monster looked like your elementary school English teacher, and Idia just about blacked out.

He dragged you to the side with the strength of pure panic and adrenaline. You were barely upright, clinging to him like a sleep-deprived spider monkey, and he was guiding you with shaky hands and a full-body tremble of what the hell, what the actual hell, what is wrong with you.

And then—he slapped your shoulder.

Hard.

Harder than someone with his spaghetti-noodle limbs had any right to.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Do you have a single functioning brain cell?! Were you trying to die in there? Is that it? Were you like, ‘Wow, you know what would be awesome today? Ruining my lungs and my Guide’s entire life in one go’—was that the plan?!”

You wheezed a laugh and gave a thumbs up.

He smacked you again.

“You can’t do that again,” he said, quietly this time, guiding aura flaring warm and sharp around his hands. “You can’t. If this happens again, I swear, I’m done. I’ll walk. I’ll turn in my license. I’ll go live in the woods and talk to raccoons. I’ll abandon you. I’m serious.”

You blinked at him, eyes bleary. “That’s dramatic.”

“So are you!” he snapped, and ran another guiding pulse through your body, scowling.

You slumped into him, letting the energy steady your limbs, and mumbled something about him being overprotective.

He told you to shut up.

You smiled.

He didn’t mean it about leaving.

But you didn’t need to know that.

You took a few days off after the gate incident. Not that Idia was keeping track. Not that he had an entire spreadsheet titled “Gate Trauma Recovery: Dumb Gremlin Edition” with daily updates on your recovery status that he absolutely did not check every thirty minutes.

But okay, maybe he was spiraling a little.

Because no matter how many games he played or anime episodes he queued up, he couldn’t get the image out of his head—you, bruised and burned and half-conscious, slumping into his arms like you were seconds away from not existing anymore.

It lived rent-free in his head. It had set up a cozy studio apartment in his cerebral cortex and was not paying utilities.

So, naturally, like any emotionally repressed SS-rank Guide with the common sense of a decorative rock, he packed a suitcase.

In went his portable gaming setup. His backup backup controller. Six different cords for reasons known only to the universe. Two sets of headphones. His lucky gamer hoodie. A USB fan (essential). And then a bag of snacks roughly the size of 6 corgis, filled with everything from neon sour gummies to obscure off-brand Pocky flavors.

Then, in a fit of either romance or psychosis (jury’s out), he showed up at your front door.

You opened it mid–reality show binge, wearing pajama pants with some loud pattern that made his eyes hurt. He stood there, suitcase in one hand, snack bag in the other, looking like a socially anxious door-to-door apocalypse salesman.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what was he supposed to say?

“Hi, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way your breathing was shallow and your skin was cold and I panicked so hard I packed my whole life into a bag like we’re running away from a zombie uprising and now I’m here because not seeing you for three days makes me feel like I’m gonna hurl?”

Absolutely not. He would rather eat drywall. He would rather die.

So instead, he walked in silently like a weirdo, set his stuff down like it was totally normal, and plugged in his drive into your media player like this was just a casual day.

You, either out of kindness or shared delusion, didn’t question it.

You just moved things over on the couch to make room and handed him the blanket. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just barged in with a small suitcase of emotional instability and bad coping mechanisms.

He put on a new anime. One he’d been saving. One he hadn’t planned on watching until you could roll your eyes and make your dumb little commentary at the plot holes.

You leaned against him, not saying a word.

And he held your hand like you hadn't absolutely blown up his entire emotional firewall. Like he hadn’t nearly lost you. Like this wasn’t already his favorite memory.

He didn’t say a word the whole episode.

But his fingers stayed curled around yours like a promise he was too much of a coward to say out loud.

Idia woke up with a full-grown human person draped across his body like a weighted blanket with boundary issues.

His brain booted up slowly—first registering the dull ache in his spine from sleeping on your disaster of a couch, then the soft warmth of your face smushed into his shoulder, and finally the fact that your entire existence was currently entangled with his like some kind of romcom final episode cuddle position.

He did not survive twelve hours of panicked gate-waiting, emotional damage, and spontaneous suitcase-packing for this.

Actually, no. That was a lie. He absolutely did. And if anyone dared to move you right now he would bite.

But unfortunately for him—and also, somehow, for you—he had the emotional self-control of a feral raccoon near a garbage can of feelings. So when you stirred a little and blinked sleepily at him, he opened his mouth and said the first thing that slithered out of his traitorous brain.

“I hate you.”

Your eyes focused slowly. “...Huh?”

“I hate you,” he repeated, voice cracking like a cursed record. “I hate the way you act like it’s totally normal to almost die in my arms and then go eat egg tarts like it’s no big deal. I hate that you lie to HR like it’s your full-time job. I hate that you keep doing stupid dangerous things and now I can’t function unless I know you’re alive and breathing and not about to faceplant into death.”

You blinked. Then—as if you weren’t being confessed to in what could only be described as a monologue from a melodramatic anime villain—you grinned.

“You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”

“I—!” Idia made a noise so high-pitched only dogs could hear it. “I can’t believe I fell for you. Out of everyone. I fell for a chaotic war goblin who proposes with candy rings and lies to government officials like it’s foreplay.”

You were still grinning.

“Okay,” you said, ridiculously chipper for someone in a horizontal cuddle chokehold. “So do you wanna actually permanently bond and make it official or are we just going to keep emotionally edging each other until one of us passes out?”

Idia stared at you like you’d just offered him the keys to the universe and then spit directly on his soul.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Short-circuited a little.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost missed it—he said, “...Only if you still have that candy ring.”

You beamed. “I always carry the candy ring.”

He looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch and die from happiness. Instead, he pulled you closer and mumbled against your forehead:

“You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Then he kissed you again like he never wanted to let you go.

You and Idia actually end up permanently bonded.

Legally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Psychically. All of the above.

You signed the forms (well, you dramatically slammed them onto the HR desk and said, “Guess we’re actually married now, huh?” while Idia tried to phase through the wall from secondhand embarrassment), synced up your brain waves or whatever, and boom—done.

And honestly? It doesn’t feel like fireworks. Or fate. Or some dramatic crescendo of music and soulmates.

It feels like wearing your favorite hoodie.

It feels like sleep.

It feels like finally putting your phone on Do Not Disturb and flopping face-first onto your guide.

Gates still suck. They still open at 3 a.m. when you're already two bites into a reheated burrito. They still spit out eldritch horrors that look like tax fraud made flesh. And yeah—you still fight recklessly. You're still you.

But now there’s a pause before you push too hard. Now there’s a voice—his voice—filling your head mid-fight going, “Hey, I don’t mean to backseat or anything, but MAYBE don’t solo the three-headed acid wolf?”

And you listen. Mostly. Sometimes. At least you try.

Because you remember what it was like, the way his hands shook the first time he caught you after a gate—your blood on his shirt, your laugh too weak, your legs folding like bad origami. You remember the way he smacked you while guiding, voice cracking, saying, “Don’t you ever do that again or I’m uninstalling myself from this entire dimension.”

So you ease up. A little. For him.

Life is still a mess. You're still a mess. Idia is a different flavor of mess, like the kind that alphabetizes their video game collection but forgets to eat lunch.

But it’s your mess now.

Sometimes, you watch terrible reality shows together and he pretends not to care but makes offhanded, emotionally devastating comments about character arcs. Sometimes, he lets you nap on his shoulder as he games and blushes violently if you drool on him.

Sometimes, he just sits next to you with your pinkies intertwined and doesn’t say a word—but you feel it anyway. That weird quiet peace. That “please don’t ever go into a gate without telling me again” kind of love.

And sometimes, when the world isn’t ending and your head isn’t splitting and the shrimp-to-rice ratio is finally correct, you kiss his cheek mid-battle and he yells, “This is emotional sabotage during a DPS rotation!” but he doesn’t pull away.

Life is chaos. But hey, at least now it’s your chaos. And you’ve got a socially anxious gremlin who chose you—every unhinged, exhausting part of you—on purpose.

And you’d choose him every time.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[solxamber]

Gate Crashers and Heart Breakers || Lilia Vanrouge (1/2)

The world has dimensional gates that vomit monsters. This is somehow less horrifying than admitting that you fell hook, line and sinker for your Guide.

or: Guideverse au!

Part 2

The world sucked before the Gates opened.

Humanity had been doing a bang-up job of making life miserable all on its own. There were politicians who couldn't agree on whether water was wet, climate change deniers who thought melting glaciers were just ice cubes in God's cocktail, and someone had invented those automatic hand dryers that sound like a jet engine but have all the drying power of a asthmatic hamster wheezing on your wet hands.

Then the Gates showed up, as if the universe looked down at humanity's struggle and said, "You know what? They're handling things too well. Let's add dimensional portals that vomit monsters."

The Gates appeared literally overnight. One day, people went to bed worried about normal things like taxes and whether they'd left the stove on. The next morning, they woke up to giant shimmering doorways that looked like someone had installed the world's worst feng shui feature right in the middle of major cities. 

New York's popped up in Times Square, which honestly improved the ambiance. Tokyo's appeared in Shibuya Crossing, and for about six hours, people just assumed it was some new experimental art installation until a creature that looked like a rejected Pokemon design crawled out and started eating vending machines.

The monsters were bad. The Gates themselves were worse if left alone. 

See, Gates had this fun quirk where if nobody went in and cleared them out, they'd eventually say "screw it" and just open fully. And when a Gate opened fully, everything inside came flooding out like someone had just flushed the universe's most nightmarish toilet. 

Cities got leveled. People got eaten. Insurance companies added a "dimensional monster invasion" clause and somehow made it even more expensive than flood insurance.

Humanity did what it does best when faced with extinction: it panicked, argued about whose fault it was, and then stumbled backwards into a solution.

Turns out, some people had developed powers. Nobody knew why. Scientists had seventeen different theories, all of which contradicted each other, and one guy on YouTube was convinced it had something to do with 5G towers and chemtrails, which was stupid but somehow got four billion views.

These powered people fell into two categories:

Espers were the damage dealers, the tanks, the heavy hitters. They could shoot fire from their hands, move objects with their minds, or punch things so hard the things stopped being things and became a fine mist with regrets. Espers were powerful, impressive, and about as stable as a Jenga tower in an earthquake. 

Using their powers made them gradually lose their minds. The more they fought, the more their psyche fractured like a windshield meeting a brick. Without help, they'd eventually go completely bonkers and become just as dangerous as the monsters they were supposed to fight. 

The government kept very quiet about the number of Espers who'd gone rogue and had to be "retired," which was a polite way of saying "put down like a rabid dog, except the dog could level a city block."

Guides were the support class, the healers, the people who kept Espers from turning into homicidal maniacs. 

Guides could manipulate energy in a way that soothed Espers' fractured minds, basically acting as psychic Xanax. They couldn't fight worth a damn. Put a Guide in front of a monster, and the best they could do was maybe make the monster feel really calm about eating them. 

But pair a Guide with an Esper, and suddenly you had a functional unit that could actually clear Gates without the Esper going full "The Shining" by the end.

Together, Espers and Guides became humanity's defense against the Gates. Governments set up agencies to manage them, match them, and deploy them. They called these agencies different things in different countries, but they all functioned the same way: bureaucratic nightmares that somehow kept the world from ending while drowning in paperwork.

The system worked. Barely. Gates got cleared, monsters got killed, and humanity continued its proud tradition of surviving through sheer spite and institutional dysfunction.

You knew you were a high-rank Esper when you sneezed during a particularly bad allergy season and accidentally launched your landlord's car into low orbit.

In your defense, the pollen count was astronomical, and your landlord had been riding your ass about rent being two days late. Still, watching his Honda Civic achieve escape velocity because your nose itched was the kind of thing that made you go "huh, that's probably not normal" followed immediately by "we're going to pretend that didn't happen."

You told your landlord it must have been a freak tornado. He bought it because the alternative was accepting that his tenant had sneezed his vehicle into the stratosphere, which would require paperwork he didn't want to deal with. The car came down three hours later in a neighboring city. You moved apartments the next week.

That was two years ago.

Since then, you've gotten very good at pretending you were absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not an Esper. 

You did not want to go to the Bureau. You did not want some government stooge in a cheap suit telling you where to go, what to fight, and how to risk your life and sanity for people who wouldn't even thank you for it. The Bureau loved to run those propaganda campaigns showing Espers and Guides as heroes, but you'd seen the news reports about the ones who burned out. The ones who went crazy and had to be put down. The ones who died clearing Gates while civilians complained that the street closures were inconvenient.

Ungrateful didn't even begin to cover it.

So you kept your head down, worked your dead-end job at a convenience store, and tried very hard not to sneeze near anything important.

Today, you were trudging home after almost getting caught up in a Gate that had opened in a farmer's market of all places. A farmer's market. What kind of cosmic targeting system put a dimensional hell-portal in the middle of a place where people were buying overpriced organic kale? Were the monsters trying to make a statement about sustainable agriculture?

Thank fuck you'd stopped outside the market to feed a raccoon. You'd been holding a ricecake, and this absolute king of a trash panda had waddled up to you with the confidence of a creature that knew it was adorable and wasn't afraid to weaponize it. You'd barely tossed it the food when the Gate opened two stalls down and all hell broke loose.

Raccoons really were the backbone of society. That little guy had saved your life with perfect timing and his unshakable belief that humans existed to provide snacks.

You'd gotten out of there while Bureau Espers showed up to handle it, feeling smug about your continued anonymity.

That smugness lasted approximately forty minutes.

You were cutting through an alley near your apartment when you spotted it: a monster that had somehow slipped out of some Gate, probably the farmer's market one. It looked like someone had asked an AI to generate "crab" but the AI had been drinking. 

Too many legs. Eyes in places eyes had no business being. Claws that dripped something that was dissolving the concrete.

"Oh my god, bruh, you had ONE job," you muttered, glaring in the general direction of where you assumed the Bureau headquarters was. "ONE. Contain the monsters. That's literally it. How did this thing get past you? Did you all take a union-mandated coffee break at the same time?"

The crab-thing noticed you and made a sound like a garbage disposal trying to eat silverware.

You sighed.

You really, really didn't want to do this. Using your powers without training, without a Guide to stabilize you afterward, was like chugging expired energy drinks and then trying to operate heavy machinery. It was inadvisable, dangerous and likely to end with something exploding, and that something might just be your brain.

But the crab-thing was between you and your apartment, and you'd be damned if you let some interdimensional reject make you take the long way home.

You focused, felt the power coil in your chest like a spring wound too tight, and released it.

The monster didn't so much die as it ceased to exist in its current form. One second it was there, the next it was abstract art painted across the alley wall in colors that shouldn't exist in nature. 

The recoil hit you immediately.

It felt like someone had taken your brain, put it in a blender, hit "puree," and then dumped it back into your skull while it was still spinning. 

There was a noise in your head that sounded like if static could scream. Your vision went fuzzy at the edges. Your hands were shaking. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice that definitely wasn't yours was suggesting, very reasonably, that eating drywall seemed like a great idea actually. Drywall probably tasted good. Drywall might solve all your problems.

"No," you told yourself, sliding down the alley wall to sit on the ground. "We are not eating the wall. We are not eating anything. We are going to sit here and breathe and not explode the block."

The screaming in your head ramped up. This noise made you understand why Espers went insane. This was what it felt like when your mind started coming apart at the seams.

You were trying to remember if spontaneous human combustion was a real thing or just something you'd seen on TV when someone tapped you on the shoulder.

The screaming stopped.

Just like that. The noise cut off like someone had hit a mute button on your brain. The drywall cravings disappeared. The feeling of your sanity slowly leaking out of your ears vanished. Everything went quiet and calm and blessedly, beautifully normal.

You looked up.

There was a man standing over you. A short man, probably five-foot-nothing, with a bob haircut that should have looked ridiculous but instead looked like he'd stolen it from a fashion magazine and made it better. It was a hairdo that made you think "no one else could pull this off, but somehow he makes it look like the only correct haircut that has ever existed."

And his eyes. Red. Not the creepy red of colored contacts or some edgelord anime character, but a deep, genuine red like garnets or really good wine. Pretty didn't cover it. His eyes looked like someone had bottled sunset and chaos and poured it into his face.

"Thanks, man," you managed to say.

Then you passed the fuck out.

You woke up expecting to be in the Bureau.

You'd seen enough conspiracy videos to know the drill. They'd have dragged your unconscious ass to some sterile white room that smelled like disinfectant and broken dreams.

You'd be tied to a chair—or at minimum, sitting across from some dead-eyed bureaucrat who looked like they'd given up on life sometime in 2003 and had just been going through the motions ever since.

They'd give you the speech about duty and honor and serving your country, conveniently leaving out the part where Espers had a median life expectancy of "not great" and a retirement plan of "hopefully you don't go insane and have to be put down like Old Yeller."

Instead, you were still in the alley.

The garbage smell had somehow gotten worse, which you didn't think was possible. You were still lying on concrete that felt like it was actively trying to give you tetanus. And there was someone sitting next to you, humming a cheerful little tune that sounded like it belonged in a music box owned by a creepy doll that came to life at midnight.

You cracked open your eyes.

Bob Cut Man was still there, sitting cross-legged beside you like he was at a casual picnic and not in an alley that smelled like the dumpster itsefl had died and was currently decomposing. He was examining his nails like he had all the time in the world.

"Oh, you're awake!" he said brightly. "I was beginning to think you'd hit your head on the way down. You dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Very dramatic. I'd give it a six out of ten—points for commitment, but you didn't stick the landing."

You groaned and tried to sit up. Your body felt like someone had taken it apart, juggled the pieces, and put it back together using instructions written in a language they didn't speak. "Why am I not at the Bureau?"

"Why would you be at the Bureau?" He blinked at you innocently.

"Because I'm an unregistered Esper who just used powers in public and then passed out in front of a witness?" You squinted at him. "That's like, the exact scenario from their recruitment pamphlets. 'See something, say something, drag them to headquarters.'"

"Ah, but you see, I'd have to care about their recruitment policies for that to matter." He grinned, and it was the kind of grin that suggested he regularly broke rules just for the entertainment value. "Besides, where's your Guide? Surely they should be handling this."

You let out a laugh that sounded like a car trying to start in winter. "Oh, I accidentally lost mine."

He stared at you.

Then he burst out laughing, the kind of genuine delighted cackle that made him sound slightly unhinged. "Lost? You LOST your Guide? Like a sock in the laundry?"

"It was a whole thing," you said flatly. "Very emotional. There may have been a musical number. I don't want to talk about it."

He looked at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years, which was either flattering or concerning. Possibly both. "Oh, you're fun. I like you. You're ridiculous."

"Thanks, I grew it myself."

"I'm Lilia Vanrouge," he announced, as if introducing himself in an alley next to what used to be a monster was perfectly normal. He even did a little gesture with his hand that was almost a bow. "Charmed, I'm sure."

You told him your name, wondering if you should be more concerned about the fact that he seemed to be enjoying this whole situation way too much.

"Delightful," Lilia said, and you genuinely couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. "Now, as entertaining as this whole 'rogue Esper speedrun to insanity' situation is, you need to be Guided properly. That little power usage earlier nearly turned you into a cautionary tale. If I hadn't been passing by, you'd have either eaten that wall or achieved spontaneous human fireworks. Possibly simultaneously."

"Why though?" You frowned at him, your brain still feeling like it was operating on dial-up internet. "You were enough. I'm fine now. Crisis averted. We can all go home."

Lilia went very still.

He stared at you with an expression you couldn't quite read—something between surprised and confused and maybe a little bit touched? It was hard to tell with the way his face seemed to cycle through emotions like a slideshow.

"I... helped?" he said slowly, like he was testing out the words.

"Yeah? You touched me and the screaming stopped." You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "The voice telling me drywall was a valid food group just... stopped. That's Guide stuff, right? I'm not hallucinating this?"

For a second, Lilia looked almost vulnerable. Then his expression shifted back to amused so fast you almost got whiplash watching it.

Without warning, he reached out and grabbed your hand.

Oh.

OH.

You'd been Guided once before, by your friend after your first awakening when you'd accidentally discovered your powers. That had felt nice. Pleasant. Like someone had given your brain a gentle pat and said "there there, stop being a mess."

This felt like your nervous system had just discovered what relaxation was after spending your entire life tensed for a fight you didn't know was coming.

Every muscle you didn't know you'd been clenching unclenched. The weird staticky feeling that had been buzzing in your skull like angry bees just... evaporated.

Your brain, which normally felt like a browser with 47 tabs open and 32 of them playing different music, suddenly felt organized. Like someone had gone through and closed all the tabs and organized your mental bookmarks and maybe even cleared the cache.

You could feel him Guiding you—actually feel the energy smoothing out all the jagged edges your power had left behind, like someone running a sanding block over rough wood until it was polished.

He was GOOD. Suspiciously good. "Did you go to some kind of Guide university or something" levels of good.

You relaxed so much you probably looked like a boneless cat. "Oh damn," you mumbled, your words slurring slightly. "I'm gonna fall asleep on you if you keep this up. This is a threat and a warning."

"Please don't," Lilia said, sounding amused. "I just got this jacket cleaned, and you smell like alley."

"You're in the alley too. You also smell like alley."

He was still holding your hand, still Guiding you, and everything felt so stupidly comfortable and warm that when he said, "Come with me," in that cheerful tone, your brain—which was currently the consistency of warm honey—just went "yeah okay sounds good."

"Sure," you said, letting him pull you to your feet.

Somewhere in the distant background of your mind, the tiny part of your brain that was responsible for self-preservation was screaming. It was jumping up and down waving red flags.

It was pulling out the PowerPoint presentation from that assembly in middle school about stranger danger and secondary locations and how this was EXACTLY how people ended up on true crime podcasts.

But that part of your brain was very far away and very easy to ignore when you felt this relaxed.

So you followed Lilia out of the alley like a baby duck that had imprinted on a particularly chaotic mother duck who probably had a criminal record.

"Where are we going?" you asked, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with his surprisingly quick pace.

"Somewhere more comfortable than an alley," Lilia said cheerfully. "I have standards, you know. If you're going to pass out on me again—which you might—I'd prefer it happen somewhere that doesn't require a tetanus shot afterward."

"That's very considerate of you."

"I'm a very considerate person," he said, grinning over his shoulder at you. "Also, we should probably have a conversation about how you've been functioning as an Esper without a Guide, because that's either incredibly impressive or incredibly stupid. I'm leaning toward stupid."

"Why not both?"

"I like the way you think."

Behind you, the monster remains continued their dissolving process, leaving behind a stain that was going to confuse the hell out of the Bureau cleanup crew and possibly require a hazmat team.

Ahead of you, Lilia was humming again—some tune that sounded vaguely like a lullaby but with ominous undertones—and leading you through the streets with confidence, like he had done this before and found it hilarious every single time.

You were definitely making terrible decisions.

But you were making them while feeling the most relaxed you'd felt in two years, so really, who was the winner here?

Lilia got you ice cream.

He steered you into a convenience store like you were a traumatized kindergartener who'd just scraped their knee, pointed at the freezer section, and told you to pick whatever you wanted.

Who were you to say no to free ice cream? You grabbed something with an unreasonable amount of chocolate and possibly some cookie chunks. Lilia got one that was bright green and probably melon-flavored, which felt very on-brand for someone wearing a jacket with more zippers than seemed structurally necessary.

You sat on a bench outside the store, eating your feelings and your ice cream, while Lilia swung his legsand hummed between bites.

"So what's up with you?" you asked, gesturing at him with your spoon. "Do you just... pick up strays on the regular? Is this a hobby? Should I be concerned that you're running some kind of alley person collection service?"

Lilia laughed, bright and a little bit mischievous. "Something like that! I've always had a soft spot for lost things. Stray cats, confused Espers having existential crises next to dumpsters—really, is there much difference?"

"I feel like there should be."

"And yet here we are!" He took another bite of his aggressively green ice cream, looking perfectly pleased with himself.

When you finished, he pulled out his phone and handed it to you. "Put your number in."

You blinked at him. "Why?"

"So you can call me if you use your powers again," he said, like this was obvious. "You nearly turned yourself into a vegetable back there. Next time you might not be so lucky."

"There won't be a next time," you said firmly, typing in your number. "Jesus Christ, that was horrible. I'm never doing that again. I'm going to live a peaceful, power-free life and die of old age like a normal person."

Lilia's smile was indulgent in the way of someone watching a child promise they'll never eat candy again while still holding a lollipop. "Of course. I'm sure you'll be very successful at that."

"I will be. I'm very committed to this."

"I can tell."

You fucked up approximately one hour later.

You got home, exhausted and still a little loopy from being Guided. You kicked off your shoes, shuffled into your apartment, and immediately spotted it.

A HUGE spider, one so nasty that made you question whether God had favorites and you definitely weren't one of them. It was on the wall next to your kitchen, just sitting there with all its horrible legs, probably plotting your demise.

You screamed and powers activated on instinct.

Fire shot from your hand like you were some kind of discount flamethrower.

The spider was obliterated. So was a chunk of your wall. And your security deposit.

"No no no NO—" You stared at the scorch mark in horror, then at your hand, then at where the spider used to be.

The recoil hit you like a truck filled with smaller trucks.

Your brain immediately started doing that thing again where it felt like it was coming apart at the seams. The screaming started up. Somewhere in the static, a voice cheerfully suggested that maybe if you just stuck your head in the freezer, everything would be fine. Cold fixed computers, right? Probably worked on brains too.

You grabbed your phone with shaking hands and texted Lilia.

You: alley person here You: so You: funny story You: i may have used my powers again You: in my defense there was a spider You: a HUGE spider You: i have no other defense

The reply came back almost immediately.

Lilia: I'm disappointed but not surprised. Lilia: Where are you?

You sent him your address, then sat on your floor and tried very hard not to eat your couch cushions because they were starting to look oddly appealing.

Lilia showed up to your apartment in less than ten minutes, which seemed impossible given where the convenience store was, but you weren't going to question it.

He took one look at you sitting on the floor with your back against the wall and sighed. "You lasted less than an hour. I should start a betting pool."

"There was a spider," you said weakly.

"I'm sure it was terrifying."

He reached down and touched your shoulder.

Instant relief. The screaming stopped. The weird cravings vanished. Your brain remembered how to be a brain instead of a malfunctioning appliance.

You slumped against the wall, exhaling hard. "Oh thank god."

Lilia still looked shocked—genuinely surprised that his powers were working on you. His eyes were wide, and there was something almost melancholy in his expression before he smoothed it away into his usual amused mask.

You didn't dwell on it. He'd been nice enough to help you twice now. Who were you to interrogate him about why he looked surprised his Guide powers worked? Maybe he was having an off day. Maybe he usually worked with different Espers. Maybe you were just weird.

"Come on," you said, standing up. "I owe you dinner at least. It's the least I can do for making you run across town because I'm afraid of spiders."

You led him into your kicthen, trying not to look at the scorch mark on the wall. He looked at it anyway, tilting his head like he was examining a piece of abstract art.

"You really don't like spiders," he observed.

"In my defense, it was huge."

"I'm sure it was a terrible monster. Truly fearsome."

You ordered delivery because cooking was beyond you right now, and you sat cross-legged on your floor while Lilia perched on your couch.

"So," he said, pulling apart his chopsticks. "Why don't you want to go to the Bureau?"

You looked at him like he'd just asked why you didn't want to stick your hand in a blender.

"Are you serious? The government SUCKS." You gestured emphatically with a piece of chicken. "They'd own me. They'd tell me where to go, what to fight, when to sleep. I'd be a tool. A weapon. They don't care if Espers burn out or go crazy or die—they just care that the Gates get cleared and they look good on camera. Have you SEEN their propaganda videos? They're so bad. The acting is terrible. The one guy looks like he's being held hostage."

Lilia laughed, bright and genuine. "He probably is."

"Right?! And the benefits are garbage. I looked it up once. The health insurance doesn't even cover therapy, which seems like something Espers would desperately need? And the retirement plan is just 'hope you last long enough to retire.' No thanks. I'll take my chances with the spiders."

"The government does have its flaws," Lilia agreed, something twinkling in his eyes. "But the Bureau isn't as bad as you think it is."

You looked at him skeptically. "Are you a recruiter? Is this a recruitment pitch? Because I gotta tell you, the free ice cream already happened. You can't get me twice."

"Not a recruiter," he said, grinning. "Just someone with experience. The Bureau has its problems, certainly, but there are benefits too. It gives you access to Guides who can keep you from barbecuing your apartment every time you see an insect."

"I'm doing fine on my own."

"You needed me twice in one day because you almost went insane."

"...Okay but besides that."

Lilia's expression went soft, almost fond. "Come with me tomorrow. Somewhere interesting. I think you'll be surprised."

You should say no. Technically, this dude was still a stranger. You'd known him for less than a day. He could be anyone. A serial killer. A organ harvester. A time-share salesman.

But there was something about the melancholy in his eyes when he'd touched you, when he'd looked so surprised that his powers worked. Something genuine and a little bit sad and entirely trustable.

"Fine," you said. "But if you're a serial killer, I'm going to haunt you so hard. I'll be the most annoying ghost. I'll move your furniture two inches to the left every night. I'll make your milk spoil early. I'll hide one sock from every pair."

Lilia laughed, standing up and reaching over to ruffle your hair. "Duly noted. I'll pick you up at ten."

He left, and you sat in your apartment with a scorch mark on the wall and a strange man's number in your phone and the distinct feeling that your life was about to get significantly more complicated.

Lilia took you to a Gate.

No, not the general vicinity of a Gate. He took you RIGHT to a Gate, close enough that you could see the weird shimmer of it, like heat waves rising off asphalt in summer except the asphalt was a tear in reality and the heat waves were dimensional energy that probably caused cancer.

There were Guides waiting outside.

You could tell they were Guides by the way they were standing around looking nervous and checking their devices obsessively and doing that thing where they pretend they're not worried while being EXTREMELY worried. 

One was pacing back and forth so much they were going to wear a groove in the sidewalk. Another was hiding behind a trashcan—fully committed to the hiding, crouched down with just their eyes peeking over the top—and you respected that level of dedication to anxiety management. A third was absolutely SCREAMING at another Guide who looked sheepish and kept trying to explain themselves.

"—APPLE JUICE? You filled the first aid kit with APPLE JUICE instead of stabilizers?!"

"In my defense, they're both liquids—"

"THAT IS NOT A DEFENSE. THAT'S NOT EVEN CLOSE TO A DEFENSE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT APPLE JUICE DOES FOR PSYCHIC OVERLOAD?"

"...Provides vitamin C?"

"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT BEFORE I STRANGLE YOU."

You looked at Lilia. "What are we doing here?"

He grinned, all mischief and secrets, and motioned for you to sit down on a nearby bench.

You sat.

"Usually civilians aren't allowed this close," you pointed out, eyeing the perimeter that you were definitely inside of.

"Usually," Lilia agreed, settling next to you like he didn't have a care in the world.

Nobody said anything. Not the Bureau personnel managing the perimeter. Not the Guides. Nobody even looked at you twice.

Lilia apparently had the kind of pull that made people just... accept his presence. And by extension, yours.

You filed that information away under "things that should probably concern me but don't because I'm too committed to this poor decision."

"We're watching," Lilia said simply. "Just watch."

So you watched.

The Gate shimmered. Pulsed. And then Espers started stumbling out.

Some were walking on their own, relatively stable but with that look in their eyes like they were holding themselves together through sheer willpower. Others were stumbling, barely keeping upright, their movements jerky and uncoordinated like puppets with tangled strings.

The Guides moved immediately.

Some ran to their Espers, catching them before they fell. Others waited, arms outstretched, as their Espers made their way over on shaky legs.

The Guide who'd been hiding behind the trashcan suddenly found their courage and sprinted to catch their Esper, who collapsed into their arms with the kind of trust that comes from knowing someone will be there to catch you.

You watched as connections happened. Skin-to-skin contact. The immediate relaxation in the Espers' postures as they were Guided. The relief on the Guides' faces as they confirmed their Espers were alive and relatively intact.

It made you feel... lonely.

Which was stupid. You'd chosen isolation.

You'd chosen to hide your powers, to avoid the Bureau, to keep yourself separate from all of this. You'd made that choice specifically to avoid getting caught up in this system, to avoid becoming another tool for the government to use and discard.

But watching someone wait for their Esper, watching them catch them before they fell, watching the way they held each other like they were the only solid thing in each other's worlds...

That made something in your chest ache.

Your powers had made you isolate yourself. Fear of hurting others. Fear of getting caught. Fear of losing control. You'd cut yourself off from people, kept yourself small and hidden and alone, because it seemed safer than the alternative.

But safe was also lonely.

And watching these pairs—watching the way they moved together, supported each other, trusted each other—made you realize how much you'd given up by choosing to hide.

Lilia tapped your cheek gently, pulling you out of your thoughts.

He pointed toward the Gate entrance.

The final Espers were stumbling out, and with them came civilians—regular people who'd been caught in the Gate when it opened, trapped inside with the monsters until the Espers could clear it and get them out.

They were crying. Thanking the Espers. Hugging them. One old woman grabbed an Esper's face and kissed their forehead while sobbing about how she thought she'd never see her grandchildren again.

The Espers looked exhausted and uncomfortable with the attention, but also... proud. Like they knew they'd done something that mattered.

Like they'd made a difference.

You felt something shift in your chest.

Your dead-end convenience store job had never made anyone cry with relief. You'd never saved anyone from monsters. The most impact you'd had on someone's life was probably giving them the correct change and not judging them for buying weird snack combinations at 2 AM.

This... this was different.

"So," Lilia said softly, his voice losing some of its usual playfulness. "What do you think?"

You were quiet for a moment, watching the last civilian get escorted to a waiting ambulance, still thanking every Esper they passed.

"I think..." You swallowed. "I think my job sucks and I've been wasting my life."

Lilia laughed, warm and understanding. "Many people feel that way. But you have a choice now."

"The Bureau—"

"Has its problems, yes. We've established this." He turned to look at you fully, those red eyes serious despite his smile. "But it also has purpose. Structure. Training. People who will catch you when you fall." He paused. "And if you want to resign and run away after the first week, I'll help you hide. I know some excellent hiding spots. Very dramatic. One of them is in a cave."

"A cave?"

"I have eclectic tastes."

You looked back at the Gate. At the Guides helping their Espers toward the medical tent. At the civilians being reunited with worried family members. At the Bureau personnel coordinating everything with practiced efficiency despite the apple juice incident.

It wasn't perfect. It was bureaucratic and messy and probably full of paperwork and annoying rules.

But it was also... something. Something more than hiding and pretending and living in fear of sneezing wrong.

"Okay," you said.

Lilia blinked. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. I'll give it a shot." You looked at him. "But you have to help me. I don't know how any of this works. I don't know what I'm doing. I've been avoiding this my entire life."

His smile was softer than you'd seen it, almost proud. "I can do that."

"And if it sucks—"

"Cave. Very dramatic. Possibly some bats."

"Perfect."

You sat there for a moment longer, watching the organized chaos of a successful Gate clear, feeling like you were standing on the edge of something huge and terrifying and maybe, possibly, worth it.

Lilia stood up, offering you his hand.

You took it.

"Come on then," he said cheerfully. "Let's go ruin some bureaucrat's day with paperwork."

"Is that fun for you?"

"Immensely."

You followed him away from the Gate, toward whatever fresh hell you'd just agreed to, and tried not to think about how your entire life had just changed because of a spider, an alley, and a short man with excellent hair and mysterious government connections.

Lilia waited outside while you got tested.

The testing room looked like someone had combined a doctor's office with a sci-fi movie set and then given up halfway through decorating. There was a glowing orb on a pedestal in the center that looked like it had been stolen from a fantasy game.

The walls were that specific shade of beige that only existed in government buildings, and there was a motivational poster featuring an Esper punching a monster with the caption "TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK" that had clearly been put up by someone who had never actually been inside a Gate.

You expected a solid A-rank. Maybe B.

You'd sneezed a car into orbit and barbecued a spider through a wall, sure, but that didn't necessarily mean you were anything special. Lots of Espers could do property damage. It was kind of their whole thing.

The recruitment videos were basically just montages of Espers breaking stuff in increasingly impressive ways while dramatic music played.

The Bureau person overseeing your test—a tired-looking woman with glasses held together by tape and a clipboard that had seen better days—gestured at the orb like she was explaining how to use a microwave for the ten thousandth time.

"Put your hand on it," she said in the tone of someone who had said this exact phrase 5,000 times and had lost all will to live around iteration 364.

You put your hand on the orb. It felt warm and tingly. It was like touching a TV screen with static electricity, except the TV was a metaphysical representation of your soul's power level and also possibly judging you.

The orb glowed brighter, which seemed normal. Then it glowed even brighter, which seemed less normal. Then it started making a noise—a high-pitched whine that sounded like a kettle screaming its last dying breath.

The woman looked up from her clipboard, eyes widening as her pen clattered to the floor.

The orb flashed brilliant white, bright enough that you had to squint, and spat out a holographic display with letters so large you could probably see them from space: SS-RANK

You stared at it. The woman stared at it. You stared at the woman. She stared back, and her expression transformed from tired bureaucrat to kid on Christmas morning who just got the exact toy they wanted so fast you got whiplash watching it happen. Her entire face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.

"Oh my god," she whispered, and you started backing up slowly because you recognized that look. That was the look of someone about to make your problem their entire personality.

"OH MY GOD!" She lunged for a phone on the wall with the speed of someone who had been waiting their entire career for this exact moment. "WE HAVE AN SS-RANK! I REPEAT, WE HAVE AN SS-RANK! THIS IS NOT A DRILL! SOMEONE GET HR! SOMEONE GET EVERYONE! SOMEONE GET THE GOOD COFFEE FROM THE EXECUTIVE BREAK ROOM!"

You backed up faster, eyeing the door. The door burst open before you could reach it, and approximately seven people in Bureau uniforms rushed in like you'd just announced free pizza in the break room.

They all looked at you with identical expressions of barely contained hysteria. Then at the orb, which was still displaying SS-RANK in letters that seemed to be getting bigger out of spite. Then back at you. Their expressions were terrifying in their enthusiasm, like a pack of very professional wolves that had just spotted a very valuable sheep.

You were about to make a break for the window—second floor be damned, you'd survived worse—when someone from HR materialized out of nowhere and physically blocked your escape route.

How did a HR person move that fast? Was there some kind of special HR technique they taught where you learned to sense when someone was about to flee? The HR person was slightly out of breath and clutching a contract so thick it could probably be used as a weapon.

"WAIT!" they shouted, holding up both hands like they were trying to calm a spooked horse. "Wait wait wait, don't run, we have BENEFITS!"

"I'm good actually—" you started, still edging toward the window.

"INSURANCE!" they interrupted desperately, and you could see the fear in their eyes that you were going to bail. "Full coverage! Medical, dental, vision! We'll include DENTAL! Do you know how rare dental coverage is? It's VERY rare! People write poems about dental coverage!"

You hesitated. Dental was expensive. You'd been using the same retainer for three years because you couldn't afford to replace it.

"We'll pay your rent!" another Bureau person chimed in, jumping on your moment of weakness like a shark sensing blood in the water. "Full coverage, any apartment within city limits! You want a penthouse? We'll get you a penthouse! You want a place with a balcony? DONE! You want one of those fancy buildings with a doorman who judges everyone? WE'LL MAKE IT HAPPEN!"

"We'll assign you a high-level Guide immediately!" someone else added, practically climbing over their colleague to be heard. "Top tier! The best! S-rank minimum! They won't fill the first aid kit with apple juice, we promise! That was ONE time and he has been reprimanded!"

The HR people could sense your flight instinct was still on full throttle. They were throwing benefits at you like someone trying to lure a feral cat with treats, getting increasingly creative and increasingly desperate. "Pension plan! Hazard pay! Access to the executive cafeteria, which has the GOOD coffee, not the break room sludge that tastes like someone strained it through a gym sock!"

"Paid time off!" another voice called from somewhere in the growing crowd.

"Gym membership! With the pool! The nice pool, not the one where someone saw a rat!"

"Free therapy! Which you'll need! We're very upfront about that! The job is stressful! We have EXCELLENT therapists! Some of them have only mild stress-related disorders themselves!"

You were being cornered by increasingly frantic Bureau employees listing benefits while you calculated whether you could fit through the air vent in the ceiling. It looked narrow, but you were motivated.

"A week off every month," you said desperately, playing your trump card because you were running out of wall to back up against.

Everyone went silent. The HR person's eye twitched. Someone in the back whispered "is that allowed?" and got immediately shushed. 

"That's... that's excessive," the HR person said weakly.

"SS-rank," you pointed out, gesturing at the orb which was still helpfully displaying your rank like the world's most obnoxious scoreboard. "According to your glowing ball of judgment. I could probably sneeze this building into the sun if I wanted to. Accidentally. I have a history of sneezing things into orbit. Ask my old landlord."

You watched them do the mental math. You could practically see the calculations happening behind their eyes: cost of benefits versus value of SS-rank Esper versus likelihood of this person actually sneezing the building into the sun versus how badly they needed an SS-rank on their roster versus how much paperwork it would be if you escaped through the window.

"Deal," the HR person said, slapping the contract down on the nearest surface with the force of someone who had made a decision and was committed to it even if it killed them. "Sign here, here, and here. Initial here. Blood type here—that's for medical, not a ritual, I know it looks suspicious with the red ink but I promise it's normal paperwork. We just ran out of black pens and nobody wants to go to the supply closet because it's haunted."

You signed. Your hand was shaking slightly, and you weren't sure if it was from nerves or from the dawning realization that you'd just agreed to the exact thing you'd been avoiding for years or from the fact that the HR person had just casually mentioned their supply closet was haunted and nobody had questioned it.

But hey. Dental.

You stumbled out of the testing room in a daze, clutching your copy of the contract like it was a life preserver and you were drowning in a sea of poor decisions.

The past thirty minutes had been a whirlwind of glowing orbs and enthusiastic Bureau employees and benefits negotiations that had felt more like hostage negotiations.

Lilia was leaning against the wall outside, looking perfectly relaxed and completely unbothered by the muffled shouting that had definitely been audible from the hallway. He was examining his nails again, because apparently that was his default state of being. He grinned when he saw you.

"How'd it go?" he asked cheerfully, like he didn't already know the answer based on the fact that you looked like you'd just survived a natural disaster.

"SS-rank," you said numbly, still not quite believing it yourself.

His eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face before settling into something that looked almost like pride. "Oh my. That's exciting."

"They offered me dental."

"Well, that's just good sense. Dental is important. You should take care of your teeth."

"I signed my life away for dental and a week off per month."

"The week off is clever negotiating. I'm proud of you." He pushed off the wall with the easy grace of someone who had never been awkward a day in his life. "You'll do well here. Try not to sneeze any buildings into orbit. I imagine the paperwork for that would be extensive."

You grabbed his sleeve before he could walk away, your fingers clenching in the fabric with perhaps more desperation than was strictly dignified. "Be my Guide."

Lilia blinked, his expression cycling through confusion and then carefully controlled neutrality. "What?"

"Be my Guide," you repeated, more firmly this time. "They said they'd assign me a high-level Guide but I don't want a stranger. You're good at it. You made the drywall cravings stop. Twice. That's a 100% success rate. That's better statistics than most medical procedures."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, then something softer and sadder that made him look older than he should. "I don't work here."

You stared at him. Blinked. Stared some more. Your brain made the sound of a computer trying to process an error message and failing spectacularly.

"You... what?"

"I don't work for the Bureau," he said simply, like this was a perfectly normal thing to drop into conversation and not information that recontextualized your entire interaction.

"What does that MEAN?" You grabbed his shoulders and shook him, which was difficult because he was sturdier than he looked. "Are you in another branch? Are you a foreign Guide? Are you freelance? IS THAT A THING? CAN GUIDES BE FREELANCE? Why were you in that alley? Why did you help me? Why did you bring me here? EXPLAIN!"

"Stop shaking me, you'll give me whiplash and then who will Guide you through your inevitable breakdown?" Lilia said, looking more amused than concerned about being physically rattled like a snow globe.

You stopped shaking him but kept your hands on his shoulders, fixing him with your most intense stare. The one that usually made convenience store shoplifters confess immediately. "Explain. Now. Use your words. Complete sentences."

Lilia sighed, and that melancholy you'd glimpsed before crept back into his expression like fog rolling in. His usual playful mask slipped just enough that you could see something raw underneath. "I lost my Guide powers years ago."

You felt your stomach drop somewhere into the vicinity of your feet. "What?"

"An injury. An incident. A very exciting story that I don't particularly enjoy telling." He looked at you with those red eyes that suddenly seemed much older than they should be, ancient in a way that made you want to ask questions you weren't sure you wanted answered.

"The details don't matter. What matters is that I haven't been able to Guide anyone in a very long time. Somehow, you're the only one I can Guide. I don't know why. You're an anomaly. A statistical impossibility. Probably a clerical error in the universe's filing system."

That explained everything. The shock on his face every time he touched you and it worked. The surprise, and the nostalgia. The way he looked at you like you were something precious and impossible. The melancholy that crept in around the edges when he thought you weren't looking.

He'd been a Guide. Probably a good one, based on how effective he was with you. And then he'd lost it, lost that fundamental part of himself, and had been living without it until you'd stumbled into an alley and passed out at his feet.

"Be my Guide," you said again, quieter this time but no less firm.

"I don't think that's a good idea—"

"I came here because of you," you interrupted, and you weren't above guilt-tripping him if that's what it took because you'd already signed the contract and you were committed now and the idea of doing this with anyone else made your chest tight.

"You took me to that Gate. You showed me those people, those Espers and Guides working together. You showed me the civilians they saved. You convinced me this was worth trying, that maybe I could do something that mattered instead of just hiding and working a dead-end job and pretending I was normal. How can you just leave me here alone after all that? That's so cold. That's heartless. I thought we had a bond. I thought we were friends. I'm going to cry."

"You're not going to cry."

"I might! You don't know! I'm very emotional right now! I just found out I'm SS-rank, which I'm still processing, and I signed a contract that's probably going to ruin my life, and there was SO much paperwork, and one of the sections mentioned the haunted supply closet very casually, and I think I'm having a crisis!"

Lilia looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he started laughing—that genuine, delighted laugh that made him seem younger and less mysterious and more like a person who enjoyed chaos for its own sake. "You're very convincing. Has anyone ever told you that you'd make an excellent lawyer? Or possibly a con artist?"

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes." He gently removed your hands from his shoulders and patted your head like you were a particularly amusing puppy who had just done a trick. "Fine. You win. I'll be your Guide. But when you inevitably regret this decision, I want you to remember that you literally begged me."

"I'm fine with that. I'll write it down. I'll get it notarized."

"Let's go ruin HR's day twice in one afternoon," he said, walking toward the HR office.

You followed, feeling like you'd just won something but weren't entirely sure what. You could hear muffled sounds from other rooms—someone yelling about proper Gate procedure, someone else crying, the distant sound of what might have been a small explosion or just someone dropping something heavy.

The HR person looked up when Lilia walked in, saw exactly who it was, and their expression cycled through confusion, recognition, shock, horror, resignation, and finally the blank exhaustion of someone who had given up on understanding their life.

They looked like they aged ten years in five seconds.

"Vanrouge," they said weakly, and there was so much history in how they said his name. Exhaustion. Exasperation. This was someone who had dealt with this particular person before and knew exactly what was about to happen.

"Hello again!" Lilia said cheerfully, giving a little wave like he was greeting an old friend at a coffee shop and not walking into a government office to upend someone's afternoon. "I'd like to register as a Guide."

"You... your powers..." The HR person looked like they were trying to figure out how to phrase this delicately and failing. "You haven't been able to Guide anyone in years."

"Apparently they work on our new SS-rank friend here." He gestured at you with a flourish, like you were a prize on a game show. "So we may as well make it official, don't you think? It would be a shame to waste such a miraculous recovery. Very inspiring. You could probably make a motivational poster out of it."

The HR person looked at you with an expression that clearly said "why would you choose this?" Then at Lilia, who was radiating innocence in a way that was deeply suspicious. Then at the ceiling like they were asking for divine intervention or possibly checking to see if God was watching and judging their life choices.

"I don't get paid enough for this," they muttered, pulling out another contract from a drawer that seemed to contain nothing but contracts and disappointment.

"You know what? Fine. FINE. Today is clearly a day where nothing makes sense and the universe has decided to mess with me personally. Let's just... let's just do this. Do you have any idea how much paperwork this is going to be? Do you? Because it's a LOT. There are FORMS. So many forms. Forms about forms."

"I love paperwork," Lilia said, absolutely lying.

You and Lilia exchanged glances. He winked at you, eyes glinting with mischief and something that might have been genuine happiness. You tried not to smile and failed spectacularly, your face breaking into a grin that probably made you look slightly unhinged.

This was either the best decision you'd ever made or the worst, and honestly, you were fine with either option as long as it came with dental and Lilia's terrible sense of humor and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, you'd found something worth staying for.

The HR person began aggressively stapling papers together like they were taking out their frustrations on office supplies.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

The Bureau had decided, in their infinite wisdom, to immediately introduce you to your new colleagues.

Because apparently "letting you process the fact that you just signed away your life" was not on today's agenda. The HR person who looked like they'd aged a decade in the past hour led you down a hallway, muttering something about "team integration" and "collaborative synergy" and other corporate buzzwords that made you want to throw yourself out a window.

Lilia walked beside you, humming that creepy music box tune again, looking far too entertained by your obvious distress. His eyes were practically glittering with mischief, which should have been your first warning that whatever was about to happen was going to be deeply unpleasant for you and extremely entertaining for him.

"You'll love them," he said cheerfully, which was exactly the kind of thing people said right before you met people you would absolutely not love.

"I don't love anyone," you muttered, trying to mentally prepare yourself for whatever fresh hell awaited.

"Not even me? I'm wounded. Devastated. I may never recover from this betrayal."

The HR person stopped in front of a door, took a deep breath like they were preparing for battle or possibly their own execution, and opened it. "Your new team," they announced, gesturing inside with all the enthusiasm of someone introducing you to a root canal performed by a dentist with shaky hands.

You stepped inside and immediately wanted to step back out, directly into traffic, which would probably be safer.

There were two people in the room, and they were possibly the most contrasting pair you'd ever seen. One of them was half asleep standing up—actually standing there with his eyes closed, arms crossed, somehow maintaining perfect posture while clearly unconscious.

His hair was silver and fell across his face in a way that should have looked messy but instead looked like he'd stepped out of a shampoo commercial. He had the kind of ethereal pretty-boy look that belonged in a boy band or a fantasy novel about sad elves. He was breathing slowly and evenly, and you were genuinely impressed that someone could sleep standing up without falling over.

That took skill. Or possibly narcolepsy. Or maybe he was dead and just really committed to staying upright.

The other one looked like he was vibrating with righteous fury, like someone had taken all the rage in the world and compressed it into one human-shaped container that was about to explode.

His hair was aggressively green, styled in a way that seemed to defy both gravity and good sense. His eyes were wide and intense like he'd been waiting his entire life for something to be angry about and had finally, finally found it.

He was staring at you with an expression that suggested you'd personally insulted his entire family, his ancestors, his ancestors' ancestors, and possibly his favorite breakfast cereal.

You raised your hand in what you hoped was a friendly, non-threatening wave. "Hi, I'm—"

"HOW DARE YOU!" the green-haired one exploded, his voice reaching decibels that probably violated several noise ordinances and possibly the Geneva Convention.

You blinked. "What?"

"HOW DARE YOU CASUALLY TOUCH MASTER LILIA!" He pointed at you with a finger that was shaking with emotion, his whole arm trembling like he was physically restraining himself from attacking you.

His face was turning red, which clashed spectacularly with his green hair in a way that made him look like a very angry Christmas decoration. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO HE IS? THE AUDACITY! THE SHEER DISRESPECT! AND YOU—A HUMAN?!"

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process what was happening. "What does that even mean? We're all human here. That's—that's just a fact. Basic biology. Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Do you need a paper bag to breathe into? Are you having a medical emergency?"

"I AM PERFECTLY FINE!" he screamed, somehow getting even louder, which you hadn't thought was physically possible. "YOU ARE THE PROBLEM! YOU WALTZ IN HERE, AN UNREGISTERED ESPER WHO PROBABLY DOESN'T EVEN KNOW PROPER PROTOCOL, AND YOU DARE TO—TO MAKE MASTER LILIA SIGN A CONTRACT? TO BECOME YOUR GUIDE? THE PRESUMPTION! THE ARROGANCE! THE—THE—"

Something in you snapped. Maybe it was the stress of the day. Maybe it was the fact that you'd just signed your life away for dental coverage. Maybe it was because this guy was yelling at you for reasons you didn't understand and hadn't even introduced himself first and you'd had about enough of today already.

"LISTEN HERE, YOU SENTIENT HIGHLIGHTER!" you yelled back, matching his volume and possibly exceeding it. "I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE, BUT I JUST HAD A VERY STRESSFUL DAY! I FOUND OUT I'M SS-RANK, WHICH IS INSANE! I SIGNED A CONTRACT THAT'S PROBABLY CURSED! THERE'S A HAUNTED SUPPLY CLOSET SOMEWHERE IN THIS BUILDING AND NOBODY WILL EXPLAIN WHY!"

"THAT'S NO EXCUSE FOR YOUR BLATANT DISRESPECT—"

"DISRESPECT?! I LITERALLY JUST MET YOU! I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME! YOU COULD BE ANYONE! YOU COULD BE KEVIN FROM ACCOUNTING FOR ALL I KNOW!"

"I AM NOT KEVIN FROM ACCOUNTING! I AM SEBEK ZIGVOLT, ELITE ESPER AND—"

"WELL GOOD FOR YOU, SEBEK!" You were fully panicking now, words just falling out of your mouth with no filter. "I NEED TO BUY EGGS! AND MILK! MY REFRIGERATOR IS EMPTY! I HAVEN'T DONE LAUNDRY IN TWO WEEKS! I'M WEARING MY EMERGENCY UNDERWEAR! DO YOU KNOW HOW STRESSFUL THAT IS?!"

Sebek faltered, looking confused. "What—"

"AND ANOTHER THING!" You were on a roll now, your brain completely divorced from reality. "I THINK I LEFT MY STOVE ON! DID I TURN IT OFF? I CAN'T REMEMBER! WHAT IF MY APARTMENT BURNS DOWN?! I JUST RENEWED MY LEASE! THE DEPOSIT WAS SO EXPENSIVE!"

"THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH—"

"I ALSO NEED TO RETURN MY LIBRARY BOOKS! THEY'RE THREE WEEKS OVERDUE! THE LATE FEES ARE GOING TO BE ASTRONOMICAL! DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH LIBRARIES CHARGE?!" You were gesturing wildly now, completely unhinged. "AND I NEVER CALLED MY MOM BACK! SHE'S GOING TO BE SO MAD! SHE ALWAYS ASKS IF I'M EATING ENOUGH VEGETABLES AND I ALWAYS LIE!"

"STOP SPOUTING NONSENSE—"

"IT'S NOT NONSENSE, IT'S MY LIFE, SEBEK! MY LIFE IS NONSENSE! I SAW A RACCOON YESTERDAY AND IT JUDGED ME! A RACCOON! I COULD SEE IT IN ITS LITTLE RACCOON EYES! IT KNEW I WAS A MESS!"

"WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?!"

"I DON'T KNOW! I'M HAVING A CRISIS! MULTIPLE CRISES! A CRISIS SANDWICH! AND YOU'RE YELLING AT ME ABOUT TOUCHING LILIA WHEN HE'S THE ONE WHO GRABBED MY HAND FIRST! I DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS! I DIDN'T ASK FOR ANY OF THIS! I JUST WANTED TO LIVE A QUIET LIFE AND MAYBE ADOPT A CAT SOMEDAY!"

Sebek looked like his brain was short-circuiting trying to process your increasingly unhinged yelling. "YOU—YOU CAN'T JUST—"

"I ALSO THINK I'M LACTOSE INTOLERANT BUT I KEEP EATING CHEESE ANYWAY! IT'S A PROBLEM! I HAVE MANY PROBLEMS! CHEESE IS JUST ONE OF THEM!" You were fully spiraling now. "AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON MY STUDENT LOANS! DO YOU HAVE STUDENT LOANS, SEBEK?! BECAUSE THEY'RE TERRIBLE! THEY FOLLOW YOU EVERYWHERE! IT'S LIKE BEING HAUNTED BY DEBT!"

"MASTER LILIA DESERVES BETTER THAN—"

"BETTER THAN WHAT?! SOMEONE WHO NEEDS TO BUY EGGS?! SOMEONE WHO'S BAD AT RETURNING LIBRARY BOOKS?! I'M DOING MY BEST HERE!" You threw your hands up. "I DIDN'T EVEN WANT TO BE AN ESPER! I WANTED TO BE A MARINE BIOLOGIST! BUT NO! I HAD TO SNEEZE A CAR INTO ORBIT! DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO EXPLAIN THAT?!"

Sebek's eye was twitching. He looked like he couldn't decide if he wanted to continue yelling at you or just give up on the conversation entirely. "YOU'RE COMPLETELY UNHINGED!"

"YEAH, WELL, YOU'RE YELLING AT A STRANGER ABOUT TOUCHING SOMEONE WHO GRABBED ME FIRST, SO WHO'S REALLY UNHINGED HERE?!" 

That's when you noticed it—static. Visible static electricity gathering around his hands, crackling in the air like he was a human Tesla coil who'd decided you needed to be deleted from existence.

Little sparks jumped between his fingers, making a sound like angry bees. The lights flickered ominously. Your hair started standing on end, which was just great because you already looked like a mess and now you were going to look like a mess who'd stuck their finger in an electrical socket.

Oh.

Oh no.

He was an Esper. Obviously. You were in the Bureau.

But he was an Esper who was currently furious at you for yelling about groceries and library books and was generating what looked like enough electricity to power a small city or possibly just electrocute you to death, and you'd really prefer the first option but suspected you were going to get the second.

You started backing up quickly, hands raised in surrender, your survival instincts finally kicking in. "Okay, okay, let's just calm down! Let's all take a deep breath! No need for the lightning! I'm sure we can talk about this like rational adults! I take back the highlighter comment! Your hair is very—it's very green! That's a neutral observation! Actually, it's nice! Very vibrant! Really pops! Makes a statement!"

"NEUTRAL?! MY HAIR IS MAGNIFICENT! IT'S A TESTAMENT TO MY DEDICATION AND—"

"YES! MAGNIFICENT! EXACTLY WHAT I MEANT! VERY MAGNIFICENT! EXTREMELY MAGNIFICENT! THE MOST MAGNIFICENT HAIR I'VE EVER SEEN! PLEASE DON'T ELECTROCUTE ME! I STILL NEED TO BUY THOSE EGGS!"

"WHY DO YOU KEEP TALKING ABOUT EGGS?!"

"I DON'T KNOW! I'M PANICKING! THIS IS HOW I PANIC! I THINK ABOUT GROCERIES! IT'S A COPING MECHANISM!"

You backed up directly into something solid—someone solid—and stumbled. You immediately started apologizing because your mother had raised you with manners even if everything else in your life was currently a disaster movie. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to—I'm just trying not to get electrocuted—very sorry—"

You looked back to see who you'd bumped into.

And up.

And further up.

And even further up because this person was unreasonably tall.

There was a guy with horns on his head. Actual honest-to-god horns that curved back from his temples like he was part dragon or demon or some kind of mythological creature that had decided to take human form and join the Bureau.

He was tall—impossibly tall, and made you feel like a small child looking up at an adult, except worse because you were an adult and he was just absurdly, unfairly tall.

His presence felt heavy, like gravity worked differently around him, like the air itself was bending to accommodate his existence. His eyes were green and sharp and ancient, looking at you with an expression that was either curiosity or the prelude to you being smited, and you weren't sure which would be worse.

He was wearing a Bureau uniform that somehow looked formal and elegant on him instead of like sad government-issued clothing, like he'd personally upgraded the dress code through sheer force of presence alone.

You knew this guy.

You'd seen him on the news. Multiple times. Usually with headlines like "STRONGEST ESPER CLEARS S-RANK GATE SOLO" or "MALLEUS DRACONIA SAVES CITY, CAUSES MINOR EARTHQUAKE" or your personal favorite from last month: "PLEASE STOP ASKING THE STRONGEST ESPER IF HE'S SINGLE, SAYS INCREASINGLY DESPERATE BUREAU SPOKESPERSON."

This was Malleus Draconia. The world's strongest Esper. SSS-rank, technically only one level above you, except he's been SSS-rank for years and actually knew what he was doing and probably didn't yell about grocery lists when confronted.

He could level mountains. He'd once accidentally caused a three-day thunderstorm because he was in a bad mood. There were rumors that he'd solo-cleared a Gate that had been designated "certain death" and came out without a scratch, looking mildly annoyed that it hadn't been more challenging.

Other rumors suggested that monsters sometimes just gave up and left when they sensed him coming.

You were stuck between a guy who wanted to electrocute you for unclear reasons involving touching Lilia and the world's strongest Esper, and you had the sudden, horrible certainty that you were going to die here.

On your first day. Before you even got to use your dental benefits. They'd find your body and the HR person would sigh and add you to some statistic about "new recruits who didn't make it past orientation."

This was it. This was how it ended. Death by angry colleagues in a room that smelled like industrial cleaner and broken dreams.

You opened your mouth, possibly to apologize or possibly to scream, you weren't sure.

To your complete and utter surprise, Malleus looked at the green-haired lightning generator and said, in a voice that was calm and deep and somehow made the air feel heavier, like his words had physical weight, "Sebek. Stop."

The effect was immediate and honestly kind of scary.

Sebek went completely still. The static crackling around his hands vanished instantly like someone had flipped a switch or unplugged him from whatever rage generator he'd been connected to.

His expression transformed from righteous fury to something that looked like a kicked puppy trying very hard to maintain dignity and composure in front of someone they desperately wanted to impress.

"But Young Master—" Sebek started, and his voice had completely changed, going from screaming banshee to something almost pleading.

"Stop," Malleus repeated, and there was no room for argument in his tone. His tone said "this discussion is over and we both know it."

Sebek stopped. He even stepped back, though he continued glaring at you with the intensity of someone mentally cataloging all your flaws for a future report that would probably be seventeen pages long and include citations.

You looked up at Malleus, and words started tumbling out of your mouth before your brain could stop them. "Thank you, thank you so much, I really appreciate it, I don't know what I did to make him angry but I'm sure we can work it out, I'm new here, first day actually, just signed the contract like an hour ago, still processing everything, definitely didn't mean to cause problems, thank you for not letting me get electrocuted, I really value not being electrocuted, it's like my third favorite thing after not being on fire and having all my organs on the inside where they belong—"

You were rambling. You were definitely rambling. But you couldn't stop because the alternative was silence and silence meant thinking about how you were trapped between two very powerful Espers and had somehow made enemies within the first five minutes of meeting your colleagues and your life was spiraling out of control.

Malleus tilted his head slightly, regarding you with what might have been amusement. His expression was hard to read, ancient and knowing in a way that made you feel like he could see directly into your soul and was finding the experience mildly entertaining. "You're the new SS-rank."

"That's me! Surprise! I'm just as surprised as everyone else! The orb thing said SS and I thought maybe it was broken or having a technical malfunction but apparently not! Apparently I'm just very powerful and had no idea! Cool! Great! Wonderful! Totally not terrifying at all!" You were still talking too fast, words running together. "I also still need to buy eggs! That's still a thing! The eggs situation hasn't resolved itself!"

"Interesting," Malleus said, and you couldn't tell if that was good interesting or "I'm going to study you like a bug" interesting or "I'm going to crush you like a bug" interesting.

You decided not to find out.

"Well, this has been great, really great, lovely meeting everyone, very educational, we should do this again sometime when I'm less likely to die, okay bye!" You ducked around Malleus with the agility of someone whose survival instincts had finally, finally kicked in after being on vacation for the past ten minutes, and ran for the door like your life depended on it.

Behind you, you heard Lilia's delighted laughter, bright and genuinely entertained. Sebek was sputtering something that sounded like more yelling mixed with protests and possibly the beginning of another lecture about proper respect.

And the silver-haired guy was apparently still asleep through all of it, which was honestly impressive. You'd just had a screaming match with someone who'd tried to electrocute you and he hadn't even stirred. That was commitment to napping.

You burst out into the hallway, pressed your back against the wall, and tried to remember how to breathe normally. Your heart was racing. Your hands were shaking. You were pretty sure you'd just had several years shaved off your life expectancy.

The HR person was standing there waiting for you, looking completely unsurprised by your dramatic exit. They didn't even look up from their clipboard.

"How'd it go?" they asked in a tone that suggested they already knew exactly how it went.

"I almost died," you gasped out, still trying to catch your breath.

"Yeah, that's pretty normal for meeting Sebek." They checked something off on their clipboard with a pen that looked like it was barely holding on to life. "You lasted longer than the last new recruit though. He ran out crying after two minutes. You made it almost five. That's a new record."

"That's—that's not comforting! That doesn't make me feel better! Why is that the standard?!"

"Wasn't trying to be comforting. Just factual." They started walking down the hallway at a brisk pace that suggested they had places to be and new recruits to traumatize. "Come on. I'll show you to your office. Try not to freeze anything or electrocute yourself or anger any more of your colleagues."

"I don't have ice powers!"

"Yet," they muttered ominously, like they knew something you didn't.

"What does that mean?! HEY! WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?!"

They didn't answer, just kept walking, and you had no choice but to follow while wondering if it was too late to get your old convenience store job back.

You decided that yes, it probably was, especially since you'd told your manager you were quitting by text message with the words "I HAVE FOUND MY TRUE CALLING" followed by seventeen exclamation points and three emojis you'd selected at random because you were having a crisis.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

Today was your first Gate.

You'd spent the past week in what the Bureau called "accelerated training," which was a fancy way of saying "we're going to throw information at you until you cry and hope some of it sticks."

There had been lectures about Gate classifications, monster types, proper combat formations, emergency protocols, and a truly baffling presentation about why you shouldn't try to pet anything that came out of a Gate, no matter how cute it looked. That last one had apparently been added after an incident that everyone referred to as "The Fluffy Incident" and refused to elaborate on.

You'd also been avoiding Sebek, which was harder than it should have been because he seemed to have a sixth sense for wherever you were and would show up to glare at you while muttering about proper respect and protocol.

The silver-haired guy—Silver—had woken up long enough to introduce himself politely before falling asleep again mid-sentence. Malleus had nodded at you once in the hallway, and you'd nodded back at him really hard because you were trying not to offend a natural disaster in human form.

Now you were sitting in the briefing room, choking on your coffee because Lilia had just told you that yes, you were going into a Gate today, and no, it wasn't going to be a small one.

"B-rank," you wheezed, coffee going down the wrong pipe. "You're sending me into a B-rank Gate? On my first day? In the field?"

"It's not your first day," Lilia said cheerfully, smacking your back repeatedly with more force than seemed necessary. Each hit felt like being hit with a small hammer wielded by someone who thought physical therapy meant causing pain. "You've had a whole week of training! You're practically a veteran!"

"A week!" you coughed out, your lungs trying to remember how to process oxygen instead of coffee. "That's—that's nothing! That's not even—" Another cough. Another concerningly hard smack from Lilia that made your spine crack. "Can you please stop hitting me?!"

"I'm helping you breathe."

"You're helping me develop internal bleeding!"

"Don't be dramatic," Lilia said, giving you one final smack that nearly sent you sprawling forward onto the table. "You'll be fine. You're SS-rank! You've got this! Probably!"

"PROBABLY?!"

You sent a prayer to anyone listening—God, Buddha, the universe, that raccoon you'd fed last week who seemed wise beyond its years and had probably seen some things.

Please let me survive this. Please let me not die in a horrific monster-related incident on my first actual mission. Please let me at least get to use my dental benefits once before I perish horribly. I haven't even scheduled a cleaning yet.

The Gate loomed in front of you like a cosmic wound, shimmering and pulsing with colors that shouldn't exist in nature or anywhere else.

Your team was assembled: Malleus looking completely unbothered like this was a casual day, Silver somehow napping while standing upright with his weapon strapped to his back, and Sebek vibrating with barely contained energy and shooting you looks that suggested he was mentally planning your funeral and had already decided on an unflattering eulogy.

There were other Espers but they weren't really doing anything of note.

Lilia stood next to you, checking his equipment with practiced ease. He wouldn't be going in—Guides stayed outside Gates. That was the rule. Espers went in to fight, Guides waited outside to stabilize them when they came back out.

Sending a Guide into a Gate was like sending a medic into active combat without weapons. Stupid, dangerous and a waste of resources.

"Remember," Lilia said, adjusting his gloves even though he wouldn't need them. "Stay with the group. Don't run off alone like some kind of action movie protagonist with a death wish. If you see something that looks friendly, it's not. If you see something that looks like it wants to kill you, it definitely does. And try not to use too much power at once. You're still new to this, and burning yourself out would be inconvenient."

"Inconvenient," you repeated flatly. "That's the word you're using. Inconvenient."

"Well, it would be inconvenient for me. I'd have to Guide you back to consciousness, and you get very clingy when you're half-conscious. It's adorable but also somewhat embarrassing in front of the other Guides."

"I'm not—you know what, never mind." You looked at the Gate, then back at Lilia. "So you'll just... wait out here?"

"That's how it works, yes. I'll be right here when you get back." He patted your shoulder. "Try not to die. It would ruin my perfect record."

"What's your perfect record?"

"None of my Espers have died yet. I'd like to keep it that way. It looks good on my resume."

"That's very comforting. Thank you."

"You're welcome!"

Sebek stomped over, looking agitated. "ARE WE GOING OR NOT?! SOME OF US ARE READY TO DEMONSTRATE PROPER ESPER PROTOCOL!"

"We're going," Malleus said calmly, and everyone immediately started moving because when the strongest Esper in the world said it was time to go, you went.

You took one last look at Lilia, who gave you an encouraging thumbs up and a grin that was probably meant to be reassuring but looked slightly manic.

Then you stepped through the Gate.

The sensation was like being turned inside out and then put back together slightly wrong. Your stomach lurched. Your vision went weird. For a moment, you couldn't tell which way was up, and then suddenly you were standing in what could only be described as a cosmic horror's idea of interior decorating.

The space inside the Gate was warped. Gravity didn't work right—you could see "up" curving back around to become "down" in the distance.

The sky was the wrong color, a sickly purple-green. Everything felt wrong, like reality had given up and decided to try some experimental new directions that violated several laws of physics and possibly good taste.

And the monsters.

Oh god, the monsters.

They were viscerally, aggressively ugly. Genuinely upsetting to look at ugly, the kind of ugly that made you want to apologize to your eyes for making them perceive this.

There was one that was basically a mass of too many mouths in places mouths shouldn't be, all different sizes, making sounds that made your teeth hurt and your skin crawl.

Another looked like someone had taken the concept of "legs" and decided to apply it about forty times to a body that could only support maybe six, skittering around with the coordination of a drunk spider having a crisis.

A third was just eyes. So many eyes. Blinking independently. Watching you. Judging you. Some of them had teeth. Eyes shouldn't have teeth.

You wanted to close your eyes, but that seemed like a bad survival strategy when surrounded by things that wanted to eat you.

You smacked monsters. A lot of monsters. You were venting a week's worth of frustration—the confusing paperwork that made no sense, Sebek's constant yelling about everything, the haunted supply closet that you'd accidentally opened and immediately closed when something inside had whispered your name, the cafeteria's mysterious "meat" that nobody could identify and everyone was too afraid to ask about, all of it channeled into your fists and your powers as you absolutely demolished everything in your path.

A mouth-monster lunged at you, all its mouths opening at once in a chorus of terrible sounds. You grabbed it and threw it into another monster with enough force that they both exploded into gore that thankfully vanished into sparkles because apparently Gate monsters didn't leave bodies. Thank god. The cleanup would have been nightmarish otherwise.

A leg-monster skittered toward you on its forty horrible legs. You didn't even think, just released a burst of power that sent it flying into a crystallized wall hard enough to shatter both the monster and the wall. The wall screamed. You didn't know walls could scream. You wished you still didn't know that.

It felt good. Really good. Cathartic. This was better than therapy. This was better than that stress relief room where you could break plates. This was—

Your powers went haywire.

You felt it the moment it happened—the control you'd been carefully maintaining just slipped like a wet bar of soap. The power you'd been using suddenly surged, wild and uncontrolled, crackling around you like lightning that had gained sentience and decided to have opinions.

Your vision started to blur at the edges.

The familiar screaming started up in your head, the one that suggested increasingly unhinged things like "what if you just released all your power at once and saw what happened" and "the walls here look even better than drywall, more crystalline, probably taste amazing, you should definitely try them."

Something smacked the back of your head. Hard. Like someone had just slapped you with a brick wrapped in anger.

"OW! WHAT—"

"YOU ABSOLUTE FOOL!" Sebek's voice, right behind you, loud enough to probably be heard in the next dimension. "YOU'RE GOING TO BURN YOURSELF OUT! DID YOU LEARN NOTHING FROM THE TRAINING?! WERE YOU SLEEPING?! WERE YOU THINKING ABOUT EGGS AGAIN?!"

Before you could respond—and you had a great response prepared, probably—he grabbed your arm with a grip like a vice and started dragging you backward, away from the monsters, toward the Gate exit, while simultaneously lecturing you at a volume that was probably attracting more monsters through sheer noise pollution. "RECKLESS! COMPLETELY RECKLESS! YOU CAN'T JUST USE YOUR POWERS WITHOUT REGARD FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY! WHAT KIND OF ESPER DOESN'T MONITOR THEIR OWN OUTPUT?! A STUPID ONE, THAT'S WHAT KIND! THE STUPIDEST! I'VE SEEN CIVILIANS WITH BETTER SURVIVAL INSTINCTS!"

"I was—I was doing fine—" you tried to argue, stumbling as he pulled you along like a particularly troublesome suitcase.

"YOU WERE ABOUT TO COLLAPSE! I COULD SEE IT! EVEN SILVER COULD SEE IT AND HE'S ASLEEP HALF THE TIME! YOUR POWER OUTPUT WAS SPIKING LIKE A GRAPH DRAWN BY A TODDLER!"

Sebek dragged you past a cluster of confused monsters who seemed unsure whether to attack the guy yelling or just let him pass because he seemed really committed to his lecture and interrupting felt rude. "MASTER LILIA ENTRUSTED YOU TO THIS TEAM AND I WILL NOT LET YOU DIE BECAUSE YOU HAVE THE SELF-PRESERVATION INSTINCTS OF A PARTICULARLY SUICIDAL LEMMING WITH A DEATH WISH!"

He hauled you through the Gate—that same inside-out sensation but worse because your brain was already malfunctioning—and suddenly you were outside again, back in normal reality where the sky was the right color and the ground didn't scream.

Lilia was right there, waiting exactly where he'd been when you left, like he'd never moved. His expression shifted from relaxed to focused the moment he saw you stumbling out with Sebek dragging you.

Sebek shoved you toward Lilia with more force than necessary, like he was delivering a particularly disappointing package. "THEY'RE AN IDIOT WHO DOESN'T KNOW WHEN TO STOP!"

You stumbled forward and Lilia caught you smoothly, like he'd been expecting this exact scenario, probably because it happened a lot with new Espers who didn't know their limits yet.

"There we go," Lilia said warmly, his hands immediately moving to check you over with practiced efficiency. One hand on your forehead, checking for fever and power backlash. The other on your wrist, checking your pulse which was probably concerning. His eyes scanning your face for signs of serious damage. "Let's get you sorted out, shall we?"

The moment his hands touched your skin, the relief was immediate and overwhelming. The screaming in your head cut off like someone had severed a wire.

The wild, chaotic energy thrashing around inside you like a trapped animal smoothed out, calmed down, settled back into something manageable. Your vision cleared. Your breathing evened out. Everything stopped feeling like it was about to fly apart at the seams.

You slumped against him, basically cuddling him at this point, too exhausted and relieved to care about dignity or professionalism or the fact that there were other Guides nearby watching this with various expressions of amusement.

He was warm and solid and most importantly, making your brain work like a normal brain instead of a malfunctioning appliance that wanted you to make terrible decisions.

Sebek was still standing there, his arms crossed, trying to look stern and unbothered but you could see the concern in his eyes that he was desperately trying to hide.

"Thank you," you croaked out, not opening your eyes, but making sure your voice was loud enough for Sebek to hear. "Thanks, man. You saved my life. Probably."

There was a moment of silence. You could feel Sebek's internal conflict from here. Then he sputtered, "W-WHATEVER! I WASN'T DOING IT FOR YOU! I WAS DOING IT BECAUSE LETTING YOU DIE WOULD REFLECT POORLY ON THE TEAM! DON'T GET THE WRONG IDEA! IT WOULD MAKE THE YOUNG MASTER LOOK BAD! AND MASTER LILIA WOULD BE DISAPPOINTED! THAT'S THE ONLY REASON!"

You could hear him stomping off, his footsteps loud and aggressive. In the distance, you heard a voice—definitely his Guide, a stressed-looking person who'd been pacing the entire time—say something like "Are you alright, Sebek? Do you need Guiding?"

"I'M FINE! THEY'RE THE ONE WHO'S NOT FINE! RIDICULOUS HUMAN WITH NO SENSE OF SELF-PRESERVATION! NO RESPECT FOR PROPER PROTOCOL!"

Lilia patted your head gently, his fingers running through your hair in a soothing motion that made you want to fall asleep immediately. You could feel him actively Guiding you, that warm, comfortable sensation flowing through you, fixing all the damage you'd done by being reckless and stupid. "Good job," he said softly, and there was genuine pride in his voice. "You did well for your first Gate. Very impressive. Lots of property damage. Several monsters completely obliterated. You made that one wall scream, which I didn't know was possible. And Sebek had to save you, which he secretly enjoyed even though he'll never admit it."

"Mhm," you managed, burrowing closer to him because he was comfortable and you were exhausted and your brain was shutting down now that the immediate danger was over and you were being Guided.

"You know, you're supposed to stay conscious after your first Gate," Lilia continued, still patting your head like you were a sleepy cat. "There's paperwork. A debriefing. Usually some light celebration that involves terrible cafeteria cake."

"Don't care. Sleeping now," you mumbled against his shoulder.

You passed out right there, slumped against Lilia while he Guided you, surrounded by the sounds of other Espers exiting the Gate and their Guides rushing to stabilize them.

You could hear Malleus's deep voice reporting something to a Bureau official. Silver asking someone if the Gate was clear yet so he could take a nap somewhere more comfortable. Sebek still yelling in the distance about proper protocol and rookie mistakes.

Lilia just sighed fondly, adjusted his grip on you so you wouldn't fall over, and continued Guiding you while making a mental note to add "passes out after Gates" to your growing list of concerning habits.

"Kids these days," he muttered affectionately, even though you were an adult and he looked younger than you. "No stamina at all."

One of the other Guides walked past, saw you unconscious and drooling slightly on Lilia's shoulder, and raised an eyebrow.

"New recruit?" they asked.

"SS-rank," Lilia said cheerfully.

"Ah. That explains it. Good luck with that."

The Gate shimmered behind you as the last Espers filed out, and then it collapsed in on itself with a sound like reality sighing in relief. The raid was over. Successful. Everyone survived, even the stupid rookie who'd nearly burned themselves out on their first mission.

You slept through all of it, guided and safe and completely dead to the world.

The training got better. Well, "better" was a generous term. More accurately, you stopped almost dying every single time you used your powers, which was a low bar but one you were proud to clear.

You could now fight for more than ten minutes without your brain trying to convince you that eating construction materials was a valid life choice. Progress.

You'd gone through countless drills, practice sessions, and controlled exercises that involved you shooting targets while someone monitored your power output and yelled at you when it spiked. That someone was usually Sebek, who had appointed himself your personal training supervisor despite nobody asking him to.

He would stand there with a monitoring device and scream things like "YOUR OUTPUT IS FLUCTUATING! STABILIZE IT! DO YOU WANT TO EXPLODE?! BECAUSE THIS IS HOW YOU EXPLODE!" which was very motivating in a deeply stressful way.

But gradually, slowly, you learned control. You could feel when your power was about to spike and pull it back. You could maintain steady output instead of swinging wildly between "barely functional" and "catastrophic."

You could fight monsters without Sebek having to drag you out of Gates like a disappointed parent removing a child from a grocery store.

You'd also come to a truce with Sebek. Well, "truce" was very generous considering the truce mostly consisted of you hiding behind Lilia whenever Sebek looked like he was about to start lecturing you about something.

Lilia thought this was hilarious and would sometimes deliberately step aside so Sebek could continue his rant, the traitor. When Lilia wasn't around, you hid behind Malleus, who was tall enough that you could completely disappear behind him if you stood in the right spot.

Malleus turned out to be actually a really nice guy. A little out of touch socially—he'd once asked you if people still used carrier pigeons for communication and seemed genuinely surprised when you said no—but nothing too bad.

He had this habit of appearing silently behind people and scaring them half to death, not because he was trying to be creepy but because he genuinely didn't understand that suddenly materializing next to someone was startling.

He'd invited you to his "gargoyle appreciation club" three times now, which apparently was just him looking at gargoyles and talking about their architectural significance. You'd gone once. It was actually kind of peaceful, if weird.

He also eventually found his own guide. You thought they were adorable together even if they weren't a couple yet.

Silver was still asleep most of the time, but when he was awake, he was unfailingly polite and also surprisingly good at combat. You'd seen him go from dead asleep to fighting a monster in about two seconds flat, dispatch it efficiently, and then sit back down and immediately resume napping. It was impressive and also slightly concerning from a medical standpoint.

Things were going well. You were adapting. Learning. Becoming a functional member of the team instead of a liability that had to be rescued every five minutes.

And then you found out Sebek hadn't been bullshitting when he called you "human" like it was a specific category that didn't include him.

It came up casually. You were all in the break room after a successful Gate clear, and someone made a comment about Malleus's horns—asking if they ever got in the way when he wore hats. Malleus had replied very seriously that he didn't wear hats because human fashion wasn't designed for fae anatomy.

You'd laughed, thinking it was a joke.

Nobody else laughed.

"Wait," you said slowly, looking around at the faces that were all completely serious. "What?"

"Fae," Sebek said, like this was obvious. "Young Master is fae. As am I. As is Master Lilia. Did you... did you not know this?"

You stared at him. At Malleus. At Lilia, who was watching you with barely contained amusement. "You're serious."

"Very serious," Malleus confirmed. "Did you think the horns were decorative?"

"I thought they were... I don't know, an Esper thing! A mutation! A really cool headband!" You gestured wildly at his horns. "I've seen people shoot fire from their hands and teleport and explode things with their minds! Horns didn't seem that weird in comparison!"

"That's actually fair," Lilia said thoughtfully. "We probably should have mentioned it earlier."

"PROBABLY?!"

Silver, who had just woken up from a nap in the corner, blinked sleepily. "Oh, are we telling them about the fae thing? I thought we did that already."

"YOU DID NOT!"

You sat there, processing this information. Fae. Which meant... which meant a lot of things, probably, but your brain was having trouble getting past the initial revelation.

You'd seen so many impossible things these past few months. Gates that opened to other dimensions. Monsters that violated the laws of physics and biology. Your coworker who could nap standing up. The haunted supply closet that whispered. The cafeteria's mystery meat that you were now 60% sure was some kind of Gate monster being served as "chicken."

You know what? Fine. This was fine. Better to accept it without questioning too deeply. That way lay madness, and you were trying to avoid madness. It was better for your sanity to just go "okay, fae exist, cool, moving on" rather than have an existential crisis about the nature of reality.

"Okay," you said.

Everyone stared at you.

"Okay?" Sebek repeated. "That's it? Just 'okay'?"

"Yep. Okay. You're fae. Got it. Makes sense. Explains the horns and the..." you gestured vaguely at Lilia, "...everything about you, honestly."

"I'm not sure if I should be offended or complimented," Lilia said.

But then a thought occurred to you. If they were fae, and fae were from like, fairy tales and folklore, then they were probably... old. Potentially very old.

You grabbed Lilia's sleeve. "Wait. How old are you?"

Lilia's grin widened, red eyes glinting with mischief. "That's not very polite to ask," he said teasingly.

You groaned. "I'm serious!"

"So am I. Didn't your mother teach you not to ask people their age?"

"Lilia."

"Hm?"

"How. Old."

"Old enough to know better, young enough to do it anyway," he said cheerfully, and you knew—you KNEW—you weren't getting a straight answer out of him.

You groaned louder, letting go of his sleeve and slumping in your chair. And then immediately forgot about it because honestly, who even cared? Did it matter? He could be a hundred years old or a thousand years old and it wouldn't change anything.

This was your Lilia either way.

The one who'd found you in an alley. Who'd convinced you to join the Bureau. Who Guided you and patted your head and made terrible jokes and saved your life on a regular basis by keeping your brain from eating itself.

Your Lilia.

You had to pause.

Your brain just called him "your Lilia." Like you'd already assumed he was yours. Like somewhere along the way, without you noticing, you'd justn claimed him in your head. Decided he was yours and you were his and that was just how things were now.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

This was bad. This was a revelation you were not prepared for. You had feelings.

The kind of feelings that made you want to do stupid things like hold his hand for reasons that weren't just "I'm about to pass out from power exhaustion."

The kind of feelings that made you smile when he laughed and feel warm when he praised you and get irrationally jealous when you saw him talking to other Espers even though that was literally his job.

You sat there, frozen, while your brain exploded with the sudden realization that you had a crush on your Guide. Your significantly-older-than-you-but-you-didn't-know-by-how-much fae Guide who was way out of your league and probably thought of you as a particularly entertaining pet project.

You needed to sit down. You were already sitting down. You needed to sit down more somehow.

You stood up abruptly, walked over to where Malleus was standing by the window looking at the gargoyles on the building across the street, and leaned on him. Put your full weight against his side and closed your eyes.

Malleus looked down at you, tilting his head slightly in that way he did when he was trying to understand human behavior. He saw something in your expression—probably the desperation, the internal screaming, the look of someone having a crisis—and made a decision.

He didn't say anything. Just shifted slightly to better support your weight and let you have your breakdown against his shoulder.

This was why Malleus was great. He didn't pry. He just let you exist in your misery.

"Are you alright?" he asked after a moment, his voice quiet.

"No," you said honestly.

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Absolutely not."

"Understood." He paused. "Would you like to hear about the gargoyles on that building? They're from the neo-gothic period and feature some fascinating water spout designs."

"...Yes please."

And so Malleus told you about gargoyles while you leaned on him and tried not to think about the fact that you had feelings for Lilia.

He went into detail about the architectural significance, the historical context, the different styles of craftsmanship. His voice was soothing in its monotone enthusiasm. It was exactly what you needed—something to focus on that wasn't your own emotional crisis.

Across the room, Lilia watched this with an expression that was hard to read. Amused, certainly. But there was something else there too. Something softer.

Sebek looked between you and Lilia and made a disgusted sound. "THEY'RE BEING WEIRD AGAIN."

"They're always weird," Silver mumbled, already half asleep again.

"I KNOW, BUT THIS IS WEIRDER THAN USUAL."

Lilia just smiled and said nothing.

You continued to lean on Malleus while he explained the difference between grotesques and gargoyles, which apparently was a thing, and tried very hard not to think about red eyes and knowing smiles and the way Lilia's hands felt when he Guided you.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

(It was not fine. You were having a crisis. But at least you were learning about gargoyles while having it, so that was something.)

Part 2

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[solxamber]

Gate Crashers and Heart Breakers || Lilia Vanrouge (2/2)

The world has dimensional gates that vomit monsters. This is somehow less horrifying than admitting that you fell hook, line and sinker for your Guide.

or: Guideverse au!

Part 1

You've spent a whole week hyping yourself up, practicing in the mirror, running through different scenarios in your head. You were going to ask Lilia out on a date.

Maybe coffee, maybe dinner, maybe something fun and casual where you could actually talk without the threat of monsters or Sebek's yelling.

You had a speech prepared. And then you saw Lilia in the hallway, and your brain immediately forgot every single word you'd planned.

"Hey!" you said, maybe too loudly, because he turned around with that amused expression he always had, like he was perpetually in on a joke you didn't know about.

"Hello," he said warmly. "You seem energetic today. Another successful training simulation clear?"

"No, I just—I wanted to ask if you wanted to—" Your brain was short-circuiting. The words were there, you knew the words, why weren't the words coming out right? "Do you want to do something? Together? Like, a thing? An activity? For fun? With me? Just us? Well, not like JUST us, other people can be there, I mean they don't have to be, but like, we could hang out? Casually? Or not casually? Whatever works?"

Lilia tilted his head, looking delighted by your floundering. "An activity?"

"Yeah! Like, uh—" What were activities? What did people do for fun? Your mind went completely blank. "Like an escape room! Have you ever done an escape room?"

"I haven't, actually. That sounds interesting."

"Great! Perfect! Let's do that!" You were already pulling out your phone, desperately booking tickets before you lost your nerve or said something even more stupid.

"When were you thinking?"

"This weekend? Saturday? Is Saturday good?"

"Saturday works perfectly."

You beamed at him, feeling victorious. You did it. You asked him out. This was happening. You and Lilia, alone, in an escape room, having fun and bonding and—

"Should I invite the others?" Lilia asked innocently. "Malleus has been saying he wants to do more human activities. And Sebek could use some team-building exercises. Silver too, though he'll probably nap through half of it."

Your brain screeched to a halt. "I—what—I mean—"

"It'll be fun! A whole team outing!" Lilia was already texting, his fingers flying across his phone screen. "I'm sure they'll all be delighted."

And that's how you ended up in an escape room with Lilia, Sebek, Malleus, and Silver.

The escape room was themed "Haunted Library," which should have been your first warning. You stood in the lobby with your team while an overly enthusiastic employee explained the rules.

"You have sixty minutes to solve the puzzles and escape the room! Work together, think creatively, and most importantly—have fun!" The employee smiled brightly. "Oh, and there might be a few jump scares. Nothing too intense! Just to keep things spooky!"

"Jump scares?" Malleus asked, looking genuinely curious. "What is the purpose of frightening the participants?"

"It's, uh, for atmosphere?" the employee said, looking uncertain about how to explain entertainment to someone who apparently didn't understand the concept.

"Fascinating," Malleus said, in the same tone someone might use to observe an interesting scientific phenomenon.

"THIS WILL BE SIMPLE," Sebek announced loudly, making the employee jump. "WE ARE HIGHLY TRAINED ESPERS! A SIMPLE PUZZLE ROOM WILL BE NO MATCH FOR OUR COMBINED INTELLECT AND—"

"Sebek," Lilia said gently. "Inside voice."

"THIS IS MY INSIDE VOICE."

"Your inside voice is making that poor employee reconsider their life choices."

The employee nodded frantically.

You were ushered into the room, which was decorated to look like an old library complete with dusty bookshelves, cobwebs, and dramatic lighting that was probably meant to be spooky but mostly just made it hard to see. There was a grandfather clock in the corner, some portraits on the walls, and a desk covered in papers and strange objects.

The door clicked shut behind you.

"ALRIGHT TEAM!" Sebek immediately took charge, because of course he did. "WE NEED TO SEARCH SYSTEMATICALLY! I'LL TAKE THIS SECTION, YOU TAKE—WHY ARE YOU PULLING BOOKS AT RANDOM?!"

"Looking for secrets," you said, yanking books off the shelf to see if any of them triggered hidden compartments.

"THAT'S NOT SYSTEMATIC!"

"It's working though." You pulled a red book and heard a click. A drawer popped open in the desk across the room. "See?"

Sebek looked like he wanted to argue but couldn't because you'd literally just found something.

Silver had immediately found a comfortable chair in the corner and sat down. "I'll keep watch," he mumbled, and was asleep within thirty seconds.

"SILVER! SILVER, WAKE UP! THIS IS A TEAM ACTIVITY!"

Silver did not wake up.

Malleus was examining everything with the intense fascination of someone who'd never seen a staged haunted library before, which, to be fair, he probably hadn't. He picked up a skull from the desk—probably plastic, hopefully plastic—and studied it with deep interest. "The craftsmanship on this is quite good. Very detailed."

"Young Master, that's a prop, we need to look for clues!" Sebek said desperately.

"This could be a clue," Malleus said reasonably.

Lilia was having the time of his life. You could tell because he kept picking up completely random objects and presenting them to you with great seriousness. "What about this candlestick? Very suspicious."

"That's a red herring," you said.

"How can you tell?"

"Because you're grinning like a maniac and I know you're messing with me."

"Am I?" He set down the candlestick and picked up a book. "What about this book titled 'DEFINITELY NOT A CLUE'?"

"Lilia."

"It could be reverse psychology!"

You found a code on the back of a portrait that corresponded to numbers on the clock. You started turning the clock hands while Sebek yelled instructions that contradicted what you were already doing.

Malleus asked thoughtful questions about why humans enjoyed trapping themselves in rooms for fun. Silver briefly woke up, solved a puzzle by pointing out that the Latin phrase on the wall was an anagram, and then immediately fell back asleep in his chair.

"How did he—" you started.

"SILVER! SILVER, WE NEED YOU AWAKE!"

"Let him rest," Malleus said. "He's clearly tired."

"THIS IS AN ESCAPE ROOM, NOT A BEDROOM!"

You found a locked box that required a four-letter code. There were clues scattered around the room—something about "the answer lies in the yeet," which you assumed was supposed to say "sheet" but the theming was trying too hard to be hip with the youths.

"What's a yeet?" Malleus asked seriously.

"It's—" You tried to figure out how to explain modern slang to someone who was probably several centuries old. "It's when you throw something? Really hard? With enthusiasm?"

"Why would the answer involve throwing things?"

"It doesn't, it's a typo, they meant sheet—"

"PERHAPS IF EVERYONE STOPPED TALKING ABOUT YEETING AND FOCUSED—"

Lilia found another clue that was definitely not a clue and presented it to Sebek just to watch him have an aneurysm about time management.

You were trying to solve a puzzle involving matching symbols when the first jump scare happened. A bookshelf panel slid open and a figure in a ghost costume popped out with a recorded scream.

You didn't react. You'd seen actual monsters. Fought them. This was a person in a bed sheet.

Malleus didn't react. He just observed the ghost with polite interest. "Hello," he said to it.

Sebek didn't react because he was too busy yelling about the puzzle solutions to notice.

Silver didn't react because he was asleep.

Lilia, however, very theatrically gasped and looped his arms around your neck from behind, pressing against your back. "Oh no," he said in a completely unconvincing frightened voice. "I'm so scared. Protect me."

Your brain immediately short-circuited.

He was touching you. His arms were around your neck. You could feel his breath near your ear. He was warm and solid and RIGHT THERE and your heart was doing gymnastics in your chest.

You tried to act casual. You are cool and unbothered.

"It's just a person in a costume," you said, and your voice only cracked a little bit.

"But such a convincing costume," Lilia said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. He knew exactly what he was doing. "I feel much safer with you here."

You were doing cartwheels in your head. Backflips. Your internal monologue was just screaming. This was fine. Everything was fine. He was just being playful. This was normal friend behavior. Friends hugged each other from behind in escape rooms all the time. This was totally normal and not at all making you want to combust.

"We should, uh, keep solving puzzles," you managed.

"Mm, probably," Lilia agreed, but he didn't let go immediately. He stayed there for another few seconds—the longest few seconds of your life—before finally releasing you and going back to examining random objects with that insufferable knowing smile.

You stood there, frozen, trying to remember how to be a person.

"ARE YOU GOING TO HELP OR JUST STAND THERE?!" Sebek shouted.

"Right. Yes. Puzzles. I'm helping." You stumbled toward the nearest puzzle, your brain still offline.

You escaped with two minutes to spare, which Sebek took as a personal victory and immediately started lecturing everyone about what they could have done better. Silver woke up long enough to say "good job team" and then dozed off again while standing. Malleus said he found the experience "educational" and asked if all human entertainment involved being locked in rooms, because he had several questions about that as a concept.

Lilia was grinning at you like he'd won something.

You walked out of the escape room feeling like you'd failed your initial mission but also kind of like you'd succeeded at something else you hadn't planned for.

"That was fun!" Lilia said cheerfully. "We should do more team activities like this."

"Yeah," you said weakly. "Fun."

"Same time next week?"

"Sure. Or—" You took a breath. You could do this. You could ask properly this time. "Or maybe just the two of us could do something? Like, specifically just us? As in, a date? I'm asking you on a date. This is me asking you on a date. Just to be completely clear."

Lilia's grin widened. "Was that what today was supposed to be?"

"...Yes."

"And I invited everyone."

"Yes."

"Oh dear." He didn't look sorry at all. He looked delighted. "Well, then I suppose I owe you an actual date. Just the two of us. No surprise team members."

"You knew?!"

"I had my suspicions when you started panicking about activities." He patted your arm. "Next time, just say 'I want to take you on a date.' It's clearer."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

He was right. You didn't.

Sebek appeared behind you. "WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT?"

"Nothing!" you said quickly.

"MASTER LILIA, THEY'RE BEING SUSPICIOUS AGAIN!"

"Let them be suspicious, Sebek. It's character building."

Next time, you'd ask him out properly.

(Next time, he'd probably say yes immediately instead of making you suffer through an escape room with your entire team, but where was the fun in that?)

The second date—technically first date, since the escape room disaster didn't count—was quite nice.

You'd learned from your mistakes. This time, you'd been direct. "Lilia, I want to take you on a date. Just us.." And he'd said yes with that knowing smile that suggested he'd been waiting for you to ask properly, which was both flattering and irritating in equal measure.

You went to a movie first—some action film with dubious physics that you both spent half the runtime quietly mocking. Lilia had opinions about the combat choreography, pointing out which moves would actually be effective in a Gate situation and which would get you killed immediately.

You'd never thought about how unrealistic movie fighting was until you'd spent months actually fighting monsters, and now you couldn't unsee it.

Then dinner at a small restaurant that didn't ask questions about why one of you had red eyes and the other kept nervously adjusting their napkin every thirty seconds. The food was good. The conversation was better.

Lilia told you about his previous experiences with Gates, back when he'd been an active Guide with other Espers. He talked about the early days of the Bureau, when nobody really knew what they were doing and Gates were new and terrifying.

He mentioned raids that had gone wrong, ones that had gone right, Espers he'd worked with who'd retired or transferred or, in some cases, burned out completely.

"It's gotten better," he said, swirling his wine in a way that suggested he'd done this many times before, probably over many decades. "The protocols, the training, the understanding of how Guiding actually works. Back then, we were just... making it up as we went along. Hoping for the best. A lot of people got hurt because we didn't know better."

"Sounds terrifying," you said, genuinely.

"It was." His expression went distant for a moment, remembering things you weren't there for. "But also exciting. There's something about being on the frontier of understanding, even if that frontier is 'how do we stop monsters from eating everyone.'"

"You've come far," Lilia said, and there was genuine pride in his voice. "When I found you in that alley, you were a mess."

"I'm still a mess. Just a more controlled mess."

The conversation flowed easily, comfortably, like you'd been doing this for years instead of months. You told him about your life before the Bureau—the convenience store job, the careful isolation, the fear of being discovered.

It was nice. Really nice. You felt warm and happy and like maybe this could actually work, whatever "this" was.

And then you ruined it by mentioning bonding.

It came up naturally in conversation. You'd been talking about other Esper-Guide pairs you'd seen at the Bureau, and you mentioned how some of them seemed almost telepathically connected. "Like that pair on Team Seven," you said. "They barely have to talk during raids. It's kind of romantic, honestly. That whole permanent bond thing, being connected to someone that deeply."

Lilia's expression dropped.

It was subtle—he was good at controlling his face—but you saw it. The way his smile became fixed. The way his eyes went distant. The way his hand tightened slightly around his glass.

"It's... not always romantic," he said carefully, and then changed the subject. "Speaking of Team Seven, did you hear about their last raid? Apparently they encountered a monster that could mimic human speech. Caused all sorts of confusion."

You let him change the subject, but your brain was working.

The second time bonding came up—you'd been talking about training, about how some Guides and Espers trained together to improve their resonance—his reaction was the same. Expression dropping, subject changed, a subtle tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.

The third time, you weren't even the one who brought it up. A couple at the next table was talking loudly about their friend who'd just formed a permanent bond with their Guide, going on about how beautiful the ceremony was, how romantic, how lucky they were to find someone compatible.

Lilia went very still. His smile stayed in place, but it looked painted on. Fake.

You might act like a feral raccoon who made poor life choices and yelled about groceries when panicking, but you could put two and two together.

You'd heard about forced bonding. Everyone at the Bureau had. It was talked about in hushed voices, used as a cautionary tale during training. Really desperate Espers, ones who were burning out or losing control, sometimes tried to force a bond with a Guide. Thought that a permanent connection would stabilize them, fix them, make everything better.

It never did.

Forced bonding ended well for no one. For the Guide, it was like being set on fire from the inside out, your psyche being ripped open and invaded and permanently damaged. They usually lost their Guiding powers entirely afterward, if they survived at all. Some went catatonic. Some died. The ones who lived were never the same.

And the Esper responsible was usually imprisoned, if they were lucky. If they weren't lucky, well. The Bureau had ways of dealing with Espers who proved too dangerous to society.

Lilia had lost his Guide powers years ago. He'd said it was an injury. An incident.

You didn't need to be a genius to connect those dots.

The realization made something cold settle in your stomach. Made you want to find whoever had hurt him and introduce them to the business end of your fists, enhanced with every ounce of power you possessed.

But you didn't ask. You didn't want to make him talk about something that was clearly painful.

Instead, you looked out the restaurant window and spotted some guy trying to parallel park and failing spectacularly. He'd hit the curb three times and was now at an angle that shouldn't be physically possible.

"Oh my god, look at that guy," you said, pointing. You reached across the table and grabbed Lilia's hand, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing gently. "Is he okay? Is he having a medical emergency? Should we call someone?"

Lilia followed your gaze, and you felt the tension in his hand start to ease. "I think he's just a terrible driver."

"He's hit the curb four times now. Four. That's a skill issue."

"Perhaps we should offer to park it for him."

"I don't know how to drive."

"Neither does he, apparently."

The guy finally gave up and just left his car at a diagonal angle, taking up two spaces. You and Lilia watched him get out, look at his parking job, shrug, and walk away like this was fine.

"I respect the confidence," you said, squeezing Lilia's hand tighter. "Wrong, but confident."

Lilia laughed—a real laugh, not the forced politeness from earlier. His smile was genuine again, reaching his eyes. He squeezed your hand back, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your knuckles.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"For what? Making fun of terrible drivers? That's just good citizenship."

"For not asking."

You squeezed his hand again, tighter this time. "Nothing to ask about. We're watching a guy who can't park. That's the whole activity right now."

His smile went soft, something tender and grateful in his expression. He turned his hand over in yours, properly interlacing your fingers, and held on like he didn't want to let go.

You sat there, holding hands across the table, watching some stranger struggle with basic motor vehicle operation, and felt like you'd just dodged a landmine you hadn't known was there.

Whatever had happened to Lilia, whoever had hurt him, it wasn't your business unless he wanted to make it your business. You weren't going to push. Weren't going to demand explanations or tragic backstories or force him to relive trauma just to satisfy your curiosity.

You were just going to sit here, hold his hand, and make fun of people who couldn't park.

That seemed like the right thing to do.

"Want to get dessert?" Lilia asked after a moment.

"Only if we can sit by the window and continue our parking commentary."

"Deal."

You got dessert. You did continue the parking commentary—two more people attempted to park in that spot and both failed hilariously. Lilia's hand stayed in yours the entire time, warm and solid and real.

It was a good date.

Some things might never need to be said at all.

Lilia dropped you off at your apartment. The car ride back had been comfortable, filled with easy conversation and the occasional comfortable silence that came when you didn't feel the need to fill every moment with words. His hand had stayed in yours the entire drive, only letting go when he needed to shift gears, and even then he'd reach back to reclaim it immediately after.

You stood outside your apartment building, suddenly uncertain. How did dates end? You'd seen movies. You knew the theory. But theory and practice were very different things, and your brain was extremely unhelpful right now, suggesting terrible ideas like "shake his hand professionally" or "give him a high five" or "run away screaming."

Before you could do any of those things, you leaned in and kissed him.

Lilia kissed you back.

His hand came up to cup your face, gentle and warm, and for a moment everything else disappeared. The street, the city, the fact that you were standing outside your apartment building where your neighbors could definitely see. None of it mattered.

You pulled back, breathless, grinning like an idiot.

Lilia's expression was complicated. Soft and wanting, but also hesitant. Uncertain in a way you'd never seen him be uncertain about anything.

"Are you sure I'm the one you want?" he asked quietly, and there was something fragile in his tone that made your chest hurt.

You felt like screaming. Lilia, who was always full of whimsy and mischief and chaos, who approached everything with confidence and that insufferable knowing grin, being hesitant was wrong. It didn't belong in this world. It didn't belong on his face. The universe had made an error in allowing Lilia to doubt himself, and you were personally offended by it.

"Shut up," you said, and kissed him again.

This time he kissed back hard, like he'd been holding himself back before and had just gotten permission to stop. His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and just melted into it.

When you finally broke apart—because breathing was unfortunately necessary—you were both slightly dazed.

"You're very persistent," Lilia said, and he was smiling now, that genuine soft smile that made your heart do acrobatics.

"I learned from the best," you shot back, slightly breathless. "Your persistence is what brought me here. You found me in an alley eating drywall—"

"You weren't eating it yet."

"—ALMOST eating drywall, and you didn't let me run away. You kept Guiding me even when I was a disaster." You tightened your arms around his neck. "So yeah, I'm persistent. I'm persistent because you taught me that persistence pays off."

Lilia laughed, bright and genuine, and something in his expression settled. The hesitance faded, replaced by that familiar mischief and something deeper. Warmer.

"Do you want to come in?" you asked, jerking your head toward your apartment building.

You watched him consider it. Saw the moment he made his decision.

"Yes," he said simply.

You grabbed his hand and dragged him inside, fumbling with your keys because your hands were shaking slightly—from nerves or excitement or the lingering adrenaline of actually kissing him, you weren't sure. You finally got the door open and pulled him into your apartment.

It was still the same apartment where you'd barbecued a spider. The scorch mark on the wall had been painted over but was still slightly visible if you knew where to look. Your furniture was mismatched and secondhand. There were dishes in the sink you'd been meaning to wash. It wasn't impressive or fancy or anything special.

You pulled him toward the couch. You both sat down, closer than strictly necessary, your sides pressed together. His arm went around your shoulders automatically, like it belonged there.

"So," you said.

"So," he echoed, grinning.

"This is happening."

"Apparently so."

"You're okay with this?" You needed to hear him say it. Needed to know that the hesitance was gone, that he actually wanted this as much as you did.

Lilia turned to face you properly, his red eyes serious despite his smile. "I'm more than okay with this. I just needed to make sure you knew what you were getting into."

"A relationship with my Guide who happens to be fae and has seen things I can't even imagine and makes terrible jokes?"

"That's a very accurate summary, yes."

"Sounds perfect," you said, and kissed him again because you could now.

He kissed you back, one hand tangling in your hair, the other pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap. It was warm and comfortable and felt right in a way that made everything else—the Bureau, the Gates, the stress, the fear—fade into background noise.

You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his. "For the record, I don't care about your past."

Lilia's expression flickered with something complicated. "You don't know what happened."

"I don't need to. Not unless you want to tell me." You cupped his face with both hands, making him look at you. "I just need you to know that I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. And I'm very, very sure about this."

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like it was something precious. "You're going to be the death of me."

"That's dramatic. I'm going to be the best thing that ever happened to you."

He laughed, opening his eyes, and they were softer than you'd ever seen them. "I suppose you are."

You spent the rest of the evening on your couch, talking and kissing and existing in the same space without the pressure of Gates or training or professionalism. Lilia told you stories about his past—carefully edited ones, nothing about the incident that had taken his powers, but stories about other Espers, other Gates, moments that had stuck with him over the years.

You told him about your life before, about your dreams of being a marine biologist that had died when you'd sneezed a car into orbit.

"You could still study marine biology," Lilia pointed out. "As a hobby."

"Do I look like I have time for hobbies?"

"You're literally required to take a week off every month. You negotiated that into your contract."

"...Okay that's fair."

He stayed until late, until you were both tired and comfortable and reluctant to move. When he finally stood to leave, you walked him to the door, holding his hand the entire way.

"Same time next week?" he asked, and kissed you one more time before leaving.

You closed the door behind him and leaned against it, grinning like an absolute idiot.

You pulled out your phone and saw a text from Lilia already.

Lilia: Made it home. Thank you for tonight. You're wonderful, even if you can't park.

You: I DON'T EVEN HAVE A CAR

Lilia: Exactly my point.

You laughed and went to bed feeling lighter than you had in years.

The alarm went off at 3 AM, which was never a good sign.

You jolted awake to your phone screaming and a message from Bureau dispatch: EMERGENCY GATE - SS-RANK RESPONSE REQUIRED - REPORT IMMEDIATELY.

You were out the door in five minutes, still pulling on your uniform, your brain struggling to come online. The Bureau building was chaos when you arrived—people running, shouting, the emergency lights flashing red. You found Lilia immediately because he found you first, materializing at your side like he always did.

"Big one," he said, and his voice was tense in a way you'd never heard before. "S-rank Gate, possibly higher. It opened in a residential district."

"Where's Malleus? Sebek? Silver?"

"Already deployed to another Gate across the city. It opened at the same time." His jaw was tight. "You're going in without them."

You felt your stomach drop. You'd always had your team. Malleus who could level mountains, Sebek who was competent despite the yelling, Silver who solved problems in his sleep. Going into a high-level Gate without them felt wrong.

But you were SS-rank. This was literally what you'd signed up for.

The transport to the Gate site was fast and silent. You could see it from blocks away—the thing was massive, easily twice the size of any Gate you'd seen before, pulsing with sickly energy that made your teeth hurt even from a distance.

When you arrived, you saw the Guides waiting outside.

Some of them were crying.

You saw decimated Espers in their arms, bodies broken and bleeding, being desperately Guided back from the edge. Some were unconscious. Some were screaming. Some were too far gone, their eyes vacant and empty, minds already shattered beyond repair.

You watched a Guide sob over their Esper's body, trying to Guide someone who couldn't be Guided anymore, who'd burned out so completely there was nothing left to save.

You felt cold.

Lilia grabbed your arm, pulling your attention to him. For the first time since you'd met him, he looked genuinely worried. Scared, even.

"You have to come back," he said, and his voice was tight. "You understand? You have to come back because I still need to teach you how to park."

"I don't even have a car," you said automatically, the familiar joke feeling hollow.

"Then I'll buy you one just so I can teach you. So you have to come back." His hands were on your shoulders, gripping tight. "Promise me."

Instead of promising, you kissed him. For luck. For courage. For the possibility that this might be the last time.

He kissed you back hard, desperately, like he was trying to pour every ounce of protection he could into you through sheer force of will.

Then you turned and walked into the Gate.

It was a nightmare.

The space inside was wrong in ways that made your previous Gates look like pleasant vacation destinations. Reality bent and twisted. Gravity was a suggestion. The monsters were horrible—not just ugly, but wrong on a fundamental level, like they'd been designed by something that hated the concept of life itself.

There were other SS-rank Espers with you, people you'd seen around the Bureau but never worked with. You fought together because you had to, because the alternative was dying alone.

You took hits. A lot of hits. A claw raked across your side and you felt ribs crack. Something with too many teeth bit into your shoulder and you had to blast it off, taking some of your own flesh with it. Your power was surging and spiking and you were using too much, you knew you were using too much, but the alternative was letting these things win.

An Esper next to you went down, their scream cutting off abruptly as a monster crushed them into the crystallized ground. You couldn't help them. You could barely help yourself.

You lost track of time. Minutes felt like hours. Hours felt like minutes. Everything was pain and power and the slowly growing certainty that you might not make it out of this one.

But you fought. You and the other surviving Espers pushed forward, cleared the Gate section by section, destroyed the boss monster with combined attacks that left you all gasping.

The Gate shimmered and began to collapse.

You stumbled out.

Everything was blurry. Your vision was going dark at the edges. Everything burned—your muscles, your skin, your brain most of all. The familiar screaming was back but worse, louder, suggesting things that were increasingly divorced from reality. Your power was still surging out of control, eating you from the inside.

You saw red rushing toward you.

Lilia.

You collapsed directly onto him, your legs giving out. He caught you smoothly, his arms wrapping around you as he sank to the ground, sitting right there on the concrete and pulling you into his lap.

"I've got you," he said, and his hands were already on your face, your neck, trying to Guide you. "I've got you, just hold on—"

The relief came but it wasn't enough. You were too far gone, burned out too badly. You could feel him trying, feel the Guiding energy flowing into you, but it was like trying to fill an ocean with a cup. You were drowning and he couldn't pull you out fast enough.

You were struggling to breathe, to think, to exist. Your power was tearing you apart.

Lilia was starting to panic. You could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. His hands were shaking.

He kissed you.

It helped. The connection between you flared, stronger than just Guiding, and for a moment you could breathe again. But then it faded and you were drowning again, gasping.

"Bond with me," Lilia said, and his voice was desperate. "Right now. We need to bond. It's the only way—"

"No," you managed to choke out. You were lucid enough for that, at least. Lucid enough to know what you were refusing. "I don't—I can't hurt you—"

"You're not going to hurt me—"

"Someone else did—" You were crying now, tears streaming down your face mixing with blood and dirt. "I can't—I won't—"

"I'll be fine!" He grabbed your face with both hands, forcing you to look at him. His red eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I'll be FINE, so just bond with me! I can't lose you! Do you understand? I can't—" His voice broke. "Please. Please just trust me. I can handle it. Just don't leave me."

You were dying. You could feel it. Your consciousness was slipping, the screaming getting louder, your power about to tear you apart completely.

You kissed him hard, desperately, and opened yourself up completely.

The bond snapped into place.

It felt like lightning, like your soul recognizing his and reaching out and connecting in a way that was permanent and fundamental and absolute. You felt him gasp against your mouth, felt the bond solidify between you, felt his presence suddenly THERE in your mind in a way that was intimate and terrifying and perfect.

And then he Guided you.

It was different now. Stronger. The energy flowed between you effortlessly, naturally, like your minds had been designed to work together. The drowning feeling receded. The screaming stopped. Your power settled back into something manageable, controlled, safe.

You could breathe again.

And then you started sobbing.

"I'm sorry," you choked out, clinging to him. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to—I didn't mean to make you—"

"Shh, it's fine—"

"It's not fine!" You were ugly crying now, snot and tears and complete emotional breakdown. "You were hurt before and I just—I forced you to—I made you bond with me and what if it hurts you again? What if you lose your powers again? What if—"

Lilia kissed you to shut you up.

It worked.

When he pulled back, his expression was firm. "I'm fine. Look at me. I'm fine." He was Guiding you still, the energy flowing smoothly between you through the bond. "It's okay because it's you. Do you understand? It's okay because I chose this."

You tried to respond but your brain was short-circuiting from the kiss and the bond and the emotional whiplash and everything.

"I—you—but—"

He looped his arm around you, pulling you close against his chest, and pulled out his phone with his free hand. "Want to see baby Malleus?"

Your brain stuttered. "What?"

He showed you a picture.

It was an egg.

Just an egg. A large egg with some scales on it, sitting in what looked like a very fancy cushioned nest.

You stared at it. Looked at Lilia. Looked back at the egg.

"That's an egg," you said, your voice still hitching from crying.

"That's baby Malleus," Lilia said proudly. "I raised him from an egg. Isn't he cute?"

The sheer absurdity of it broke through your panic. You started laughing—half hysterical, half genuine—because you'd just nearly died and bonded with your Guide and he was showing you baby pictures of Malleus that were literally just photos of an egg.

"There you are," Lilia said softly, squeezing your cheeks with one hand. His smile was gentle, affectionate. "Welcome back."

You buried your face in his neck, fresh tears starting but different ones now. Overwhelming emotion that you couldn't name.

He hugged you back immediately, his arms wrapping around you securely. You could feel him through the bond now—his presence warm and solid and real in your mind, his concern for you, his affection, his absolute lack of regret.

"I don't regret it," he murmured into your hair, like he could feel you worrying through the bond. "I promise. I don't regret any of it."

You held onto him tighter.

Around you, other Guides were still working with their Espers. Medical teams were arriving. Someone was trying to get your attention for medical assessment, but Lilia waved them off with a look that suggested they'd lose fingers if they tried to separate you right now.

You stayed there on the concrete, holding each other, bonded now in a way that was permanent and irreversible and absolutely terrifying and perfect.

"We're going to have so much paperwork," you mumbled into his neck.

Lilia laughed. "That's what you're worried about right now?"

"I'm worried about a lot of things right now. The paperwork is just the most manageable one."

"Fair enough." He pressed a kiss to your temple. "We'll handle it together."

Lilia had lost his Guiding a long time ago.

He used to be able to Guide Malleus and the others—back when Malleus was still learning control, when Silver was a rookie stumbling through his first Gates, when Sebek was even louder and more reckless than he was now. Lilia had been good at it. One of the best.

And then someone had tried to take that from him.

An Esper. Too far gone, mind fracturing from Gate residue and desperation. Powerful enough that restraining them had been nearly impossible.

They'd grabbed Lilia during what should have been a routine Guiding session and forced a bond—ripped their way into his psyche with all the subtlety of a battering ram, trying to anchor themselves to him, to use him as a lifeline.

It hadn't worked. Forced bonds never did.

But it had ruined his powers anyway. The damage was permanent, irreversible. His ability to Guide had been burned out of him like someone had taken a torch to his nerves. He'd tried for months afterward—touching other Espers, trying to help, desperate to feel that familiar flow of energy. Nothing. Just emptiness where his powers used to be.

He'd had to retire. No Guiding meant no fieldwork. No purpose. No reason to stay.

He'd been bitter for a long time after that. Angry at the Esper who'd done it, angry at himself for not seeing it coming, angry at the universe for taking away something so fundamental to who he was.

He'd traveled for a while, trying to outrun the feeling of uselessness that followed him everywhere. Seen places he'd never had time to visit before. Picked up hobbies that didn't involve risking his life.

Eventually, he'd accepted it. The anger had faded into resignation, then into something like peace. He couldn't Guide anymore. That was just reality now.

So he'd come back to help Malleus, Silver, and Sebek in other ways—tactical support, training consultation, moral support. He couldn't go into fieldwork anymore, couldn't be the Guide he used to be, but at least he could be present. Be useful in spirit, if not in practice.

And then he met you.

He'd been taking a shortcut through an alley—old habits from his traveling days—when he'd seen you. Slumped against a wall, clearly struggling, power crackling around you in unstable bursts. An Esper on the edge of losing control, probably unregistered based on how poorly you were managing your output.

He'd walked over to help you up. Just basic decency. Maybe point you toward the Bureau so you didn't accidentally explode yourself or the block.

He'd touched your shoulder.

And for the first time in years, his powers had worked.

The shock of it had nearly made him stumble. That familiar sensation of energy flowing through him, of being able to sense your distress and smooth it out, of Guiding actually working—it was like a limb he'd thought he'd lost suddenly remembering how to function.

You'd passed out immediately after, which was inconvenient but expected given how far gone you'd been.

Lilia had sat there staring at you, unconscious and drooling slightly on his jacket, and made an impulsive decision. He'd given you his number. Told you to call if you used your powers again.

He'd expected maybe one call. A follow-up to make sure you hadn't died.

You'd texted him an hour later because you'd set your apartment on fire trying to kill a spider.

You were funny. Very scatterbrained in an endearing way, rambling about groceries and library books when you panicked. You made him laugh more than he had in years.

But he'd also seen the pain in you. Even when you pretended everything was fine, even when you joked and deflected, he could tell you were alone. Isolating yourself out of fear. And it was taking a toll on you—he could see it in the way you held yourself, the careful distance you kept from everything and everyone.

So he'd taken you to a Gate. Showed you what you could have if you stopped running. Convinced you to join the Bureau, even though it meant paperwork and commitment and everything you'd been avoiding.

And then you'd begged him to join too. To be your Guide.

He'd been apprehensive. What if this was a fluke? What if his powers stopped working again after he got used to having them back? What if he bonded with you—even temporarily through regular Guiding—and lost everything again when it inevitably fell apart?

But he'd said yes anyway.

Because you had this strange magnetism that kept him coming back. This earnest, chaotic energy that made him want to be around you, to see what ridiculous thing you'd do next, to be part of whatever disaster you were stumbling into.

You were strange and funny and so full of life, even when you were trying to hide it.

You'd become friends with even Sebek, which was a feat Lilia hadn't thought possible. The boy barely tolerated most humans, but he'd grudgingly accepted you after you'd hidden behind Lilia enough times and yelled increasingly unhinged things when cornered.

You were understanding with Malleus, treating him like a person instead of the strongest Esper alive, listening to his gargoyle lectures with genuine interest. You took Silver's narcolepsy in stride, sometimes joining him for naps after particularly brutal training sessions.

You fit into their strange little family like you'd always been meant to be there.

Lilia had known he might be screwed when he found himself stepping in when other Guides tried to Guide you. Making excuses about compatibility and training consistency when really he just didn't want anyone else touching you, helping you, being the one you relied on.

At some point, without him noticing exactly when, he'd started considering you as his.

His Esper. His responsibility. His.

When you'd nervously asked him to the escape room, stumbling over your words and clearly panicking, he'd wanted you to confirm if it was a date. So he'd invited Malleus and Silver and Sebek, just to see what you'd do. To his delight, you'd taken it in stride and then asked him out properly the next time—direct and flustered and absolutely endearing.

The actual date had been lovely. Easy. Comfortable in a way Lilia hadn't felt in decades.

Until you'd mentioned bonding.

He'd felt his expression shut down, felt himself retreat into old defenses. The memories of forced bonding, of pain and violation and loss, had risen up like bile. He'd changed the subject because he didn't know how to explain it, didn't want to see your expression change from warm to pitying.

But you hadn't pushed. You hadn't asked about his past, about what had happened, about why he'd flinched. You'd just let it go. Made a joke about someone's terrible parking and held his hand tighter.

You were so kind about it. So understanding without needing explanations.

And Lilia had thought, with growing certainty, that you deserved better than him. Better than a centuries-old fae with baggage and trauma and a past he couldn't fully share.

That's why he'd asked if you were sure it was him you wanted.

You'd looked so offended. Like an angry chipmunk, all puffed up and indignant. You'd told him to shut up and kissed him, and he'd kissed you back because somewhere along the way you'd ruined everyone else for him. He couldn't imagine wanting anyone else. Couldn't imagine this working with anyone but you.

The weeks that followed had been good. Better than good. You made him laugh. You challenged him. You fit against his side like you belonged there. He'd started thinking in terms of "we" and "us" without noticing the shift.

And then that S-rank Gate had opened.

He'd felt fear for the first time in years when he'd seen you heading toward it. Real, bone-deep terror that he was going to lose you. That you'd go in and not come back out, or come back so broken he couldn't fix you.

He'd made you promise to come back. Tried to make it a joke about teaching you to park, but his voice had shaken.

When you'd stumbled out of that Gate, barely alive, eyes unfocused and power tearing you apart from the inside, Lilia hadn't hesitated.

He'd pulled you into his arms and tried to Guide you, but it wasn't enough. You were too far gone. Burning out in real-time while he watched helplessly.

The bond had been instinct. Necessity. The only way to create a connection strong enough to pull you back from the edge.

"Bond with me," he'd said, desperate and terrified.

And you'd refused.

Even dying, even barely conscious, you'd refused because you didn't want to hurt him. Because you knew what had happened to him before—or guessed enough of it—and you were trying to protect him even while your own mind was fracturing.

That had been the moment Lilia knew with absolute certainty: it would always be you.

You were dying and you were still being considerate of him. Still putting his wellbeing above your own. Still so fundamentally kind that even your survival instincts took a backseat to not causing him pain.

So he'd begged. Pleaded. Made you understand that losing you would hurt infinitely more than any bond ever could.

When you'd finally kissed him and opened yourself up to the bond, Lilia had felt it snap into place like coming home. Perfect compatibility. Perfect resonance. Like your souls had been designed to fit together.

The Guiding had flowed effortlessly after that. He'd pulled you back from the edge, stabilized you, kept you anchored while your power settled.

And then you'd started crying.

Apologizing for forcing him, for making him bond with you, for potentially hurting him. Breaking down completely while he held you.

It had broken his heart.

So he'd shown you the picture of egg Malleus—ridiculous and absurd and exactly the kind of thing that would break through your spiral. And it had worked. You'd laughed, bewildered and still crying, but laughing.

"There you are," he'd said, and meant it. There was the person he'd fallen for. Chaotic and earnest and coming back to him.

You'd buried your face in his neck and he'd held you close, feeling your presence solid and real in his mind now through the bond. Feeling your emotions—the guilt, the relief, the love that you hadn't said out loud yet but that resonated through the connection between you.

He'd promised you he didn't regret it.

He didn't.

This was different from before. That forced bond had been violation and pain and destruction. Whereas this was his choice. It is perfect compatibility that feels right in a way nothing else ever had.

He could feel you in his mind now—a constant awareness of your emotions, your wellbeing, your existence. It was intimate and terrifying and absolutely perfect.

Lilia hoped to be by your side for the rest of his life.

However long that would be—and for fae, that could be a very long time indeed—he wanted to spend it with you. Watching you grow stronger, more confident. Being there when you stumbled. Celebrating your victories. Making terrible jokes and showing you embarrassing photos of baby Malleus and teaching you to park even though you didn't have a car.

You'd changed everything for him. Given him back not just his powers, but his purpose.

He pressed another kiss to your temple, feeling you relax against him, and smiled.

Yes.

It would always be you.

For however long forever lasted, it would be you.

And Lilia had never been more certain of anything in his very long life.

You and Lilia were bonded now.

You could feel him in the back of your mind—a constant presence that was comforting instead of intrusive, like knowing someone was in the next room over.

His emotions bled through sometimes, little bursts of amusement or affection or mischief that let you know exactly what kind of trouble he was planning before he even opened his mouth.

He was as chaotic as the day you'd met him in that alley. More chaotic, even, because now he didn't have to hold back. He knew you could handle it. Knew you'd match his energy with your own brand of disaster.

You think you've never loved anything before him.

Sure, you'd loved things. Loved your family in that familial way. Loved certain foods, certain places, certain moments. But this was different.

This was waking up every morning and feeling grateful that he existed. This was looking at him across the room and feeling your chest get tight with how much you wanted to keep him. This was knowing, bone-deep, that you'd found something worth keeping.

He cooked food so scary it made you pray to gods you didn't believe in. You'd watched him create something he called "soup" that had moved on its own. He'd served it with a proud smile while you'd seriously considered whether eating it or hurting his feelings was the worse option.

You'd tried one bite and immediately understood why Sebek had looked haunted when you'd mentioned Lilia's cooking. Silver had actually woken up from a nap just to warn you not to eat it. Malleus had given you a solemn nod of respect like you were heading into battle.

You'd eaten it anyway because the smile on Lilia's face had been worth the stomach ache.

He loved teasing you. Would say something completely outrageous just to watch your face cycle through confusion, realization, and indignation. Would whisper the most absurd things during serious Bureau meetings just to watch you try not to laugh.

He loved pushing you to try harder during training. Not in the harsh way Sebek did, all yelling and criticism, but in the way that said "I know you can do better and I want to see you succeed."

He'd celebrate your victories like they were his own. Would pick you up when you failed and dust you off and make you try again.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

You were lying on the couch—well, your head was on his lap while he sat on the couch properly—watching him destroy people in some video game you didn't fully understand. His fingers moved rapidly over the controller, and you could feel his concentration through the bond, that sharp focus he got when he was in competition mode.

You were doomscrolling on your phone, looking at nothing in particular, just existing in his presence. Some article about Gate statistics. A video of a cat. A meme about Espers that was only funny if you actually were one. The comfortable silence of doing nothing together.

"GET WRECKED, YOU ABSOLUTE NOOB!" Lilia shouted at the screen, and you felt his glee through the bond. "YOUR AIM IS SO BAD I'M EMBARRASSED FOR YOU! DID YOU LEARN TO PLAY WITH YOUR FEET?!"

You snorted. "You're going to get reported for toxicity."

"They can report me all they want. I'm speaking truth." He landed another kill and cackled. "THAT'S WHAT YOU GET FOR CAMPING, YOU COWARD!"

He glanced down at you, his expression softening immediately from competitive gremlin to something tender, and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

"Your game wife is asking where you are," you say, stretching a little while looking at the screen. "She says you abandoned her at the altar. She's very upset."

"LISTEN JENNIFER, I TOLD YOU THIS WAS JUST FOR THE GUILD BENEFITS! I'M A LONE WOLF! I CAN'T BE TAMED!"

You could hear the other player's tinny voice through his headset, saying something angry.

"THAT'S VERY RUDE!" Lilia said, sounding delighted. "I'M REPORTING YOU FOR HARASSMENT! Yes, I know I killed you seven times! That's called SKILL, Jennifer!"

You laughed, feeling the vibration of his own laughter through his body. You could feel his joy through the bond—pure, chaotic delight at annoying strangers on the internet.

This was your life now. Bonded to a centuries-old fae who played video games like a toxic twelve-year-old and cooked food that violated the Geneva Convention and looked at you like you'd hung the stars.

You think there was no other place you'd rather be.

"I love you," you said, not looking up from your phone.

His hand stilled in your hair for a moment. Then through the bond, you felt it—a surge of warmth and affection so strong it almost made your chest hurt.

"I love you too," he said softly. Then, louder: "JENNIFER, I'M HAVING A MOMENT! CAN YOU STOP SHOOTING AT ME FOR FIVE SECONDS?! ...NO, I'M NOT GOING TO STOP CAPTURING THE ENEMY! THAT'S THE POINT OF THE GAME!"

You smiled and went back to your doomscrolling.

Yeah.

There was nowhere else you'd rather be.

Part 1

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[solxamber]

Sync or Sink || Vil Schoenheit

You, an overworked S-Class esper with the survival instincts of a damp sock, catch the eye of SSS-Class guide Vil Schoenheit. He decides you’re his personal fixer-upper project. Shockingly, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

The world was already hanging on by a thread — economic collapse, melting ice caps, influencers starting cults via TikTok. It was a mess. You’d think that would be enough. You’d hope that would be enough. But no. Some ancient cosmic being — probably named something dramatic like Thar’zul the Chronovore — looked down at Earth and said, “You know what this needs? Fun.”

And by fun, it meant Gates.

Gates are like if cursed portals, radioactive sinkholes, and a haunted Etsy store had a baby. They pop up anywhere and everywhere: in libraries, parking garages, yoga studios, even in the middle of someone’s wedding ceremony. (“Do you take this—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT?!”)

These glowing tears in the fabric of reality are basically open invitations to every monster, demon, and unholy abomination in the neighborhood. And if left unchecked, they break, releasing those nightmares into your already-taxed existence like a hellish game of whack-a-mole.

But don't worry! Humanity, against all odds, did not die out immediately.

Because the universe, in its infinite chaos, also gave rise to Espers. Special little guys. Think emotional time bombs with telekinetic temper tantrums and the ability to level buildings if they stub their toe too hard. Espers are the only ones who can suppress Gates and fight back the monsters. They're strong, fast, powerful—and also dangerously dramatic.

Like, “cries during dog food commercials” dramatic. “Blew up a vending machine because it ate their dollar” dramatic. If they don’t have someone helping them regulate their powers (and by extension, their feelings), they’re a walking nuclear disaster waiting to happen.

Which brings us to Guides.

Guides are born with the power to soothe, ground, and stabilize Espers before they turn into emotional IEDs. They go through rigorous training. They meditate. They are the human equivalent of “have you tried deep breathing?”—except instead of calming down toddlers, they’re keeping an Esper from melting the freeway with their grief-powered fireballs.

This entire survival system hinges on compatibility between Espers and Guides. Sounds romantic, right? It’s not. It’s mostly screaming, paperwork, and sometimes unspoken sexual tension.

So, to recap:

Gates = Bad.

Espers = Powerful but emotionally unstable.

Guides = The only thing standing between civilization and utter monster-induced ruin.

Together, Espers and Guides form the first — and only — line of defense between humanity and total monster-induced annihilation.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, this system hinges entirely on two people getting along.

Which, as anyone who's ever been in a group project can tell you, is a complete joke.

The Gate had been rough. You were bleeding, caked in monster goop, and running on exactly one granola bar, four energy drinks, and pure spite. Monsters just kept coming—one after another like it was a clearance sale on eldritch horror—and now your knees were shaking, your head was pounding, and you were 99% sure you were hallucinating the talking goat that told you to “go into the light.”

You stumbled out of the Gate zone, vision blurry. There were Guides waiting beyond the perimeter, crisp in their uniforms, radiant with that “I got 8 hours of sleep and drink water” glow. Unfortunately, most of them had already been snagged by the other Espers, who were quicker, cleaner, and not currently dripping ectoplasm from their sleeve.

You blinked. The only one left was… well, no. That couldn’t be right.

Standing a few feet away, untouched and oddly pristine, was a man who looked like he’d walked straight out of a high-end fashion magazine shoot titled "War-Torn But Make It Couture."

Tall, composed, and stunning in a way that made your brain short-circuit, he was clearly someone Important™. The other S-Ranks had actively avoided him, which should’ve been a clue. But your frontal lobe was melting. You didn’t have the bandwidth to care.

You wobbled forward like a dying Roomba, grabbed a handful of his sleek uniform, and mumbled, “Guide. That’s you, right?”

And then you slumped forward and face-planted directly onto his collarbone.

There was a pause.

“…Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked, incredulously.

You groaned. “Yeah. You’re a Guide. You’ve got the badge.”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

He sounded… offended. And faintly intrigued.

“…You don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?” you mumbled into his neck.

You didn’t see the expression on his face, but if your ears weren’t lying, he audibly gasped. Like someone had just told him dry shampoo was canceled. Like the very idea of not being recognized was a personal attack.

But instead of pushing you off, he slowly brought a hand up, fingers grazing your temple. You felt a wave of warmth radiate through your skull like a breath of fresh air had crawled into your ribcage.

It was… good. Too good.

A jolt of relief punched through your nervous system. Your heart rate settled. The Gate static stopped screaming in your ears. Your whole body sagged, weightless and calm, and you barely had time to mutter “holy shit you’re good at this” before your knees gave out completely.

You passed out in his arms.

And Vil Schoenheit—SSS-Rank Guide, national treasure, and walking perfection—stood there holding your limp, grime-covered, unconscious form with a complicated look on his face.

You came back to consciousness the way a phone boots up after being thrown into a wall. Slow, glitchy, and confused.

Something was warm under you. Something was very firm. You blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the strange sensation of not being in pain anymore. The Gate headache was gone. Your soul no longer felt like it had been sandpapered. You were, inexplicably, comfortable.

That’s when you realized: you were still wrapped around the fancy Guide like a human backpack.

Face: mashed against his shoulder. Legs: around his waist. Arms: locked in a desperate hug like a koala going through a rough breakup. And he… was just sitting there. On a recovery bench. Completely calm. Holding you like this was something that happened to him all the time.

“Oh,” you mumbled, sleep-dazed. “My bad.”

He tilted his head, glossy hair catching the light like it had a sponsorship deal with a shampoo brand. “Are you done?” he asked, voice sharp. “Or shall I assume you’ve permanently relocated to my clavicle?”

You peeled yourself off him with all the grace of wet laundry sliding off a countertop. “Thanks for, uh, not letting me die,” you offered, scratching your head.

He stared at you for a long moment. “Do you know who I am?”

You blinked. “…A Guide?”

He inhaled. Visibly. Offended on a spiritual level. The look on his face could’ve soured milk. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Are you actively trying to offend me?”

“What? You’ve got the badge! That’s all I need, right?”

Vil Schoenheit—as he introduced himself—flicked you on the forehead. It was somehow both dismissive and full of judgment. “Recover. Properly.” he snapped, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. “You’re lucky I’m magnanimous.”

He swept out of the room like a disgruntled ballerina.

You blinked after him, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell was that about?”

A nurse walked in and immediately gasped like she'd just witnessed a royal birth. “Oh my Seven—was that Vil?!”

“Vil… who?” you asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.

She turned to you so fast her clipboard flew off the counter. “Vil Schoenheit. SSS Guide. He’s a legend. Do you have any idea how many Espers have tried to bond with him and been turned away in tears?”

You stared at the door where he’d just vanished. “No? He just kinda… guided me.”

The nurse screeched. “YOU JUST KINDA GOT GUIDED—are you INSANE? That man once made a Grade-SS Esper cry because they wore Crocs to an informal debriefing!”

You slowly sat back against the pillow, eyes wide.

“…I told him ‘oops sorry lol.’”

You were still internally combusting about the whole “Oops sorry lol” situation when you finally worked up the nerve to go to Vil’s office. Not to bond—you weren’t delusional—but at the very least, to apologize. Maybe offer him a thank-you fruit basket. Or one of those luxury hair masks. Something.

Espers were better paid than Guides. That wasn’t a flex—it was just how the system worked. You’d always thought it was kind of unfair, but now, standing outside his office, you suddenly felt even worse. Because if Vil was being underpaid to deal with Espers, plural, like you? He deserved hazard pay.

You raised a shaky fist and knocked on the door before pushing it open.

The door opened, and you were hit with the distinct scent of wealth, vintage cologne, and spiritual intimidation. The office looked like it belonged in a magazine titled Power & Passive Aggression: Interiors for the Elite. It had velvet chairs. A chandelier. And on the floor, sobbing, was an SS-ranked Esper.

“Please,” she was whispering, clutching Vil’s coat like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “Please, just once. I know I’m not SSS, but my compatibility score is so close—”

“I don’t guide based on some arbitrary number,” Vil said coolly, extracting himself with the same disdain you'd use to avoid stepping in gum. “I guide based on worth.”

You were already edging away when his eyes snapped up—and softened.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked, voice shifting so drastically in tone it gave you whiplash.

“I—uh. I just wanted to apologize. For, you know. The slumping. And the drool. And the calling you ‘a Guide’ like you’re not the Guide.” You laughed nervously. “Also. Uh. I can repay you?”

He stared at you like you’d offered to give him pocket lint.

Then, without even glancing at the SS Esper still on the floor, he waved a perfectly manicured hand and said, “Leave.”

She looked up, stunned. “W-what?”

“I said leave.” His voice sharpened like glass under velvet. “Now.”

You watched her scramble out in silence. Then Vil turned to you, posture relaxing like you were an entirely different species of Esper.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the velvet chair.

You obeyed. Of course you did. Your legs moved like they belonged to someone else.

“I didn’t come here to be guided,” you said quickly. “I just thought I’d offer some compensation since you took care of me back at the Gate, and—”

“Hush.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t guide you for compensation,” Vil said, moving closer, “and I certainly don’t require repayment.”

“But I—”

“Do not interrupt me,” he said smoothly, placing his hand just under your jaw and tilting your head with two fingers. “Close your eyes.”

You did.

And just like before, the storm in your chest went still.

He hadn’t even made full contact yet, and already your frayed nerves calmed, your aching muscles relaxed, and that hollow echo left by the Gate quieted.

You opened your mouth to speak again—because, honestly, who wouldn’t panic under that much raw focus—but his voice cut in before a single syllable escaped:

“Did I say you could talk?”

You shut your mouth.

Vil smiled. Like he’d just won something important, and wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet.

“Good. You learn quickly.”

You staggered out of the Gate like a soldier crawling back from the front lines of a war no one believed in. Your clothes were singed, your limbs were shaking, your skin was buzzing with leftover energy that had nowhere to go, and your brain was running the Windows 95 shutdown noise on loop. You had fought monsters for the past hour with all the grace of a dying blender.

Everything hurt. Your body felt like it had been used as a battering ram. Your soul felt like it had been microwaved.

So when you saw the sweet, merciful glow of a Guide badge ahead in the crowd, your instincts took over. You staggered forward like a half-dead Roomba on its last cycle, locked onto the nearest beacon of safety.

The Guide in question had orange hair and the smug look of someone who thought they were God’s gift to humanity despite the fact they were clearly holding a vape pen and a clipboard.

You didn’t care.

You lurched toward him, arms outstretched like a cryptid emerging from the woods.

“BRO NO,” he yelped. “DUDE, I’M NOT CERTIFIED FOR THIS LEVEL OF TRAUMA—DON’T PUKE ON ME—”

But before your forehead could connect with his very punchable shoulder, a blur of movement swept in.

You were yanked back by the collar like an untrained dog trying to bolt into traffic.

“Absolutely not,” a cool, smooth voice said with the unmistakable tone of expensive disdain. “You are not grounding with him.”

You turned sluggishly to your new captor and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Vil. Hair perfect despite the apocalyptic weather conditions of a gate zone. Wearing a coat that probably cost more than your entire existence and looking at you like you were a particularly unfortunate stain on said coat.

You blinked at him. “Am I in trouble?” you mumbled.

Vil arched a brow. “You’re seconds away from slumping onto a Guide who once tried to ground an Esper by playing lo-fi beats through his AirPods. Yes, you’re in trouble.”

You were too tired to be offended.

He sighed, took your hand, and suddenly, bliss.

Like every nerve in your body was dunked in lavender oil and told to shut up. Your breathing evened out. Your vision cleared. Your bones climbed back into their sockets like, “Our bad, we’ll behave now.”

You let him guide you to a nearby bench, too dazed to do anything but follow the magical angel who had just saved you from the worst decision of your life.

Vil sat gracefully. You slumped next to him like a dying cactus in a thunderstorm.

“Post-gate recovery is non-negotiable,” he said, like he hadn’t just watched you nearly expire in public.

You closed your eyes and focused on the cool, steady rhythm of his guidance, and then—

A crinkle.

You opened one eye to see him pull a juice box from his bag. With a bendy straw.

He inserted the straw and handed it to you like you were a toddler who’d just had a very bad day at daycare.

You stared at the juice. Then at him. “Is this for me?”

“No,” he said dryly. “It’s for the other S-class Esper currently drooling on my coat.”

You blinked, deeply touched. You took a sip.

It was… heavenly.

You made a soft noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.

And then—your eyes stung.

“No,” Vil said immediately, without looking at you. “Whatever emotional reaction you’re about to have—don’t.”

You sniffled. “But you brought me juice. Nobody’s brought me juice since I got classified. Everyone just shoves me into Gates and tells me not to die.”

He flicked your forehead. “If you die, I have to find another Esper whose personality doesn’t give me hives. That sounds exhausting.”

“Are you… saying you like me?”

“I’m saying your emotional resilience is marginally less pathetic than average,” he said, adjusting your posture so your head leaned more comfortably on his shoulder. “And I don’t hate your voice.”

You sipped your juice box, trembling like a Victorian child given a warm meal for the first time.

No one had treated you like this since you joined the system. You’d been weaponized, categorized, and told to sit still and kill things on command. You were a tool. A number. A sharp object.

But Vil wasn’t afraid of your sharp edges. He looked you in the eye and said, “That’s a guide badge you’re drooling on, potato. Not a chew toy.”

And then gave you juice.

You sniffled again.

“If you sob, I will end you,” he muttered, but his hand never let go of yours.

And you knew, deep in your wrecked little Esper heart, that you would fight a thousand more gates just to be guided by him again.

Even if he bullied you the entire time.

So apparently, post-gate recovery hadn’t just been juice boxes and emotionally confusing hand-holding.

No. It turned out you had to take something called a Routine Compatibility Check for “guidance efficiency optimization.”

You hadn’t known what any of that meant, but someone had shoved a clipboard at you and told you to “go sit in the glow room and don’t touch anything,” so there you were. Sitting in a sterile white room that smelled like hand sanitizer and despair. Waiting to meet your newly assigned “guidance match.”

A door creaked open.

You turned around—and in walked a guy who looked like he hadn’t seen direct sunlight since the invention of the lightbulb. His shoulders were hunched, hoodie too big, blue glowing hair all mussed like he’d lost a fight with a hairdryer. He had eyebags for days and the posture of a raccoon caught mid-fridge-raid.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

He looked at you harder—and visibly recoiled like you’d just bit him.

“…Uhhh,” he said, voice high and trembling. “You’re the S-class?”

“Yup,” you replied.

“Oh no.”

This man looked like he was seconds from writing “HELP” on the window with a dry erase marker. His hand was already twitching toward the panic button. He was mentally Googling “what to do when assigned a battle demon.”

You opened your mouth to say something reassuring—like, “Hey, I only explode on some guides,” or “I’ve never actually flattened a building during a meltdown”—

—but the door slammed open behind you.

“Absolutely not.”

You turned around.

Vil Schoenheit stood in the doorway like the wrath of God dressed in Gucci. Impeccable coat. Sunglasses indoors. Holding a coffee cup that you knew wasn’t from the office vending machine.

He eyed the situation—your tentative shuffle toward your new guide, the way the poor guy was gripping his ID badge like a rosary—and his lip curled like someone had just handed him expired tofu.

“I’m taking them,” Vil said flatly to the Guidance Office rep standing nearby. “This is non-negotiable.”

The rep blinked. “But, Mr. Schoenheit, the match—”

“—was laughable. They’re mine.”

Your poor assigned guide looked so relieved it was almost insulting.

“Thank the stars,” he mumbled, already gathering his things like you were a bomb that’d just been safely disarmed. “No offense, but I really don’t do well with… uh… physical contact or eye contact or conflict or—”

You were too stunned to reply as Vil grabbed you by the wrist, effortlessly pivoted on his heel, and strode out of the room with you in tow like a high fashion tornado.

You stumbled after him. “Okay, hi, hello? What was that?”

“I saw your assignment,” Vil said coolly. “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that continue.”

“But—I thought you weren’t accepting new matches?”

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “So…?”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, slow and deliberate, like you weren’t quite connecting the dots fast enough.

“I didn’t consider you ‘new'.”

You shut your mouth because your brain was full of static. Something about the way he said that made your knees consider filing for divorce from the rest of your body.

He guided you all the way to the elevator, in silence, while you tried to process what had just happened.

You, apparently, had been claimed.

And worst of all?

You thought you might have liked it.

It all started with a noble quest. A simple dream.

You just wanted a hoodie.

Not a fancy one. Not a designer one. Not a limited edition “inspired by the blood of fashion victims” collection. No, no. You wanted one of those oversized, marshmallow-soft hoodies that whispered “lay down and give up, my liege” every time you put it on. The kind of hoodie that could absorb emotional damage.

So there you were. Financially stable (thanks, murder gates), emotionally unstable (thanks, murder gates), and elbows-deep in a display bin labeled “3 for 2: Emotional Support Wear”, when fate struck.

Or rather, sashayed past in four-inch heels and an aura of contempt.

Vil.

You froze. He looked like he’d just walked out of a fashion spread. Every strand of hair in place. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life. Cheekbones that could slice open a space-time rift. And where was he going?

Straight into a boutique so fancy it looked like it would ask you for a résumé just to step inside.

Naturally, you turned the other way. This was not your world. You were not dressed for it. You were wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt with a questionable graphic of a goose wielding a knife. You were simply a humble raccoon-person in search of softness.

But then—

“You.”

Oh no. Oh god. Oh no god.

You turned around slowly, hoodie clutched to your chest like a shield. Vil stood there with shopping bags and the expression of someone who’d just discovered a stray in his favorite restaurant.

“Come. I need hands.”

“Sorry,” you said. “I left mine at home. Can’t help you.”

He blinked. Then, with all the confidence of someone who didn’t hear nonsense, he handed you his bags and turned around, fully expecting you to follow.

And you did. Because unfortunately, curiosity was stronger than shame.

The next hour? Was… actually kind of amazing.

Vil didn’t shop. He conquered. He moved through stores like a well-dressed storm, flinging judgment at poor fabric choices and muttering dark things about asymmetrical hemlines. Store staff parted for him like he was royalty. Other customers wilted under the weight of his gaze.

You, meanwhile, trailed after him like a high-end goblin, carrying his many, many bags, dressed like a sleep-deprived college student who had just lost a fight with a laundry machine.

It was great.

You watched him try on outfits with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. He was graceful. Efficient. Disgustingly photogenic. You felt like you were witnessing a documentary: “The Endangered Fashion Icon in His Natural Habitat.”

And then, miraculously, he let you live.

He suggested a coffee break and even let you pay—probably out of pity. You made a mental note to deduct it as a business expense under “accidental deity encounter.”

Sitting across from him, sipping overpriced lattes, you made a joke. Something dumb. Something about a pair of jeans you'd seen that looked like they'd been personally attacked by a cheese grater.

Vil laughed.

You were not prepared.

It was real. Warm. Shockingly cute. Like, “I’ve been guiding murder monsters all week and now suddenly I believe in joy again” kind of cute.

You stared. He looked at you. You looked away, sipping your drink very intently, trying not to say “please laugh again, it heals my soul.”

You didn't say it out loud.

But you thought it really hard.

You walked into Vil's office like a responsible little murder gremlin, fully prepared for your weekly check-up guidance session.

What you were not prepared for was the sheer atmospheric rage brewing inside.

Vil was pacing like a cat who'd just realized its favorite toy was in the hands of a toddler—absolutely done with life. He was muttering to himself under his breath, phrases like, “Espers with zero gratitude... how dare they ask for guidance without a thank-you,” and, “I swear if one more person thinks my time is free like it's some kind of community resource—

He saw you, exhaled the deepest sigh known to man, and pointed at the couch like he was casting a curse. Not a word of greeting. Just The Finger of Sit.

So you sat. For about three seconds.

Then, something in your little gremlin heart said: No. He is cranky. He is suffering. This is a job for Emotional Support Esper.

You got up, walked behind him, and—without a word—started massaging his shoulders.

Vil tensed like a cat about to fight god. Then slowly—slowly—melted into it.

“This isn’t part of your session,” he grumbled, but it lacked bite. His head tilted forward, giving you better access. “You’re not guiding me, you know.”

“I’m aware,” you said, digging your thumbs in just right. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t reply. Just… breathed. It was weirdly serene. You, massaging one of the most powerful and terrifying guides in the country. Him, finally looking like he wasn’t five seconds away from incinerating someone with nothing but his glare.

Eventually, you sat back down on the couch. And then—shock of all shocks—Vil slumped down next to you.

No dramatic speech. No biting commentary. Just one very exhausted, very overworked guide leaning on your shoulder like gravity had personally betrayed him.

“…Don’t say a word about this,” he murmured, eyes already closed. He reached for your hand, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and held it tight.

You stayed there for a long time.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

You just sat with him in silence, wondering how the hell you’d gone from emotional demolition expert to comfort pillow. And, weirdly, feeling kind of honored.

You weren’t sure how you got home, but judging by the trail of blood, sludge, and crushed energy drink cans leading up the stairs, you had clearly made the journey using sheer spite and possibly a small miracle. Your legs moved on autopilot, powered by rage, trauma, and about four remaining brain cells—none of which were cooperating.

You’d just come back from a gate that had gone so poorly, it might as well have been cursed by the gods, the devs, and your second-grade math teacher. Breach. Casualties. Screaming.

There was definitely a moment where you almost flung a monster into a building and then screamed louder when you realized it was the emergency response building. Whoops.

It wasn’t even your assigned gate. It was a last-minute scramble. You and a handful of other S-rank espers were yanked in because the gate was behaving badly. Like, “snarling, vomiting monsters that defied physics” badly. And you—foolish, heroic, caffeine-soaked gremlin that you were—ran in first like someone had dared you.

You fought. You fought so hard you forgot your own name for about two hours. And still, people died. People always died. But this time, it felt like too many. You saw a little kid’s shoe and had a breakdown mid-punch. You tried to do everything, and your body just… stopped cooperating.

You didn’t even get guided afterward.

Vil wasn't at this gate. The other guides were all assigned or recovering themselves. Some were crying. A few had fainted from strain.

And you? You looked around, felt your knees give out a little, then just muttered “okay cool” and left like a ghost clocking out after a double shift at a haunted Wendy’s.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were so dissociated you forgot how doors worked. You stood outside yours for a full minute before realizing the knob turned left. You walked in, left your boots and weapon where they fell, and didn’t even consider locking the door behind you.

Let fate come. Let a gate burst into your living room. Let some criminal wander in and steal your furniture. That was Future You’s problem. Current You was Busy.

You peeled yourself out of your battle gear like a sad, oversized fruit roll-up, leaving it in a heap that would absolutely start growing mold by tomorrow. You wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared inside for three solid minutes, and then closed it again. There was nothing in there but expired yogurt, an empty ketchup bottle, and the overwhelming sense of despair. Just like your soul.

Your eyes landed on the couch. You made eye contact. It made eye contact back.

You didn’t go to your bed. The bed had too much hope. The couch? The couch knew. The couch had seen things. It was your emotional support furniture, and it beckoned you with lumpy cushions and the faint scent of Febreze and failure.

You collapsed into it with the grace of a dying walrus, grabbed the nearest throw blanket like a life raft, and curled up.

Your muscles throbbed. Your eyes were dry, too tired to cry. Your heart was heavy and hollow, a contradiction wrapped in fatigue.

You didn’t call the Guidance Office.

You didn’t reach for your communicator.

You didn’t even consider getting guided.

Because why would you?

You hadn’t earned it.

Guidance was for espers who did good. Who came back whole. Who saved people and feel okay about it.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this. Least of all Vil—the most terrifyingly elegant guide in existence, whose soothing voice could calm a charging bull but whose judgmental stare could reduce you to ash on the spot. You could already imagine it:

“Potato, why didn’t you call?” And you’d go, “Because I sucked. And also I was busy eating my weight in sadness on my couch.”

So no. No guidance. No messages. No crying. Just you, your depression blanket, and your ever-growing collection of trauma under a mountain of emotional avoidance.

You passed out like that, too. Face-down, limbs sprawled, snoring gently, still wearing one sock and gripping the couch cushion like it owed you rent.

And in the hallway, your door remained unlocked.

Because honestly?

Let the monsters come.

You’d either sleep through it or invite them in for leftover yogurt and mutual despair.

You woke up feeling like a truck had hit you, reversed, parked on your spine, and left its high beams on just to be petty. Every bone in your body creaked like an abandoned haunted house. Your mouth tasted like regret and half a protein bar. Your blanket was half off the couch, half on the floor, and a mysterious corn chip was stuck to your elbow.

You blinked at the ceiling in confusion. Then your phone screamed.

100 missed calls.

37 texts.

All from: Vil Schoenheit.

Each message angrier than the last.

The final one simply said: “Pick. Up. Now.”

You did.

The moment the line connected, there was a beat of silence—then his voice, sharp and low like the edge of a knife:

“Address. Now.”

You mumbled something barely coherent, possibly your zip code, possibly the ingredients of a burrito. Either way, you texted him your location, dropped the phone on your chest, and passed out again like a Sims character who ignored every need bar until they collapsed.

The next time you woke up, it was to someone violently shaking you like they were trying to exorcise a demon.

“The door was wide open. Wide. Open. Are you out of your mind?! What if someone broke in?! What if something followed you?! What if—”

You cracked one eye open. Vil was kneeling beside your couch in full luxury casuals, flawless hair tied back in a silk ribbon, eyes blazing with a fury usually reserved for war crimes or off-season fashion.

“Why didn’t you call me?!” he snapped, voice wobbling between fury and panic.

You sat up slowly. Your limbs felt like wet noodles. You looked at him—actually looked at him—and saw the edges of worry in his perfect posture. You didn’t think. You just leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, clinging to his surprisingly warm, cologne-scented form like a soggy baby koala.

He froze.

Then he hugged you back, one arm sliding firmly around your waist, the other hand smoothing over your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten.

“You didn’t respond,” he murmured, voice much softer now, like he’d deflated the moment you touched him. “I was at a gate, and you—you should’ve called me. You idiot.”

“I didn’t deserve it,” you croaked, still clinging. “I couldn’t save everyone. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t—”

THWACK.

He flicked you so hard on the forehead you saw colors. You yelped and recoiled, holding your skull like he’d smacked you with a frying pan.

“OW—what the hell, Vil?!”

“Use your brain,” he snapped. “You don’t have to earn guidance. You lived. You fought. You made it back. That’s enough.”

You stared at him, stunned and blinking. Your brain, which had been curled in a ball screaming failure failure failure, screeched to a halt. It didn’t know what to do with this information. It flailed.

“...but—”

“No.” He pressed two fingers to your temple. “Quiet.”

And just like that, warmth bloomed across your skin. Calm, grounding, steady. His presence wrapped around your rattled mind like a weighted blanket.

You hadn’t realized how loud your thoughts had been until everything went quiet.

You slumped forward again, forehead on his shoulder.

“…thank you,” you whispered.

He made a soft, exasperated noise and squeezed your hand.

“Next time,” he muttered, “if you don’t call me, I will drag you to a spa against your will and lock you in a bathhouse for six hours.”

Honestly?

That sounded kind of nice.

You nodded into his shoulder and let the warmth pull you under again.

It wasn’t a thunderbolt moment. There was no dramatic gasp, no heart-skipping beat, no rom-com soundtrack swelling in the background.

No. It happened while Vil was in the middle of passionately criticizing your instant ramen consumption.

“You don’t even check the sodium levels, do you? Of course not. Why would you? That would require basic self-preservation instincts, which you clearly lack,—are you even listening to me?”

You were, actually. Kind of. Mostly you were just watching the way his eyes flashed when he got worked up, how his voice lilted, how his hair caught the light like he had a personal filter on at all times. His hands moved a lot when he was mad—elegant, precise little gestures like he was conducting an orchestra of outrage.

And somewhere in the middle of him saying something about how your body was “not a landfill for factory-processed poison,” you thought:

Wow. He’s perfect.

There was a pause.

A silence that felt loud in your own brain.

Not because he noticed—no, he was still going. But you did. You noticed. And you felt your entire emotional infrastructure collapse like a badly built IKEA table.

You sat there, nodding along, eyes wide and empty like a man realizing he’d dropped his phone into lava. Because you knew exactly what this meant.

You were so, so screwed.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You were too tired for that. Too experienced in emotional disasters to think, “maybe it’s just a crush!”

Nah. You liked him. For real. In the "I’d wear sunscreen just to impress him" kind of way. In the "he could tell me I look homeless and I’d say thank you" kind of way.

So, you just accepted your fate.

You nodded solemnly while Vil insulted your meal plan and thought:

Well. I guess this is my life now. Time to emotionally implode in private.

You weren’t going to tell him. Absolutely not. The man had standards higher than Mount Everest. You were a gremlin in sweatpants. He guided you out of what had to be some misplaced sense of moral responsibility, not because he liked you.

So, your plan was simple: keep it quiet. Let the crush rot in your chest. Maybe it would fade. Maybe Vil would never find out. Maybe you’d survive.

…Maybe.

“Are you even paying attention?” Vil snapped, snapping his fingers in your face.

You jolted back to reality. “Yes! Yes. Sodium bad. Body temple. I got it.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You’re acting weirder than usual.”

“I’m always weird,” you said quickly. “That’s my brand. Very consistent.”

He sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hopeless.”

You watched him for a second longer and thought, God, I’m doomed.

And then you smiled and said, “Yeah. But at least I’m charming about it.”

He rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t deny it.

You were just trying to survive. That’s all.

Because being around Vil Schoenheit every other day, breathing the same air as him while he guided you while scolding you, was no longer tenable. Your heart was staging a full-blown coup against your sanity.

Every smirk he threw your way shaved years off your life. Every time he flicked your forehead for being “reckless” or “insufferable” or “a walking cautionary tale,” you internally swooned like a Victorian maiden on a fainting couch.

So, you did what any emotionally fragile raccoon-person would do when faced with unattainable love and regular exposure to flawless cheekbones: you fled.

To the Guidance Office.

You kept your voice steady when you asked for your previous guide’s contact. The poor intern looked like he’d rather explode than question you, especially once he realized who your current guide was.

Still, he handed over the transfer form and you sat down, heart racing, tapping your pen like a death drum. You were halfway through scribbling your tragic little freedom request when—

A shadow loomed.

Perfume wafted.

And the temperature dropped ten degrees.

You didn’t even have time to look up before the form was snatched from your hands with all the grace of a man committing a stylish crime.

“Up. Now.”

Vil’s voice was frost and fury and every hair on your body stood up like soldiers called to war.

You stumbled after him, too stunned to protest, as he marched you through the hallways with terrifying grace. You passed several people who were clearly wondering if they were witnessing a kidnapping, but no one dared interfere.

His office door slammed shut behind you, and he turned on you like a beautifully irate weather phenomenon.

Then—rip.

Your transfer form disintegrated in his hands.

“OUT,” he snapped, voice tight, angry. “If you’re going to be a complete and utter fool, then get out of my sight.”

You blinked. “What—why are you mad? I’m doing you a favor!”

“A favor?” he repeated, like you’d just spat in a glass of Château Margaux.

You held your ground, though you were 97% sure he could kill you with a single sigh. “You didn’t want to guide me in the first place! I’m—look, I’m making it easier for both of us. No more clingy potato energy. No more… emotional spirals. You can guide someone who isn’t a complete mess.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, and then he—kissed you.

No warning. No build-up. Just lips crashing against yours like your poor little romantic delusions had summoned it from the abyss. His hands cupped your face, tilting it just right, and you—froze.

You opened your mouth to say something.

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Angrier. Like he was trying to shove every word you weren’t letting him say directly into your bloodstream.

“I love you,” he hissed when he finally pulled away, chest heaving. “You stupid, overthinking potato.”

You blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Oh, now you’re speechless?” he snapped, pacing. “You think I guide you because it’s convenient? You think I chose to rip you away from that quivering ball of social anxiety just to be charitable? I don’t have to guide anyone. I chose you.”

You were still stuck on the part where he said “I love you” and hadn’t immediately revoked it.

He pointed at you. “Sit down.”

You sat. Immediately.

He sat next to you, crossed one leg over the other, and glared. “We’re going to talk about this. Then you’re going to delete the idea of transferring from your thick, tragically underutilized brain. Understood?”

“…Yes?”

“Good. And drink some water. You look like you’re about to combust.”

You obeyed. Because frankly? You were.

“You’re serious?” you asked, voice a little cracked around the edges, sitting on his plush office chair like you were squatting in a throne you had absolutely no right to. “You love me?”

Vil stared at you with the exhausted patience of a man who had been in love with a rock for three years. “Yes. I’ve loved you for a while, and you—” he poked you in the forehead again, harder this time, “—have been blissfully, astoundingly oblivious.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, already sweating. “You’re very hard to read!”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “You’re just emotionally illiterate.”

“Give me one example.”

“Oh, one?” He tilted his head and actually laughed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. “Let’s start small, then. Remember the time I brought you a silk-lined weighted blanket because you said you liked ‘being squished by fabric’ and your apartment ‘felt like a haunted fridge?’”

You blinked. “I thought that was just you mocking me with luxury.”

“I custom-ordered it in your favorite color and personally dropped it off.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

“And what about the emergency juice box I carry around exclusively for you, because you tend to spiral into a puddle after difficult gates and refuse to ask for help?”

“…You said that was because I’m ‘emotionally six.’”

“That was a joke.” He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed at you again. “What about when I held your hand during guidance and you told me, ‘This is wildly intimate,’ and I said, ‘That’s the idea, darling,’ and you laughed and said, ‘Ha ha good one,’ and proceeded to talk about raccoons for twenty minutes?”

Your face was hot. Like boiling kettle hot. You were being roasted over the open flames of your own idiocy.

Vil, now fully in his villain origin arc, stood up, arms crossed. “Or the time I made you lunch because you skipped breakfast three days in a row and you cried a little, and I wiped your tears, and you said, ‘You’d make such a good husband, wow,’ and then called me bro.”

“I was tired that day,” you whispered.

He paced. “I took a personal day to guide you after that one breach because you refused post-gate care. I showed up at your house! You were curled up like a soggy blanket and told me you didn’t deserve comfort, and I guided you anyway! I even brought snacks!”

You were holding your head in your hands now, processing. “Oh my god. I’m the clown. I’m the whole circus.”

Vil sighed and came to kneel beside you again, gentler now. He pulled your hands from your face and took them in his, lacing your fingers together like it was second nature. “I assumed you didn't like me. But this?” He smiled a little. “This is honestly worse.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“I love you,” he repeated, quieter now, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And I don’t want you to change guides. I want you to stay.”

You looked down at your joined hands. Then up at his face, soft and real and so, so stupidly beautiful.

“...Can I kiss you again?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

And he did. And this time, when he kissed you, you didn’t freeze or black out or say anything about raccoons. You just held him closer and kissed him back, trying very hard not to think about how many brain cells you’d wasted missing the obvious.

(But you did apologize to him later. After the third kiss. And after asking if he’d consider writing a “Vil Schoenheit’s Guide to Realizing Your Guide is Flirting” manual for future dumbasses like yourself.)

The first time Vil met you was… unfortunate.

You'd collapsed on him like a sandbag flung from the heavens by a god with no taste.

He'd been called in to assist after a gate breach—nothing unusual, really, just a high-stress emergency with far too many untrained espers and not enough functioning brain cells among them. His job was to stabilize, guide, and keep anyone from combusting mentally or emotionally, preferably both. It was clinical, routine, and efficient.

Until you.

You stumbled out of the smoke and screaming with wild eyes and your uniform half-burnt, looking like you’d just gone twelve rounds with the concept of mortality. You locked eyes with him—briefly, like a bird recognizing glass mid-flight—and then passed out straight into his arms.

Correction: onto him.

He wasn’t sure how you managed to fall with such inconvenient geometry, but one moment he was standing, perfectly composed, and the next he had an unconscious stranger face-planting onto him, limbs sprawled like a freshly felled tree.

His first thought was: Excuse you?

His second: Do they not know who I am?

Honestly, the offense was justified. People didn’t usually touch Vil without permission, let alone treat him like a fainting couch. And yet when the medics arrived to assist, he waved them off with a sigh, brushing soot out of your hair and stabilizing your exhausted psyche with the practiced ease of someone too annoyed to be fazed. You were just another Esper, he told himself. Another mess to be cleaned up.

Then you woke up.

You blinked at him. Groggy. Confused. Soft in the eyes in a way that caught him off guard. “Oh,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “Sorry. My bad.”

No recognition. No fawning. No demands for priority guidance.

Just that—thanks—like he was your local neighborhood guide and not one of the most in-demand SSS-ranks in the country.

And that was when it happened: the first crack.

A hairline fracture in his perfectly sculpted composure. Something warm and startlingly gentle wedged itself in his chest. The faint, whispering thought: They’re not like the others.

He'd left soon after and that should've been the end of it.

But the next day, you came to his office. Not to request a partnership. Not to ask for more guidance sessions. Not even to praise his skill, as most did when they finally found out who he was.

No.

You walked in with a slightly bent energy drink and said, “Hi. Just wanted to thank you again. For yesterday. And, like, if you want anything—coffee, or uh, a meal, or maybe a really good nap on my couch—I can return the favor.”

He blinked. “You're offering me compensation?”

“Yeah,” you said, like it was obvious. “I didn’t mean to fall on you. Also, you helped me not die. That deserves at least a smoothie.”

He stared at you. You stared back, unbothered and vaguely hopeful, like someone trying to barter with a raccoon they’d wronged in a past life.

And that’s when the thought struck him:

I wish more Espers were like this.

Earnest. Direct. Not wrapped in ego or desperation. You treated him like a person and not a tool or a celebrity. Like someone who deserved appreciation, not worship.

He didn’t say yes to your offer.

And later that evening, sipping the mango smoothie you left on his desk with a sticky note that said “Thanks again, Your Highness,” Vil caught himself smiling.

Disaster or not, you had… made an impression.

And for better or worse, that impression was starting to stick.

Soon, he found himself buying your favorite juice on the way to work.

He told himself it was to bribe you into being less reckless. That he just “happened” to know your favorite. That it was a coincidence.

He also started carrying headache meds. And bandaids. And snacks. And spare gloves because you kept losing yours and pretending you didn’t need them.

A week later, he spotted you in the hallway again. You were coming out of a gate looking like you’d been mugged by gravity and a brick. But what truly horrified Vil was not your appearance (which was a hate crime against fashion), but the fact that you were about to be guided by someone else.

Some junior Guide with too much gel in his hair and the audacity to step away from you.

Vil's soul left his body.

He didn’t even think. He stomped across the hallway, yanked you away like a cat stealing laundry, and declared, “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Guiding you. Sit down. Shut up.”

“...Okay?”

He’d never been so professionally compromised. He gave you the most aggressive, possessive, emotionally repressed guiding session in history. It was like channeling affection through gritted teeth.

He was doomed.

Vil Schoenheit was a man of control. Precision. Elegance. He kept his calendar color-coded, his wardrobe steamed, and his guiding sessions timed to the minute.

So when he heard through the grapevine that you were about to be reassigned to another Guide—because of some nonsense about “compatibility tests” and “emotional interference” (rude)—he did not react well.

No, he did not pout.

He did not sulk.

He marched directly to the Guidance Office, pulled rank in that way that only Vil could—part charm, part cold-blooded menace—and made it very clear that you were off the market.

“This Esper is mine,” he said, crisp and cool like a glacier in a fur coat. “Officially. Put it in writing.”

The poor intern at the desk blinked up at him, then at the screen.

“Um… you mean, you want to—?”

“Yes. I want to take full responsibility for their guiding.”

“Sir, do you mean romantically—?”

“Professionally.” A beat. “For now.”

Vil was shopping for seasonal essentials, which of course required strategic planning, multiple fitting rooms, and approximately seventeen judgmental head tilts. He saw you wandering out of a soft-clothes store with a hoodie that looked like a blanket and a dream.

You saw him.

You tried to leave.

He grabbed your wrist.

“I need hands,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

And then he handed you a bag and moved on like a model on a mission.

You carried his bags for hours. You offered no complaints, just commentary like, “That color makes your cheekbones illegal,” and “If I try that on I’ll look like a deflated beanbag.” You actually enjoyed yourself.

And then—then—when you ended up in a café and he reluctantly allowed you to buy his coffee, you sat there, sipping from your little cup, and made some stupid joke about luxury couture and cheese graters.

He laughed.

He laughed.

And it wasn’t polite or dismissive. It was the kind of laugh that knocked loose something in his ribcage. The kind that made him stare at you over the rim of his drink and realize, with full-body horror:

I’m doomed.

Because he liked you.

He really, really liked you.

Not in the “you’re tolerable and I guess I won’t smite you” way. In the “I want to wring your neck for not wearing gloves but also maybe hold your hand” way. The “I will destroy that junior Guide if he even looks at you again” way. The “please stop getting injured or I will cry and then deny it until the sun explodes” way.

And you had no idea.

You were still out here calling yourself “emotionally bulletproof” and stealing his granola bars like it was normal. Still calling him “Vilbo Baggins” and poking his forehead like you weren’t holding the shreds of his dignity in your little chaos-stained hands.

So yes. Vil was doomed.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

Because of all the Espers in the world, it had to be you—you with your messy hair and shiny eyes and stupid brave heart.

Fast-forward to a Tuesday. Or maybe Thursday. Vil had lost track. It had been a day full of Espers with no manners, no boundaries, and one who tried to touch his hair mid-guiding.

By the time you wandered into his office, he was one broken string away from full violin villainy.

And for once, you didn’t joke.

No "What’s up, Guidezilla?"

No "Did your skincare try to abandon you too?"

You just took one look at him, walked over, and—gently—placed your hands on his shoulders.

Vil froze.

You kneaded the tight muscles there with surprising skill. Still no words. Just the quiet press of your thumbs, the steady warmth of your touch. And when he exhaled—shaky, involuntary—you didn’t tease him for it.

You just said, softly, “You don’t always have to do everything alone, you know.”

And that was when he broke a little.

Not obviously. But his posture slumped just slightly. His head tilted just enough to rest against your shoulder. Not even for a minute—maybe twenty seconds.

But it was enough.

Enough to make him realize: This is the safest I’ve felt all day.

And the fact that it was you—you, with your chaos and your grin and your glitter stickers stuck to your ID badge—that was terrifying. And comforting. And utterly, stupidly addicting.

He didn’t say thank you. Not out loud.

But later, when you weren’t looking, he moved your next few guiding sessions to the prime slot on his calendar. The one reserved for important things.

And in his fridge?

There was already more of your favorite juice.

He told himself it was just being thorough.

He was a liar.

It had started like any other deployment day. You and he had both been assigned to different gates, which wasn’t uncommon anymore. It was annoying—yes, he preferred to keep you in arm’s reach like a chaotic, overly affectionate pet raccoon—but manageable. You hadn’t called, hadn’t messaged, so he assumed it was fine. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you’d just fallen asleep.

But then he heard the reports.

Talk around the guidance center was that your gate had gone bad. A breach. Casualties. They'd barely managed to contain it. The kind of mission that rattled even the seasoned Espers.

Vil had frozen mid-conversation, a pen slipping from his hand and clattering onto his desk.

“Did they get guided after?” he asked, voice sharp.

The other Guide had shrugged. “Apparently not. Took off the moment debrief ended.”

And that was when the spiral started.

He called you. Once. Twice. Ten times. Fifty. A hundred.

Pacing his office like a man possessed, he left increasingly deranged voicemails.

—"Pick up your phone, I swear to the God, if you are ghosting me because you’re feeling ‘emotionally crunchy’ again—"

—“If you're hurt, I need to know. If you're not hurt, I'm going to kill you myself.”

—“Potato, I’m serious. Answer the phone.”

When you finally picked up, sounding groggy and like someone had drop-kicked your soul, all you said was:

“…Vil?”

And that was enough.

“Address. Now.”

You sent him a dropped pin and then promptly passed out again.

He’d never gotten to your place so fast in his life. Nearly crashed into two pedestrians, scared a delivery driver into a full existential crisis, and parked in a tow zone without blinking.

The front door was unlocked.

He burst in like divine judgment, only to find you curled up on your couch like a sad, emotionally fried ferret.

“You left the door open. What if someone had—?! You didn’t even—! I called you a hundred times! Why didn’t you—!?”

You blinked up at him, slow and a little disoriented. “Vil?”

He was kneeling next to the couch before he realized it, shaking you like an overcaffeinated nurse trying to keep a patient conscious. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t think I deserved to.”

Something in Vil's chest cracked with a soundless, incandescent rage. Not at you. Never at you.

At the situation. At himself. At the idiocy of a world where someone like you—who put yourself on the line for people who didn’t know your name—could think for one second you didn’t deserve comfort.

You sat up and hugged him before he could speak. And Vil, for all his pride and poise, let you.

He guided you right there on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around you like he could anchor all your scattered pieces back into place with sheer force of will. His fingers were steady against your temple, his voice low and soothing.

You didn't fight it this time. Not really. You were too tired. Too raw.

But later, when you were dozing against him and he felt the weight of your breathing even out, he looked at you and thought:

If I ever lose them, I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

And he realized, with an unflinching kind of horror, that this wasn’t just fondness anymore.

This was love. Stupid, all-consuming, feral love.

Oh, when Vil saw the transfer form in your hands—his potato, his utterly chaotic, absurdly self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated Esper—filling out a request to switch Guides?

He saw red. No, scratch that. He saw every shade of fury on the spectrum. He didn’t even remember walking; one moment he was across the hallway, the next he had the form in his fist and you in his office, the door slammed shut behind you with enough force to rattle the entire floor.

“What. Is. This.”

You blinked at him like a cat caught stealing food, caught between guilt and indifference. “A transfer form? I—uh. It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a—” Vil looked genuinely scandalized. If he wore pearls, he would’ve clutched them. “Do you think I’m running a halfway house for wayward Espers?! I have been guiding you, carrying juice boxes for you, putting up with your ridiculous snacks, and you think this isn’t a big deal?!”

You stared at him, flustered and slightly confused. “I—I just thought maybe it’d be easier for both of us if I wasn’t—like—around all the time, you know? I’m not exactly low maintenance—”

Vil’s brain short-circuited.

He kissed you.

No thought. Just lips. Panic. Longing. Rage. Chapstick.

Your sentence died like a bug on a windshield.

Vil pulled back just long enough to snarl, “I love you, you stupid overthinking potato.”

You blinked.

“I—what—”

He kissed you again. You weren’t going to ruin this with words. Not today.

When he finally let you breathe, you looked dizzy. In love. Slightly offended. Vil understood.

“You’ve been in love with me?” you asked, voice very much in the ‘I missed every single sign like a blind NPC in a dating sim’ zone.

“Oh finally,” Vil groaned. “Yes. For ages. Do you think I just carry juice boxes for anyone? I had to go to a wholesaler to find your weird imported apple-lychee thing. I do not do that for strangers.”

You looked like the Earth had tilted sideways. “Oh my god. I thought you were just—like that.”

“‘Like that?!’” he cried. “I forced you to carry my shopping bags through an entire mall and called it a bonding experience! I let you pay for my coffee! I let you touch me when I was emotionally unbalanced! Me!”

“Oh my god,” you said again, very softly. “I am Stupid.”

Vil sighed like he was asking the universe for strength. “Yes. But you’re mine now. So unless you want to see what a real tantrum looks like, stop trying to fill out transfer forms like we’re in some tragic rom-com and just stay.”

You looked at him for a moment, soft and stunned and still processing the part where he said “I love you” more than once.

Then you reached for him, and he let you pull him into a hug, and despite everything—despite the rage, the confusion, the two destroyed pens on his desk and the emotional whiplash—you smiled into his shoulder like you couldn’t quite believe your luck.

Vil closed his eyes.

And all he could think was:

If I have to live in this ridiculous, broken world... let it be with you.

You didn’t expect it to come up like this.

You were lying on Vil’s fancy designer couch, head on his lap, while he scrolled through his tablet like he wasn’t also playing with your hair and ruining your heart. It was a quiet kind of peace, the kind you didn’t get often, the kind you didn’t want to jinx.

Which is exactly why he jinxed it.

“I want to permanently bond,” he said, tone casual in the way a gun cocking across the room is casual.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked down at you like you were the idiot for not reading his mind faster.

“I don’t want to guide anyone else,” he said. “You’re mine.”

Your heart made a sound like a microwave short-circuiting.

“You’re sure?” you asked, because you had to—because you needed him to say it again, to look you in the eye and confirm this wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment emotion, or drama, or guilt, or—

Vil gave you a glare so sharp it could slice through reinforced glass. You didn’t even need to hear him speak. The look alone said: If you ask that again I will end you and then raise you from the ashes just to scold you properly.

So naturally, you pulled him closer.

He kissed you like you’d insulted him and he was trying to forgive you with his entire mouth. And then he pushed you down onto the couch with all the grace and pent-up need of someone who’d waited far too long to do this.

There was nothing dramatic about the bond itself—it was warmth, deep and golden, spreading between your minds like a whispered promise. Familiar, grounding, and so right it made you dizzy. You felt him in a way that no one else could ever match—his feelings humming beneath your skin, threaded through your heartbeat, echoing in your thoughts.

It felt like falling and landing and being caught all at once.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just pressed his forehead against yours and held you close, letting the bond settle between your chests like a vow.

Then, quietly:

“Finally.”

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah,” you said, hugging him tighter. “Finally.”

Life was still mildly cursed. You weren’t about to tempt fate by saying otherwise. The gates still opened at the worst times, your body still ached in places that didn’t make sense, and someone still managed to microwave metal in the guidance office kitchen every single week.

But—

You had Vil. And that made it survivable.

He had finally, finally reprogrammed you out of your self-destructive nonsense, though it had been a war. You were talking metaphorical trench warfare. It took a thousand forehead flicks, an aggressively color-coded sleep schedule, and a terrifying PowerPoint presentation titled “If You Die, I Will Be Very Upset (And Also Kill You) – A Visual Threat.”

And in return, you had managed to make Vil Schoenheit loosen up. The man who once flinched at the idea of touching door handles with his bare hands now shared hoodies with you and let you kiss him with gate-dust still in your hair.

It was progress.

So when the door to your shared home clicked shut behind you both after another long day, you let out a sigh and slumped like a corpse released from its mortal coil. Vil caught you by the collar before you hit the floor like “absolutely not, we are not breaking furniture today.”

You peeled off your jacket, dropped your bag, and turned to him, still stuck in your boots. “Is it bad I want to sleep on the floor?”

“Yes,” he replied instantly. “Go shower, you reeking gremlin. I’ll order dinner.”

You blinked. “Will it be salad?”

“No. I’m ordering dumplings.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Who are you and what have you done with my overachieving nutrient-balanced microgreens–”

Vil shoved you gently toward the bathroom. “Shoo. I’ll be waiting here with your emotional support carbs when you’re done.”

And that was it.

You went to shower, and he ordered dinner. And maybe life was cursed and weird and exhausting—but it had given you Vil. And now, the worst thing he threatened you with was hydration reminders and forehead kisses.

Honestly?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

[solxamber]

Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

Life used to be normal.

You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought “ghosting” only applied to dating. Cute times.

Then the gates showed up.

Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAM—mystical rift to MonsterLand™ opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are “fight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.”

And that would’ve been it for humanity—extinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.

Cool, right?

Except—Espers are dramatic. They're the “I’m fine” as they bleed out types. The “I didn’t sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibes” types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.

That’s where you come in.

You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.

It’s like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.

Is the job dangerous? Constantly.

Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.

Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.

And does it pay well? HAHAHA.

Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, you’ve somehow become really good at this.

Which is great, because your next assignment?

Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)

It’s raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? You’re bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.

Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Another’s shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.

You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.

“Sorry losers,” you say cheerfully, “get on my level.”

Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers return—bloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.

Chaos erupts.

Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, “Catch him, he’s falling—OH GOD, HIS ARM,” and “Who packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!”

You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.

Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.

And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.

“I am not getting soaked again,” he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.

You blink.

“Uh. Hello?”

Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.

And now he’s under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and he’s your tsundere warlord boyfriend.

He side-eyes you. “Aren’t you gonna guide me or whatever?”

You panic a little. “I—I’m not certified for SS-Class. I’m just S-Class.”

He snorts. “Didn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.”

What does that even mean??? Is this… Esper code for “I like you”? Or “I won’t kill you today”? Who knows. He’s already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.

And just like that, you’re guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like you’ve been chosen by some eldritch force.

Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.

Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.

You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. It’s soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.

You keep going. Until—

He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You blink. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?”

He scowls. “You’ve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and you’ll fry your nerves. Can’t stabilize anyone if you’re unconscious in a puddle.”

You try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine, Leona—”

“I need you alive, herbivore.”

You freeze.

Your brain does a little Windows error sound.

And then he’s standing, still holding your umbrella like it’s his now, yanking you up by the wrist like you’re the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.

“Your car’s this way, right?”

“…How do you know where I parked—”

“Because you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You don’t even lock it.”

You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.

And that’s how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.

You’ve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice – Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.

You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.

So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.

The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.

And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.

You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize it’s Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t ask how you are. Just nods his chin, “Keep up, herbivore.”

You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. “Leona—what the hell is this? Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. “Told ‘em I only want you.”

You short-circuit. “What?!”

“They asked if I’d take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told ‘em to transfer you instead.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “You… requested me?”

He shrugs like this isn’t causing you a spiritual meltdown. “Whatever. You’re not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You don’t treat me like a bomb about to go off. You’re fine.”

And then—like this conversation hasn’t just rewritten the structure of your career—he dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.

“Wait, that’s it?” you call after him. “You’re just—leaving me here?”

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “See you tomorrow.”

You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.

You don’t understand what’s going on. But let’s be honest—you’ve never understood anything and that’s never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.

So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of “just wing it and hope no one dies.”

And then Leona walks in.

No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the place—which, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.

You’re ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.

Leona?

Leona lays down on the office couch like it’s a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.

You blink. “Um. Hello? Sir?”

No response.

You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.

So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.

The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leona’s energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and it’s honestly the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.

When you're done, you gently nudge him. “Hey. Nap time’s over, sunshine.”

He grumbles like you’ve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like it’s his birthright.

“Hey!” you cry, scandalized. “That was mine! That was my life juice! That’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!”

He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. “You can get another.”

And then he leaves.

You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.

This job is going to kill you.

But you’ll die confused and employed, and that’s the best you’ve got.

You’re at the farmer’s market. Living your best domestic fantasy. You’ve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like you’re the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.

Then a gate opens.

Right there.

Next to the cheese stall.

The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAM—there's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.

You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.

You’re cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be it—death by demon at a farmer’s market—when a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.

Leona.

He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. “Why the hell are you here?”

You, still holding the leek like it’s a holy weapon: “I don’t know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!”

He groans like you’re giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like he’s swatting a fly, and before you can say “gluten-free honey loaf,” he’s grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.

You’re trying to catch your breath. You’re covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And you’re shaking.

“Okay,” you say, trying for calm but sounding like you’ve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), “let’s get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.”

You reach for him—but your hands are trembling too much. You’ve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.

Leona notices. His brow furrows. “Tch.”

Then—softly, carefully—he pulls you into his chest.

You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like he’s not sure how to comfort but he’s trying anyway.

“You don’t go in the gates,” he murmurs. “I go in. I’ll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look at you like that—not annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.

You nod into his shirt. “Okay.”

And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.

You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because let’s be honest—your energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in man’s clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.

Leona didn’t even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, “Took you long enough.”

Now, you’re guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest you’ve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are “certified emotionally soothing.”

You’ve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesn’t even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like it’s routine, and is unconscious within minutes.

You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). You’ve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.

You are, shockingly, thriving.

Every now and then Leona’ll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, “You’re getting better.”

Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.

Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.

But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.

The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a “Good luck lol” from your supervisor. You’re standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like it’s a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.

Then—bam—some random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like you’re the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like “there, there, emotionally damaged soldier,” when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.

Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from “I need a nap” to “I'm about to commit a felony” in zero-point-three seconds.

Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.

"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.

You don’t even get the chance to complain. He’s already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.

And you? You’re stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.

Just another day in your life.

You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says “I pay taxes and win arguments.” The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.

You’re weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags when—

SWOOSH.

The jackets are gone.

You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.

You whirl around and see Leona—yes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnate—casually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:

• The jackets

• The socks you forgot you picked up

• A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"

• A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)

You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. “Excuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Leona doesn’t even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.

“You were taking too long,” he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.

“I was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!”

He pays. Effortlessly. Doesn’t flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.

You arrive at the register breathless and confused. “I didn’t ask you to buy my—my impulse garments.”

He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. “Didn’t say you had to ask.”

You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. “Are you—are you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?”

“Can’t have my Guide dying of hypothermia,” he mutters. “Especially not because they can’t pick a jacket.”

“That doesn’t explain the mug, Leona!”

“Sure it does.” He turns, smirking slightly. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“For what?!”

“Come to the gate.”

And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.

You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.

Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitude—even while passed out.

It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesn’t get back up. You wait—he always gets up. Even when he’s cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like he’s just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.

You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.

You can’t leave him there—not sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would do—you throw all logic out the window and start dragging.

Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that you’re certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine won’t sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.

Finally—somehow—you make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driver’s seat, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon. And then—because fate is a comedic little gremlin—you have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.

You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.

Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.

Because he still isn’t waking up.

You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesn’t react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You don’t drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before it’s an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.

Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, you’re just about to commit to panic when he stirs.

He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.

“You absolute menace!” you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. “You scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good track—”

He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like you’re background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand and—pat pat—smooths it over your head like you’re the one that needs comforting.

“‘m fine,” he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like you’re a weighted blanket.

The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.

He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but haven’t said.

“Leona,” you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.

“Sleeping,” he grumbles, completely unmoved. “You should too. You’re loud.”

So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towel—but you stay.

And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.

It’s not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeah—but they’re not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.

You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, and—

You freeze.

It’s a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like it’s auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.

And blood.

So much blood.

You see espers fighting—familiar ones, ones you’ve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.

You step forward and your stomach lurches.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You’re a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.

That’s when you feel it—warmth behind you, a solid presence—and then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.

“Don’t look, herbivore.” Leona’s voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything you’ve clung to today. You don’t even flinch at the touch—just close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.

You breathe out, finally.

When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.

He doesn’t say anything else—just places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.

Leona sits you down first.

You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. He’s watching you the whole time, like he’s memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You don’t say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.

“Herbivore,” he mutters. “You okay?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But I’ll do my job.”

And he doesn’t argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about “stupid guides forgetting they’re human too.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

You lasted longer than most would’ve. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

But it doesn’t make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesn’t make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesn’t make it easier when the manager doesn’t even try to talk you out of it—just looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like they’ve seen a thousand others do the same.

And it really doesn’t make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.

It’s not that you don’t love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach… after seeing what happens when you’re too late… something inside you cracked.

You can’t keep holding people together when you’re falling apart.

So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.

You don’t expect the knocking.

Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

You open the door and Leona’s there—disheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple “I don’t care” speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.

You look at him. And you break the news gently.

“I quit.”

He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.

You try to explain—how you can’t take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friend’s body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.”

You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.

But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, “You happier like this?”

You blink. “...Yeah.”

He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.

You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then he’s lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t even sit far.

You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didn’t leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.

You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.

Maybe the world can wait a little longer.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're retired. Done. Free. You’ve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.

But the moment the alert flashes across your screen—“Category Red Gate Breach”—your blood runs cold.

You tell yourself you’re just going to check. Just to make sure. You don’t bring your badge. You don’t bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someone’s tired suburban mom.

When you arrive at the site, the street’s already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaos—Espers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.

You’re not supposed to get involved. You’re not.

But then you see him.

Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coat’s half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edges—like he’s running on fumes and sheer attitude.

You run to him.

“I told you to take care of yourself!” you shout, more out of panic than anything else. “You absolute menace—what the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like you’re a dream he’s too tired to question. His breath stutters.

And then he’s pulling you forward—no warning, no words—just grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasn’t ended yet because you showed up in time.

And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.

You guide him—not with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way you’re pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every “I missed you,” every “You idiot,” every “Please be okay.”

And slowly—slowly—his breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Knew you’d come.”

You hold him tighter.

It happens on a normal, sunny day.

Leona’s in your apartment, lounging like he lives here—which he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. He’s flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.

“You’re wasting perfectly good yarn,” he mutters. “This thing looks like a limp sea anemone.”

You throw a cushion at him. “Shut up. It has character.”

He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and it’s riding up just a bit at his waist.

And you—you’re just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.

You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, “I want to form a permanent bond.”

The room stills. Leona doesn’t move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.

“What?”

You swallow. “I want to bond permanently. With you.”

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You sure this isn’t the post-massacre adrenaline talking?” he says, voice flat. “People say weird shit after trauma.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.”

Leona’s quiet for a long time. Then he sits up—really sits up—and leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.

“You don’t get to change your mind after this,” he says, low. “It’s a one-way door.”

“I know.”

“You’ll feel what I feel,” he says. “You’ll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.”

You smile. “Leona, I’ve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.”

He groans like you’ve physically injured him and slumps back again. “You’re gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.”

But there’s a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.

He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You don’t. You reach out and link your fingers through his.

And he exhales shakily. “Okay then.”

He presses you back into the couch—your stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergent—and his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.

He looks at you, eyes bright. “You’re stuck with me now, y’know.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, you’re not just a guide and an esper anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours. Permanently.

Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dream—a chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.

He’d been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didn’t need a guide. Didn’t want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.

And then you happened.

He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.

Instead, they got you.

You must’ve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.

And then—then—you had the audacity to guide him.

It wasn’t the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. He’d cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something you’d regret.

And you? You pulled his ear.

Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.

“Sit still, I’m working,” you’d snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.

And then—

Then it all bled away.

The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your aura—bright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadn’t earned yet, but hell, it worked.

By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.

He had to ask someone your name.

It pissed him off for weeks.

Because you hadn’t even realized who you’d grabbed. You hadn’t known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadn’t cared. You’d just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.

And somehow… it had worked.

He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rain—gray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.

The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.

The rain hadn’t touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadn’t just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.

And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his ear—he didn’t even hear it anymore.

It was you.

The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses to know it was you—the one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.

He’d spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.

And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.

You didn’t even flinch when he stepped up to you.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t bow like the others.

Just blinked at him and went, “I'm just an S class guide.”

And that—

That pissed him off.

Because you didn’t recognize him.

After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?

You didn’t even remember.

Leona’s eye twitched.

No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.

He’d just have to remind you.

He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d forget me, herbivore.”

Still blank.

“Oh?” you said, sipping your coffee like he wasn’t radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. “Should I have?”

Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.

Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. He’d just put himself on your schedule. He’d get stabilised. Regularly. By you. He’d show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.

He’d make sure you remembered.

And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.

He remembered that day like a fever dream.

The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didn’t remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.

And you—

You were pacing.

Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for help—and that was when it hit him.

You were scared.

For him.

You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.

Leona would never forget that look.

Wide-eyed. Raw. Like you’d just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.

He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reaction—Sevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close you’d come to losing your “life juice thief.”

And something in his chest broke a little.

He didn’t say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.

You didn’t argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.

He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.

And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of you—panicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of him—was burned into his brain like a brand.

He thought: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

And maybe that’s when it happened.

Maybe that’s when he stopped running from what you meant to him.

Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.

Not because it was the bloodiest he’d seen—though it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.

No.

He remembers it because of you.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.

He’d spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.

Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.

You didn’t flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.

"Don’t look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.

You made a small sound—shaky, half-choked—and he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.

And he knew, right then, that he’d never forget your expression. The look of someone who’d seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.

He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.

You guided him there—your hands still trembling, voice quiet—but you guided him all the same.

He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, you’d disappear. Like if he wasn’t careful, you'd shatter.

And he swore—

If he could help it, he’d never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.

Leona had felt fear before.

The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.

But none of it—not once—had made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.

Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said “Espers are drama queens” was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.

“Transferred?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nah,” someone said. “Resigned. Burnout, probably.”

His vision tunneled.

Burnout.

You’d burned out—and you hadn’t said a word.

Leona didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

And you smiled.

Small. Tired. But real.

It wrecked him.

You explained in soft words—words that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said “I needed a break.”

And Leona… he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

“Come back?”

“Let me fix it?”

“I need you?”

No. He wasn’t good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.

And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.

Leona didn’t sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.

He stayed until morning.

Because if you couldn’t carry the world for a while, he’d hold it up for you instead

Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.

They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.

He didn’t want calm. He didn’t want pristine.

He wanted you.

And it wasn’t like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it looked—how reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, he’d shrug them off like their hands burned.

Because letting someone else guide him after you?

It felt like cheating.

Even if you’d never been his. Even if you’d never called him yours. Even if you’d left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadn’t just ripped something vital out of him.

He endured. And endured. And endured.

Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.

Scolding him for not taking care of himself.

You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like he’d carved a hole in your chest and left it open.

He barely heard the words. He couldn’t think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.

So he kissed you.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like you’d been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he could breathe again.

You were his fate. You always had been.

And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.

Now, you're permanently bonded.

Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartment—but to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because “she’s sensitive to cold.”

He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.

Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like he’ll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.

But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, “Welcome home, dumbass,” with that soft tone you always save just for him.

And it hits him again: you’re his.

You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.

Leona doesn’t care for sentimentality. But he knows—knows—he’ll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.

Because something about the way you touched him… the way your hands didn’t shake… the way your voice didn’t flinch…

He hadn’t felt fear. He hadn’t felt chaos. He’d just felt—settled.

Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before he’d ever earned it.

He comes home to that now.

To you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesn’t feel like he’s enduring the world.

He feels like he’s living in it.

You’re both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, “Hey… why me?”

Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. “Why not you?”

You nudge his side, unconvinced. “No, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Our first meeting. It wasn’t during that gate in the rain.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. “It was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.”

You squint, thinking hard. “You mean—?”

“I was a mess,” he says, lips twitching at the memory. “Raw, half-feral. I’d just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “stomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to ‘stay put,’ like you weren’t terrified I’d snap your arm off.”

And then it clicks. It clicks.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “That was you?!”

He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.

You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.

Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugs—gentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.

He thinks, this.

This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldn’t possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the country—this is what he wants every damn day of his life.

You’re still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.

“I pulled your ear,” you murmur, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “No wonder you’ve been so whipped since day one.”

“Watch it,” he warns, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You grin, and he kisses it right off your mouth.

Masterlist

[solxamber]

Guide Rank: Overwhelmed || Malleus Draconia

Being a high-ranked guide is tough—you’re basically a glorified babysitter for overpowered, emotionally constipated espers. But it gets harder when Malleus Draconia, the strongest esper in existence, asks you to guide him. And somehow, despite it all, you’re pretty sure Malleus is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Or: Guideverse au!

Series Masterlist

The world is a nightmare. It used to be bad enough with things like taxes, slow WiFi, and that one sock disappearing in the wash. But now? Now you have random cosmic hellmouths opening up and vomiting out monsters that think humans are snack-sized protein bars.

They call them Gates. They pop up out of nowhere like your intrusive thoughts at 3 AM, and if no one deals with them, entire cities get turned into discount horror movie scenes.

The only reason people aren't living in a monster apocalypse is because of Espers—overpowered individuals who fight these creatures with sheer force, wild abilities, and a complete disregard for their own safety.

But there’s a tiny problem. Espers have the durability of a wet paper bag. They burn through their energy, go berserk, or outright implode if left alone for too long.

And that’s where Guides come in. Guides stabilize Espers, keep them from disintegrating mid-fight, and prevent them from making headlines as "Local Hero Explodes on Live TV."

And you? Congratulations! You are an SS-Class Guide, one of the absolute best. This should mean power, prestige, and maybe even free drinks. Instead, it means you are a walking, talking, highly sought-after life support machine, and every Esper on the planet wants a piece of you.

And not in a fun way.

You’ve spent your entire career dodging unhinged, desperate, overpowered individuals who think "force-bonding" is a reasonable dating strategy.

Some try to flirt their way into your schedule (bad idea). Some try to bribe you with things like gold, private yachts, and one guy who straight-up offered you a castle. And then there are the truly feral ones, who don’t understand the word “no” and think "What if I just grabbed them?" is a valid problem-solving technique.

One time, an S-Class Esper sent you 72 marriage proposals in a single day. Another time, a different one broke into your apartment and left a PowerPoint presentation on why you should bond with them. With transitions.

If you had a nickel for every time you had to physically dodge an Esper trying to latch onto you like a clingy octopus, you wouldn’t need this job anymore. You could retire to a nice, peaceful life in the mountains, away from all of this nonsense.

But no. You’re still here. Still dodging Espers who treat you like a Black Friday deal at 90% off.

Something has to change.

It’s another day at work. Another day of wading through a swamp of increasingly deranged requests for guiding, because apparently, every high-ranking Esper on the planet thinks you’re the Holy Grail of Stability™.

You take a deep breath, open your inbox, and immediately regret your life choices.

Request #1:

"O Supreme and Benevolent Guide, I have compiled a PowerPoint titled ‘Why You Should Guide Me and Not Those Other Losers.’ Please see attached. I am very persuasive. Also, I have snacks. Just saying."

Attached: A 657-slide PowerPoint presentation with bullet points like “I Only Go Almost Berserk Like Every Other Tuesday” and “Look At This Dog I Found, Do You Like Him?”

Request #2:

"Greatest and Most Esteemed Guide, I humbly request your guidance. I will literally pay you in gold. Actual, real gold. Or cash. Or—listen, name your price. My mental stability is at stake here. I am ONE bad day away from levitating into the stratosphere and exploding like a firework. PLEASE. I am BEGGING you. Sincerely, your most devoted, desperate, and slightly deranged fan."

Attached: A poorly photoshopped picture of you both standing in front of a sunset. You’ve never met this person in your life.

Request #3:

"GOD-TIER GUIDE, PLEASE, I WILL DO ANYTHING. I WILL FETCH YOUR GROCERIES. I WILL WALK YOUR PET. YOU DON’T HAVE A PET? I WILL GET YOU A PET. I WILL BECOME YOUR PET. PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, JUST GIVE ME 10 MINUTES OF YOUR TIME. MY LAST GUIDE QUIT ON ME AND MOVED TO AN UNDISCLOSED LOCATION. I AM VERY STABLE. PLEASE."

Attached: A video of the sender crushing a monster’s skull with their bare hands while sobbing.

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

This is your life now.

And then—you see it.

A request.

A normal request.

No groveling. No bribery. No half-deranged monologue about why their existence is crumbling without you.

Just a plain, simple request for a guiding session. No attachments. No drama.

You do not even look at the name or the rank.

You just slam the approve button so hard your screen nearly cracks.

And you schedule them for today.

Whatever poor, normal, well-adjusted Esper just sent that request? You’re about to meet your new favorite person.

You hear a knock on your office door and, without looking up from your third coffee of the afternoon, you say, "Come in." You assume it's just another esper with an unhinged request or a government official trying to bribe you into a permanent bond arrangement (as if free coffee is enough to make up for dealing with an unstable murder machine forever).

But when you finally glance up, you’re met with Malleus fucking Draconia.

SSS-class esper. Only because the measuring device physically cannot display values above SSS. If it could, it would probably just scream in binary before shutting itself down out of fear.

And Malleus, the walking cataclysm, smiles at you. A polite, almost sweet smile that absolutely does not match the soul-crushing amount of raw, unstable power radiating off of him.

He thanks you, so genuinely, for agreeing to guide him, and suddenly, you feel like maybe—just maybe—the guy who sent you a PowerPoint presentation about why he’d be the perfect esper for you would’ve been a safer choice. Because in what world were you qualified to guide Malleus Draconia?

But you’re a professional. A highly trained SS-class Guide. You’ve dealt with terrifying espers before. (You survived guiding Leona Kingscholar, and that man once threatened to bite someone’s hand off for waking him up.) So you take a deep breath, paste on a practiced, reassuring smile, and gesture toward the couch. “Please, take a seat.”

Malleus does, settling in like a well-mannered prince, and when you take his hands, his power hits you like a truck.

No, scratch that. A truck would be merciful. This is like getting yeeted into the sun.

Because for all his outward composure, for all his eerie, elegant calm, his body is ripping itself apart from the sheer force of his own abilities. His energy is so volatile, so uncontained, that even just touching him feels like holding onto a live wire dipped in liquid magic.

You open your mouth, fully prepared to yell WHAT THE HELL, but instead, what comes out is a weak, strangled, “So… how long has it been since your last guiding?”

Malleus blinks, tilting his head slightly, as if the question is odd. “Ah,” he hums. “A rather long time, I suppose.”

You squint at him. "Define 'long.'"

There’s a pause. And then, with the same pleasant smile, he says, “Over a decade.”

…

…A decade.

You stare at him. Your soul leaves your body. Your hands are on him right now, guiding him, and no other guide has touched him for ten whole years??? You’ve guided espers who've almost lost their minds after three months without stabilization, and this man—no, this monster, this eldritch entity in the shape of a handsome Esper—has been raw-dogging reality for a full decade???

And the worst part is, you get it.

You’ve heard the stories. No guide is willing to risk their life guiding him. He’s too powerful, too unstable, too dangerous. But also??? He’s the reason those cowardly soy-latte-drinking guides even get to enjoy their caramel cream monstrosities without getting eaten by a Gate Beast. The least they could do is try.

So you do.

You take all that power, all that impossible, barely-contained force, and you stabilize it. As much as you can, at least, because Malleus is like an ocean, vast and endless, and you are one person desperately trying to keep the tide from sweeping away an entire city. But you manage. And when the strain starts to weigh on you, when exhaustion creeps in, Malleus—ever the gentleman—gently removes his hands from yours before you overextend yourself.

He looks at you like you’ve done something extraordinary. And in that soft, almost reverent voice, he murmurs, “Thank you.”

And when he asks if you’d accept his request again, how could you possibly say no?

You’ve seen Gates before. Too many, in fact. You’ve spent years standing at the edges of battlefields, waiting for Espers to stumble out after pushing themselves to their limits, ready to catch them before they crumbled into a pile of unstable, overpowered problems.

Usually, you’re waiting outside, stationed alongside other Guides, ready to stabilize the Espers who come stumbling out looking like they just did twelve rounds in a blender.

And today? No different.

The Gate suppressors finish their job, and as the shimmering tear in reality finally vanishes, a wave of exhausted Espers begins to stagger out.

Your fellow Guides immediately spring into action, swarming their assigned Espers like the world’s most exhausted yet underpaid nurses. You hear the usual litany of groaning, the occasional complaint about “why does guiding feel like drinking a warm glass of sadness,” and at least one voice yelling, “DON’T THROW UP ON ME, BRO.”

All in all, a standard post-Gate event.

But then—then.

Malleus Draconia walks out.

And the reaction is palpable.

Every Guide freezes. The air itself seems to shift, a held breath, a quiet hesitation, a collective someone else handle it.

Which, yeah. Fair. SSS-class esper. Walking apocalypse. If the world were a video game, he’d be the final boss, the secret bonus boss, and the eldritch horror you accidentally summon if you input the wrong cheat code.

But unlike every other high-class Esper, who would immediately demand a Guide’s attention like a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket, Malleus just… looks around. Sees the other Espers getting help. And without a word, he simply starts walking away.

And something in you breaks.

It’s not just that your fellow Guides are scared of him. It’s the fact that he expects it. That he doesn’t even try. He just accepts that no one will come for him, and he leaves.

It’s one thing for a terrifying Esper to demand your attention, to expect you to fix them as if you’re a mechanic and they’re a car with the check engine light permanently on. But this? This quiet resignation? This acceptance of the fact that no one will help him?

Oh, absolutely not.

You push past the usual crowd of unstable, desperate, feral Espers who are trying to grab at your hands (“PLEASE, I WILL PAY YOU IN GOLD—OR FAVORS—WHICHEVER YOU PREFER”), and you march after him.

“Malleus,” you say, grabbing his arm before he can vanish into the night like a dramatic antihero.

He turns, blinking down at you in quiet surprise. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” you say, like he just told you the sky is blue. “I’m a Guide. This is my job.”

His expression flickers, the barest crack in his usual calm. “You would guide me?”

“Yes,” you say. “Now sit down.”

He actually listens. Thank the stars. You’re not sure what you would’ve done if he refused. Probably wrestled him to the ground, which would have been a terrible life choice, but whatever.

You sit across from him, take his hands, and—oh.

Oh.

Oh wow.

It's as bad, if not slightly better than the first time.

If guiding most Espers is like sifting through a river, guiding Malleus Draconia is like being pulled into the center of a supermassive black hole. It’s overwhelming, his power a heavy, crushing thing that hums under his skin like an unrelenting storm, pressing at the edges of your mind.

“How long has it been since your last session?” you ask, voice a little strained as you work to stabilize him.

Malleus tilts his head, thoughtful. “My last session was with you.”

Your grip tightens around his hands. “It's been 5 months.”

He hums. “No other Guide has been willing to take me on.”

That—that makes you want to throw something. Because sure, Malleus is terrifying. Sure, he’s a walking natural disaster. But he’s also the reason those Guides get to breathe.

You exhale sharply. “Well. That’s stupid.”

Malleus blinks. “Stupid?”

“Yes. Stupid.” You focus, pouring everything you have into stabilizing him, because you might not be able to guide him fully, but you sure as hell can make things better.

Malleus says nothing. He just… watches you.

And when you’re finally done—when you pull back, exhausted but satisfied—he tilts his head, voice soft.

“Allow me to escort you to your car.”

There’s a weight to the way he says it. A quiet intent.

You glance at the still-lingering crowd of Espers who have been waiting for their chance to pounce, and—ah.

That’s why.

Because Malleus walking with you means no one is about to harass you for an impromptu guiding session.

You glance back at him.

Malleus Draconia. The most powerful Esper alive. Unstable. Dangerous. Literally a walking storm.

“…Okay,” you say.

He walks you to your car, a steady presence at your side, and for the first time in years, you are not approached, begged, or proposed to on the way.

It’s peaceful.

Nice, even.

And as you slide into the driver’s seat, Malleus thanks you again, voice warm, quiet.

And impulsively—because your brain has fully given up on thinking before speaking—you blurt out, “Repay me by taking me out for coffee.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

And then—Malleus smiles.

Not his usual polite, diplomatic smile. A real one.

And you realize, with sudden clarity, that you may have just changed the course of your entire life.

The next day, you step out of the Guidance Center, utterly exhausted.

You’ve spent all morning dealing with overworked Espers who don’t believe they need guiding until they start twitching like a broken lightbulb. One guy genuinely tried to convince you that he was “built different” and then proceeded to collapse mid-sentence.

So yeah. You’re tired. You just want to go home, take a nap, and not think about the absolute disaster that is your job.

And then you see him.

Malleus.

Waiting just outside the building, standing with the kind of stillness that makes him look more like a painting than a person.

But it’s not just him.

It’s the flowers.

A full bouquet, wrapped neatly, cradled in his hands like something precious.

And when he sees you, he smiles.

Your brain immediately blue-screens.

You walk up to him in a daze, already bracing yourself for the inevitable attention this is going to bring because, let’s be honest—Malleus Draconia standing outside your workplace holding flowers is about to start rumors.

(And by rumors, you mean your coworkers are never going to let you live this down.)

But when you reach him, he doesn’t do anything dramatic. Doesn’t say anything insane like “these flowers pale in comparison to your radiance” or “I will obliterate anyone who disrespects you.”

(You have, unfortunately, received both of those lines from unstable Espers before.)

Instead, he simply hands you the bouquet, his voice warm. “For you.”

And just like yesterday, you realize—this is different.

It’s not some desperate attempt to tie you to him, not an unstable Esper trying to own their Guide before anyone else can get to them.

He’s just… appreciative.

Grateful.

Your heart does something very annoying and fluttery at that realization.

You glance at the bouquet, then back up at him, and—oh.

He looks so pleased.

Like giving you flowers is the highlight of his week.

“…Are you free for that coffee now?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, expectant but unassuming.

And despite your exhaustion—despite knowing that this is probably the beginning of something huge and irreversible—you find yourself smiling.

“…Yeah,” you say, holding the flowers a little closer. “Yeah, I am.”

So far, this coffee date has been perfect.

You’re sitting across from Malleus, ranting about the absolute clowns you have to deal with daily.

“…And then this Esper looked me in the eyes and said, I will literally perish if you do not guide me this instant. Like. Sir.” You slap a hand on the table. “Sir. Please. This is a Starbucks.”

Malleus chuckles, eyes alight with amusement. “And what did you say to that?”

You sigh dramatically, tilting your head back. “I said, ‘Sounds fake, but okay.’”

He actually laughs at that—low and warm, and oh no, it’s really nice.

Before you can spiral about that, your drinks are ready. Malleus, being the gentleman he is, gets up to retrieve them.

And that’s when you feel it.

That unmistakable feeling of being watched.

Your instincts immediately go on high alert. Slowly, casually, you glance at the table next to you, expecting to see some shady esper trying to worm their way into your life.

What you actually see is so much better.

Sitting at the table next to you are three of the most suspicious individuals you have ever seen in your entire life.

The first one is a tiny man drowning in a trench coat three sizes too big, like a detective in a noir film gone wrong. He has an obviously fake mustache that is slightly peeling off his face, and he is watching you intensely.

Next to him, there is a guy wearing a tragically ugly pink wig.

He is asleep on the table.

Just. Fully unconscious. Like someone just unplugged him.

And finally—

A tall guy in fake glasses with an even faker nose, aggressively shoveling cake into his mouth while glaring at you like you just stole his firstborn child.

It’s silent.

You blink.

They blink.

And you immediately have to slap a hand over your mouth to keep from bursting out laughing.

Malleus returns, setting your drink in front of you, and you immediately point at the disaster trio sitting next to you.

“…Do you know them?” you ask, barely holding it together.

Malleus follows your gaze.

Sees the absolute circus happening at the next table.

And sighs.

A long, suffering sigh. The sigh of a man who has seen some things and has just realized he is doomed to see them for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” he says, like the words physically pain him. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

You immediately wave them over.

Because honestly?

Why not.

They look hilarious.

And you were right—Lilia (who introduces himself with a flourish and an actual theatrical bow) is an absolute riot. Silver, despite the crime against fashion sitting on his head, is actually very nice. And Sebek—who is still burning holes into you with his eyes—is begrudgingly polite, only because you’ve been guiding Malleus.

It turns into a full-blown sitcom.

At one point, Lilia pulls out a picture of an egg and tries to convince you that it's a baby picture of Malleus. You're not sure if he was serious. Sebek is still glaring at you, but it’s now 30% hostility, 70% begrudging respect. Silver almost faceplants into his drink.

Malleus, across from you, looks like he’s actively questioning all of his life choices.

It’s beautiful.

Eventually, when it’s time to leave, Malleus insists on walking you to your car.

And that’s when you notice it.

He’s pouting.

Not a dramatic pout. But his lips are slightly pressed together, his brows furrowed, like a cat that just got denied a seat on the kitchen counter.

You immediately find it endearing.

“What’s up?” you ask, amused.

Malleus exhales, glancing away. “…I was hoping for this to be a time where we could get to know each other.”

Oh.

Oh, that’s adorable.

You grin.

And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Malleus freezes.

His eyes go wide. His breath catches. He looks like you’ve just blue-screened his brain.

You step back, grinning. “I'll see you around.”

And before he can respond, you slip into your car.

But as you drive away, you catch a glimpse of him in your mirror—

Standing there, hand pressed to his cheek, smiling like you just gave him the greatest gift in the world.

You hate Gates.

You hate that they can just open whenever they want, completely ignoring normal human schedules like some kind of otherworldly chaos entities (which, to be fair, they are).

But mostly, you hate that they always seem to open in the middle of the night.

Like, is there some kind of Gate Union that collectively decided on this? Do they hold meetings where they specifically vote to screw over guides by opening at the most inconvenient times?

And in the dead of winter, no less.

Truly, suffering knows no bounds.

Still, you drag yourself out of bed, slap on as many layers as physically possible (to the point where you briefly resemble a sentient pile of laundry), and head to the Gate’s location. On the way, you stop by an all-night café, because if you’re going to be miserable, you might as well be miserable with hot chocolate.

You even get two cups.

Not because you always do this for espers (you don’t—they can suffer like the rest of you), but because he is different.

Malleus.

The most powerful esper on the field tonight. The one who singlehandedly keeps half the Gates from turning into full-scale disasters. The one who always acts like he’s completely fine no matter what comes out of them.

And, most importantly—

The one esper you have a ridiculous, stupid, undeniably massive soft spot for.

So, you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You’re perched on a bench, holding your hot chocolates, trying not to think about how this is starting to feel like some kind of romantic drama scene, when you finally see him step out of the swirling remnants of the Gate.

Even exhausted, he still looks ridiculously elegant. His coat is dusted with frost, his dark horns curved like the wings of a dragon at rest. His presence—so big, so vast—immediately settles over the field, even as other espers struggle to regain their balance.

His expression is neutral, as always. Composed. Untouchable.

Until—

He spots you.

He blinks, as if surprised to see you.

And his face softens.

He doesn’t react right away, like he’s making sure he’s seeing correctly. But then, when it clicks, his lips part just slightly—an unspoken question, a faintly surprised blink—before they curve into the warmest, most gentle smile.

And wow. Wow.

Maybe the cold is getting to you, because you suddenly feel a little too warm.

You lift a hand and wave.

Malleus immediately starts walking toward you, his movements slow but steady. His eyes stay locked on yours, like he’s drawn to you without realizing it.

“You’re here,” he says, voice carrying that soft rumble that’s way too nice to listen to at this ungodly hour.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, well, Gates don’t believe in work-life balance, apparently.” You hold up the second cup of hot chocolate. “Here. Thought you could use something warm.”

“For me?” he asks, sounding so genuinely touched that your heart does something stupid.

“No, for the other giant dragon esper who just walked out of that Gate,” you deadpan.

Malleus huffs out a soft laugh, the kind that makes you think he doesn’t do it nearly enough. He takes the cup from your hands, fingers brushing against yours, and you don’t miss the way he lingers there for just a second too long.

“You should let me guide you,” you say, reaching for his free hand.

Malleus makes a vague sound of protest. “That isn’t necessary.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And then, before he can argue further, you unleash your most powerful technique.

“Please?”

Malleus Draconia—the Apex Esper, the one who holds dominion over storms and shadows, the one who can level an entire battlefield with one command—

Folds like a house of cards.

“…Very well,” he murmurs, looking a little defeated, a little amused.

You beam and take his hand, immediately pressing your energy into his.

And wow, yeah, he definitely needed this.

His presence, which is usually so steady, flickers faintly at the edges. He must have been holding himself together through sheer force of will, because the second you start guiding him, his shoulders finally relax.

Not that he’d ever admit it, of course.

You feel his weight lean into you ever so slightly, just enough that you know he’s letting you support him. His energy curls around yours, vast and dark but gentle, like the hush of a midnight storm.

For a while, neither of you speak.

The night is quiet, save for the distant sounds of other guides working, of espers coming down from battle-highs.

You steal a glance at Malleus. His eyes are half-lidded, his breath even, his fingers curled loosely around yours.

“…You do this often?” he asks suddenly.

“What, guide tired espers?” you shrug. “Yeah. Someone’s gotta be here to catch them before they crash.”

Malleus hums, a thoughtful sound.

“…No,” he says. “I meant… this.”

You blink. “This?”

“Wait for me.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your grip tightens slightly, a flicker of warmth creeping up your neck.

“I—” You hesitate, then exhale through your nose. “No. Not really.”

Malleus watches you closely. You can feel his gaze on you even as you pointedly avoid meeting it.

“…Then why?” he asks, and his voice is so quiet, so genuine, that you feel yourself falter.

You take a deep breath.

And then, before you can overthink it, you grin.

“Well, you always push yourself too hard,” you say, squeezing his hand once for emphasis. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t keel over from exhaustion.”

Malleus huffs, clearly amused. “I assure you, I would not—”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

He laughs, quiet but real, and your heart skips a very concerning beat.

“…You are quite peculiar,” he muses, gazing at you like you’re some kind of strange, fascinating mystery.

“Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot,” you say, waving a hand. “Now, if you really wanna thank me, take me out for coffee again later.”

Malleus pauses.

You watch, in real-time, as your words settle.

And then—

Slowly, slowly, he smiles.

“…I would like that,” he says, his voice quiet, but so very certain.

And suddenly, the cold doesn’t feel quite so biting anymore.

It was late. Too late. So late that if anyone dared to bother you right now, you would simply keel over and die on the spot out of sheer spite. You had finished your work, logged everything, and were seconds away from clocking out and going home to live as a blanket cryptid when someone grabbed your wrist.

That was already mistake number one.

You turned around, tired and mildly homicidal, to see one of your fellow high-ranking guides standing there. You recognized them—someone competent, someone respected, someone you had never spoken to outside of required work matters.

And yet, here they were, gripping your wrist like you were about to reveal the secrets of the universe to them.

"You got a second?" they asked, eyes shining with something too intense for this ungodly hour.

No. You did not have a second. You barely had the energy to stand upright, let alone entertain whatever nonsense this was about to be. But before you could tell them that, they were already pulling you off to the side, lowering their voice like they were about to ask you for classified information.

"How’d you do it?"

Your brain, already running on fumes, barely processed the question. "Do what?"

"Don't play dumb," they said, looking equal parts exasperated and impressed. "How'd you bewitch Malleus Draconia?"

Your mind, previously sluggish and exhausted, full stopped.

The sheer audacity of the question short-circuited your ability to respond. You just blinked at them, waiting for them to explain whatever the fuck they were talking about.

They misinterpreted your silence as playing coy because they leaned in conspiratorially and hissed, "Don't gatekeep. We want a bite too."

It was at that moment you considered committing actual murder.

"I'm sorry. A bite?" you echoed, voice dangerously calm.

"You got Malleus Draconia—Malleus Draconia—to let you guide him, regularly," they stressed, looking half in awe and half like they wanted to shake you for answers. "No one else has ever gotten close enough to work with him like that. If we knew he was harmless, we would’ve stepped in ages ago. But we weren’t going to take the risk."

You could physically feel something in your brain snap.

So that was it. That was why. It wasn’t that they hadn’t had the opportunity to guide him—it was that they had actively chosen not to. They had taken one look at Malleus, decided it wasn’t worth the effort to risk handling someone as powerful as him, and just left him alone.

And now, because you had proven he wasn’t some terrifying force of destruction, they suddenly wanted in? They suddenly thought they deserved him?

Like he was some exclusive club they wanted membership to?

Your hand twitched. You ripped yourself free from their grip, scowling. "Screw this."

Their eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting that reaction. "Wait—"

But you were already storming off, anger burning through your exhaustion. You didn’t even realize where you were going until you stepped outside—

And saw Malleus standing there.

Waiting.

For you.

His sharp eyes flickered with concern the second they landed on your face.

"Are you alright?"

Your rage didn't cool, but it twisted into something tighter, something that made your throat close up for an entirely different reason.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached out, grabbed his hand, and started dragging him down the street.

Malleus didn’t resist. He simply followed, letting you pull him along like this was perfectly normal behavior.

The café door chimed as you shoved it open with more force than necessary, still stewing over the conversation from earlier. Malleus, utterly unbothered, stepped around you to order both of your usual drinks without hesitation.

The fact that he had memorized your order without ever asking, without making a big deal of it, without using it as some kind of flex, made something in your chest ache.

You sat down at the table, staring blankly at the surface as you tried to untangle your emotions.

Why were you this angry?

Was it because they had ignored him? Because they treated him like some kind of trophy instead of a person? Because they had assumed the worst of him and only changed their minds when it was convenient?

Yes. Absolutely.

But then—why did you also feel like crying?

Your fingers curled into fists on the table.

And that’s when it hit you.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

You liked him.

Like like liked him.

Like the kind of like that made you want to scream into your hands and never recover. The kind of like that made you want to turn back time and stop this from happening before it was too late. The kind of like that meant your life was now ruined beyond repair.

Your whole body tensed, brain going into full meltdown mode.

And then—just to make everything infinitely worse—

A cup slid into view.

You looked up, and there he was.

Malleus.

Standing in front of you, holding out your drink.

His eyes were gentle, studying you carefully, like he could see every single thought racing through your head. "Are you alright?" he asked again, voice quiet, sincere.

And in that moment, you realized you had two options:

• Stay here, drink your drink like a normal person, and accept the horrifying truth of your newfound feelings.

• Launch yourself out of the nearest window and never be seen again.

Option two was looking real tempting right now.

Another night, another gate opening at the worst possible time.

You were so tired. Bone-deep, soul-weary, existentially exhausted. The universe seemed determined to ensure that you never got a full night’s sleep, and you were starting to take it personally.

Still, you were here, bundled up against the cold, sipping a hot drink as you waited for Malleus.

The gate was a high-level one tonight. You knew it had to have been difficult—he was strong, but no one walked out of those things completely unscathed. So you were already standing up, ready to meet him halfway, when—

That guide.

The one who had all but interrogated you last time.

They stepped in before you could move, approaching Malleus with their best professional smile, like they hadn’t spent years pretending he didn’t exist.

"Do you need guidance?" they asked smoothly, their voice dripping with the absolute audacity.

Malleus blinked at them, clearly surprised. Because why wouldn’t he be? No one else but you had ever offered before.

And your chest burned.

Of course he’d pick them.

They were higher-ranked than you. More experienced. More respected. Malleus, despite everything, was still an outsider to most of the guide network, and it would make perfect sense to accept help from someone with more prestige.

You braced yourself, swallowing the bitter feeling threatening to rise—

But then—

He looked past them.

His eyes landed on you.

And then he smiled.

"I must decline," he said simply, voice polite but final.

And then—much to their visible horror—he walked right past them and straight to you.

The sheer triumph that surged through you was immeasurable.

You barely stopped yourself from cackling, but as you took his hand, guiding him like always, the urge to turn back and stick your tongue out at that seething guide was so strong.

Malleus, oblivious to your inner gloating, watched you with a softness that made your heart ache.

And then, suddenly, it all just—

Hit you.

The sheer depth of your feelings, the way your chest tightened at the sight of him, the way everything in you just settled when he was near—

You broke.

You grabbed him, yanking him forward, and before he could even react—

You kissed him.

Malleus let out a surprised sound against your lips, but after only a second of hesitation—

He kissed you back.

It was warm, steady, and when you finally pulled away, he was glowing, his expression soft in a way that made your breath catch.

"I like you, Malleus," you confessed, your voice quieter than you expected.

And his smile—

It was like you had given him the world.

He cupped your face so gently, kissed your forehead like he was sealing the moment into reality.

"I have feelings for you too," he murmured.

You melted.

You leaned against his chest, warmth seeping into you despite the cold night air.

And as his arms wrapped around you, as you felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you couldn’t help but be so glad you had accepted his guidance request all that time ago.

(And okay, maybe you were also smug as hell about it. Because when you glanced back at that other guide—

They looked ready to throw hands.)

You had been waiting.

Patiently. Lovingly. For months.

Malleus loved you. You loved him. You were in a relationship, you slept in the same bed, you guided him, he refused to let anyone else even offer—so what the hell was taking him so long?

Why wouldn’t he just ask?

It was infuriating. It was agonizing. It was the most painfully obvious conclusion to your relationship, and yet—

Malleus refused to bond with you.

And frankly? You were at your limit.

So tonight, as you lay wrapped around each other in bed, his arms comfortably encircling your waist, you finally decided to just ask him.

"Malleus," you said, looking up at him, voice soft but firm. "Why haven’t you asked me to bond yet?"

He stiffened. Just slightly. His fingers twitched where they rested on your back.

And then—

He gave you that look. The sad, gentle smile. The one that made your heart clench because it meant he was about to say something infuriatingly self-sacrificial.

"If you ever regret me," he murmured, "you won’t be able to guide anyone else." His thumb traced circles on your back, soothing even as his words infuriated you. "I don’t want that for you."

You froze.

You stared at him.

And in that moment, you were torn between laughing at his stupidity or crying because how could someone so powerful be so utterly dumb?

So you did neither.

Instead—

You kissed him.

You kissed him until he was breathless, until his arms tightened around you, until his body melted into yours and he let out the softest, neediest little sound against your lips.

When you pulled away, his pupils were blown wide, his expression dazed, and you felt the way his heartbeat had turned erratic beneath your palm.

"You," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, "are the only thing I've ever been sure of in my life."

Malleus let out a shaky breath.

And then you kissed him again.

You pressed him into the bed, slotting yourself against him, feeling his hands grasp at you like he was afraid you might disappear.

But you wouldn’t.

Because you were here. You chose him.

And that night, you finally bonded—just as you always should have.

Malleus had always been powerful. From the moment he was born, strength had been woven into his very being.

His draconic lineage alone made him stronger than most, but when his Esper abilities awakened, it had set him apart even further. Too far apart.

The strongest being in the world.

And because of that, people had feared him.

It had been that way for as long as he could remember. Even other Espers, who should have understood, kept their distance. Some whispered about him behind closed doors, about how a being as powerful as him didn't need guidance in the first place.

It had been Lilia who had guided him for most of his life, a steady presence who never flinched, never wavered, never treated him as if he were something to be afraid of. But when Lilia lost his guiding abilities, that stability was suddenly gone, leaving Malleus untethered.

For years, he had gone without. And then, one day, he heard about you.

You were a Guide who accepted nearly every request. You had guided Espers with overwhelming abilities, those who were labeled as difficult or too much to handle. You had never turned anyone away. And so, despite knowing the likelihood of rejection, Malleus sent a request.

He had expected nothing to come of it. But instead, he got you.

You had seemed nervous when you first met him, but it wasn’t the type of nervousness he was used to. There was no fear in your eyes, only cautious curiosity—an instinctive wariness, perhaps, but not rejection. And despite whatever initial hesitation you had, your hand had reached for his without trembling. You had guided him.

For the first time in over a decade, Malleus had felt light.

And then, the first time you guided him outside a Gate—

That had been a key moment in his life.

He had stepped out, battle-worn, expecting emptiness. And instead—you had waved at him.

You had smiled at him.

He had thought, at first, that perhaps you had simply been assigned to check on him. That maybe it was some unspoken duty, a requirement of your role. But then, as if that warmth weren’t enough, you had asked him to coffee.

He had expected a quiet outing, a moment to rest and speak with you in a more peaceful setting. Instead, Lilia, Sebek, and Silver had shown up, disguises both laughable and obvious, as if the flimsy mustaches and oversized trench coats could fool anyone. He had braced himself for your irritation, for exasperation or a resigned sigh.

But instead—you had laughed.

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, you had welcomed them to join you.

That had been the moment he first thought, perhaps, he liked you.

The first time you had brought him hot chocolate would forever be etched into Malleus’ memory.

It had been a bitterly cold night, the kind where the air cut through even the thickest of coats, where breath curled in the air like mist, and the sky was so crisp and clear that it felt endless.

The battle had left him drained, his energy worn thin in a way he had long since grown accustomed to. He hadn’t expected you to be there. There had been no reason for you to wait for him—you could have guided someone else, finished your duties quickly, and gone home to rest.

But instead, there you were.

Sitting on a bench, bundled in layers, your arms crossed to hold in whatever warmth you could, with two cups of hot chocolate in your hands. You had waved at him like it was the most normal thing in the world, like of course you were waiting for him. Like of course you had brought him something warm to drink.

He had been so startled by the sight that for a moment, he simply stood there, staring, trying to commit every detail to memory. The way the streetlights cast a soft glow against your skin, the way your breath curled in the cold, the way your fingers tapped against the side of the cup as you held it out to him.

He had taken it without a word, still dazed, still trying to process why you had done this. And then, as if you hadn’t just shaken the very foundation of his existence, you had grinned and asked him to take you out for coffee again.

Malleus had never known such warmth, even in the frigid winter.

Then there was the day he had waited for you.

He had been standing outside the guidance center, patiently waiting for you to finish your duties. It had been something of a habit by then—he always waited for you when he could, just as you waited for him. He enjoyed the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him, the way you always greeted him like you had been expecting to see him there.

But that day, when you finally stepped outside, there was no warm smile, no familiar greeting. Instead, you stormed out, eyes blazing, frustration radiating off you in waves. Malleus had barely opened his mouth to ask what was wrong before you grabbed his wrist and started dragging him down the street.

He followed without hesitation, allowing you to pull him along, his mind still catching up to what was happening. You had led him straight to your usual café, barely stopping to take a breath as you shoved the door open and beelined for your favorite spot. Malleus sat across from you, watching with quiet curiosity as you fumed, hands clenched around your menu, your foot tapping aggressively against the floor.

And then, as the tension in your shoulders refused to ease, as you let out a frustrated huff and glared at your drink like it had personally offended you, you had finally told him what had made you so upset.

They had questioned you. They had asked how you had bewitched him, of all people. Like he was some trophy, some untouchable relic that no one had dared lay claim to until you had somehow managed to crack the code. They had assumed that if he were harmless enough to guide, then they would have taken him for themselves. They had spoken about him like he was something to be owned.

Malleus had expected you to be upset. What he hadn’t expected was for you to be so furious on his behalf.

And he shouldn’t have liked it—shouldn’t have felt anything beyond quiet gratitude for your defense of him. But there was something ugly in his chest, something selfish and dark that thrived off the way your anger was so fiercely his.

For so long, people had feared him, had rejected him, had kept him at a distance out of self-preservation. And yet, here you were, not just standing by his side, but fighting for him, defending him, choosing him.

And he wanted that.

He wanted the way you almost stormed into battle for him. He wanted the way your voice shook with anger because you cared about how he was treated. He wanted the way you grabbed his wrist without hesitation, the way you dragged him to this café because he was the person you sought out in your frustration.

He wanted you.

And as you finally sighed, your anger fading just enough for you to take a sip of your drink, Malleus came to a quiet realization.

He had liked you before. But now?

Now, he was falling.

Malleus had never expected to be offered guidance by anyone else.

It had never once crossed his mind as a possibility—he had long since grown used to being avoided, used to the way others hesitated to even meet his eyes, let alone reach out to him. The moment he stepped out of the Gate, still feeling the lingering exhaustion of battle, he had been prepared to find you, as he always did.

And yet, instead of you, there was someone else.

A guide—one he recognized, one who had been among those who had always turned away from him before. And now, suddenly, they were standing before him, offering their assistance as if it were something he needed, as if he should be grateful.

Malleus didn’t even consider it.

How could he? How could anyone else fill the space that was meant for you? How could he even entertain the thought of accepting someone else’s hand when your hand was the only one he ever wanted to hold?

So he simply stepped past them, not bothering to spare them a second glance, not wasting a single breath on an answer. Because they were irrelevant.

Because you were there.

And the moment he spotted you, standing just a few steps away with that bright, warm expression that was meant only for him, he felt something in his chest ease. Like everything had shifted back into place, like the air had cleared, like he was where he was supposed to be.

And when you laughed, really laughed, like this was all some great joke only the two of you were in on, he thought it might be his favorite sound in the world.

And then you took his hand, and the moment your fingers intertwined with his, he knew with absolute certainty—there was no one else for him. There never could be.

And then you kissed him.

For all his years, for all his strength, for all his wisdom, Malleus Draconia had never once been prepared for this.

You had grabbed him, pulled him in, and pressed your lips to his, and Malleus had let out an embarrassingly surprised sound before his instincts took over, before his hands found their way to your waist, before he was kissing you back like he had been waiting for this moment for centuries.

And maybe he had been.

Because when you pulled back, just far enough to whisper, “I like you, Malleus,” he felt like the world had stopped spinning, like time itself had come to a halt just to give him this moment, just to let him have this.

And when he smiled, it was because it felt like you had just handed him the world.

So he kissed your forehead, let his lips linger against your skin, and whispered against you, “I have feelings for you too.”

And when you leaned against him, when you let yourself rest against his chest, Malleus felt something settle in his soul.

He was home.

Then you asked him to bond.

And Malleus hesitated.

Not because he didn’t love you—he did. He had never loved anything the way he loved you.

But because he was afraid.

Because bonding with him meant forever. It meant you would be tied to him, it meant you would never be able to guide anyone else, it meant that if one day you woke up and realized you regretted him—realized you wanted something else, something more, something that wasn’t him—then you would be trapped.

And he could not, would not, allow that to happen to you.

So he had told you no. Not because he didn’t want you, not because he didn’t ache for you in ways he could never put into words, but because he would die before he let you shackle yourself to him forever.

And then you had kissed him.

Hard.

You had pressed him into the bed, breathless and unyielding, your lips against his like you were trying to prove something.

And maybe you were.

Because when you finally pulled back, when your fingers threaded through his hair and your forehead rested against his, you whispered, “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”

And Malleus—Malleus, who had spent his entire life waiting to be chosen, waiting to be wanted—felt his walls crumble.

So he let himself believe you.

He let himself hope.

And when he kissed you again, when he let his hands roam over your skin and let himself take you, it wasn’t just an acceptance of your love.

It was a promise.

A promise that no matter what, no matter where life took you, no matter how much time passed—he would always be yours.

And as the bond settled between you, as he felt the pull of your soul entwining with his, Malleus let himself hope for more.

He hoped you would be with him forever.

You woke up feeling warm.

Not just from the blankets wrapped around you, or the way the room was still dim from the early morning light, but from the way Malleus was wrapped around you.

His arms held you firm but gentle, his breath soft against your forehead, his body curled protectively around yours. It was comfort in its purest form.

You smiled, still basking in the afterglow of your bond, and tilted your head up to kiss him.

Malleus stirred, letting out a sleepy hum as his lips curved into a small, contented smile against yours. His eyes fluttered open, still hazy with sleep, and you both just… looked at each other.

The love in his gaze was overwhelming.

So, naturally, you asked the most important question of your life.

"Was the egg picture that Lilia showed me actually you?"

Malleus blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then, to your absolute delight, he looked flabbergasted.

"You—" He stopped, as if trying to process the sheer absurdity of your first words after bonding. "That is the first thing you wish to ask me?"

You nodded, completely serious. "I've been meaning to ask for a while."

And then—

Malleus laughed.

Laughed and laughed.

Deep and rich, his chest vibrating against yours as his entire body shook with amusement.

You pouted and waited for him to get it together, only for him to kiss your forehead, still grinning.

"Yes," he admitted, eyes twinkling. "That was me."

You gasped. Vindication.

Finally.

The mystery that had plagued you for months was solved.

With a triumphant little noise, you snuggled back into him, pressing your face against his chest as sleep threatened to claim you again.

Malleus chuckled, tucking you closer, and as he rested his chin atop your head, he couldn’t help but think—

Despite your eccentricities, he had never been happier than being yours.

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