The planet of Universe 8 basked in a quiet, golden morning. Everything, of course, was in perfect order—Liquiir demanded nothing less. The gardens shimmered with life-energy, the air carried a soft hum of balance, and for once, there was absolutely nothing to fix, fight, or supervise.
Korn stood beside the pond, staff resting against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded in tranquil observation. You, kneeling a few steps away, carefully trimmed the luminous water lilies that floated across the surface. Every movement you made was deliberate… almost meditative—except for the occasional splash when a lily petal slipped from your grasp.
“Gentler,” Korn said without even glancing your way. “You’ll disturb the current.”
“I’m not disturbing anything,” you muttered, fishing the runaway petal out of the water. “It’s helping circulation.”
“Hmm.” The sound was unimpressed. Korn’s version of a sigh.
From the terrace, a low chuckle. “Ah, morning peace shattered already,” Liquiir said, tail flicking lazily as he watched from his seat, cup of steaming tea balanced perfectly in paw. “I swear, you two bring more noise than a meteor shower.”
You straightened, brushing stray droplets from your robes. “With respect, my Lord, Korn started it.”
Liquiir’s whiskers twitched. “Oh, I’m sure. He looks positively mischievous.”
Korn’s expression didn’t change, which somehow made it funnier. “I was offering guidance.”
“Guidance,” Liquiir repeated, amused. “Is that what the mortals call nagging these days?”
You tried to hide your smile, but Korn noticed. His tone stayed even, though a faint irritation slipped through. “Perhaps, my Lord, your tea is too strong this morning.”
Liquiir gasped dramatically. “Blaming my tea for your attitude? How scandalous.” He leaned toward you, stage-whispering, “He’s sulking. That’s new. Be careful, next he’ll write poetry.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself. Korn’s eyes flicked to you, calm as ever, though the corner of his mouth threatened to betray him. Almost.
Later, you worked side by side repairing a cracked meditation bell. The silence between you was companionable, punctuated by faint clinks of metal and your occasional hum.
“Hold it steady,” you said.
“I am holding it steady.”
“You’re holding it like it’s made of glass.”
“It is made of glass.”
You looked up at him, unimpressed. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, effective.”
That earned a small laugh from you—soft, genuine, something that made the still air feel a little warmer.
Of course, Liquiir had to ruin it.
He strolled in, stretching. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you two were flirting instead of working.”
The bell slipped. You caught it just in time. Korn didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened.
“We are maintaining temple equipment,” Korn said, deadpan. “As instructed.”
Liquiir smiled, far too satisfied. “Mm, yes. Maintenance. Such… chemistry.”
You tried very hard not to laugh. “My Lord, please.”
“Fine, fine.” Liquiir raised his paws in mock surrender. “Carry on with your ‘maintenance.’ But if the bell mysteriously melts from all that tension, I’m not taking responsibility.”
He left with a swish of his tail and a very loud purr of amusement. The moment he was gone, the air fell quiet again—awkwardly so.
Korn exhaled slowly. “Our Lord enjoys interference.”
“That’s one way to put it,” you said, still fighting a grin.
You adjusted the bell’s rim, your fingers brushing his briefly. Neither of you pulled away immediately. Korn was the first to step back, gaze fixed somewhere safely above your head.
“It’s late,” he said quietly. “You should rest.”
You nodded, though there was a hint of a smile on your lips. “Good night, Korn.”
A pause. Then, softer than the evening wind: “…Rest well, Y/N.”
From the terrace, Liquiir’s voice floated out again, far too pleased with himself. “I heard that.”
You groaned. Korn’s eyes closed, as though summoning divine patience. And in that serene, perfectly ordered universe, your laughter broke through like sunlight.
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