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Riddle’s hand trembled slightly as he lingered over the pastry display, his eyes darting between options. The thought of indulging felt reckless, wasteful even, but the ache of exhaustion gnawed at him.
You stepped beside him, your presence a quiet anchor. Without hesitation, you gestured to the strawberry tart.
“That one,” you told the waiter, your voice steady. “He’ll have that.”
Riddle blinked, startled. “But I—I didn’t even—”
“You didn’t have to say anything,” you replied gently, turning to him with a small, knowing smile. “You’ve had a long week. This will help.”
When the tart arrived, he stared at it like it was some foreign object. Slowly, he took a bite. The sweetness hit his tongue, and his chest constricted—not from the sugar but from the overwhelming realization: you knew.
You had seen his fatigue, his silent need for comfort, and you didn’t push or pry. You just… provided.
He couldn’t meet your eyes after that, afraid they might betray the way his heart ached—aching because no one else had ever seen him like you did.
It was late at night, and Riddle sat on the dormitory steps, his arms crossed tightly against the evening chill. He’d come out for fresh air, but he’d forgotten how biting the breeze could be after sunset.
You found him there, looking small and cold under the moonlight. Without hesitation, you draped a blanket over his shoulders.
He blinked at you, startled. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Riddle,” you said softly, crouching down to meet his gaze. “You don’t have to freeze to death just to think. Take care of yourself too, okay?”
He stared at you, his heart stumbling over itself. The way you said it—it wasn’t pitying or scolding. It was kind.
You stood up, ruffling his hair lightly before heading back inside. He watched you go, the blanket still warm around him, and realized with a pang that no one else had ever made him feel so… cared for.
Riddle’s pen paused mid-signature as he glanced at the stack of paperwork on his desk. It had been shrinking steadily for the past week. Tasks he usually had to chase others down for were already complete. Events he’d normally plan were already organized. Even the Heartslabyul garden had been pruned to perfection.
At first, he thought he’d finally whipped the dorm into shape, but a quick inquiry revealed the truth: you. You had been handling the tasks quietly, never asking for credit or praise.
When he caught you refilling the ink on his desk before slipping out of his study, he finally confronted you. “Why?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “I know you can handle it, Riddle. You always do. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”
His heart tightened painfully at your words. He sat back in his chair, feeling a warmth spread through him that no one had ever sparked before. Who else would do this for me?
Riddle wasn’t one to admit weakness, but the fever had hit him hard. He barely remembered collapsing into bed, but when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was you.
You were slumped over beside his bed, your hand still holding his, a damp cloth on his forehead and an empty glass on the nightstand.
His throat tightened. He tried to sit up, but the movement disturbed you. You blinked awake groggily, immediately sitting upright. “You’re awake!” you said, brushing your fingers across his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re still warm, but better than before.”
Riddle stared at you, his chest tightening at the sight of your tired eyes and messy hair. “You stayed here… all night?”
“Of course,” you said, as if it were obvious. “You’d do the same for me.”
The warmth in his chest spread until he couldn’t look at you without his heart pounding. He didn’t deserve this—your care, your kindness—but he wanted to, desperately.
The duel had been a simple training session, but when a stray spell came too close to Riddle, you had thrown yourself between him and the blast without a second thought.
Riddle caught you before you stumbled, pulling you close to steady you. His eyes widened as he realized what you’d done. “Why did you—?”
“Reflex,” you said, brushing yourself off like it was nothing. “I know you’re strong, but it was heading right for you.”
Riddle felt his heart lurch. You didn’t step in because you doubted him. You stepped in because you cared.
He realized you’d done it before—pulling him out of harm’s way, even when it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t patronizing; it was just… you.
He couldn’t stop the blush creeping up his neck, spreading to his ears. “You don’t have to protect me,” he muttered, his voice softer than usual.
You grinned, nudging him playfully. “Yeah, well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t get singed.”
Riddle looked away, hiding his burning face. He couldn’t even find the words to respond, too overwhelmed by how much he wanted to pull you into his arms and never let go.
The moment the teapot cracked, Riddle’s world narrowed to that single shattering sound. He stared at the broken pieces, his hands gripping the porcelain as his chest tightened. It wasn’t just a teapot—it was his control, his composure, his legacy.
“Riddle.” Your voice cut through the panic, calm and resolute. You stepped closer, holding out your hands. “Give it to me.”
“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s irreplaceable. My mother—”
“And I’ll fix it,” you interrupted firmly, your gaze unwavering.
His breath hitched. “You can’t just fix something like this.”
“Riddle.” Your tone softened, but your resolve didn’t waver. “Trust me.”
Something in your voice broke through his panic. Against every instinct, he handed the pieces to you.
The next day, you presented the teapot to him, its cracks filled with shining gold. He held it in his hands, staring at the transformed porcelain.
“You used kintsugi,” he murmured, his voice hoarse.
You smiled. “I figured something this important deserved to be beautiful, even with its flaws.”
He couldn’t speak. All he could do was hold the teapot and try not to fall apart as he realized that no one else would have done this for him.
When a classmate asked him out, Riddle was so blindsided that he barely registered their words. He stared at them, their earnest expression blurring into the background as a single thought consumed him: It’s not them. It’s not you.
His mind betrayed him, conjuring images of you: your quiet understanding, the way you smoothed over his rough edges without hesitation, the way you saw him.
The classmate’s words faded entirely, and all he could think was that they didn’t know him—not like you did. They wouldn’t care for him like you did, wouldn’t anticipate his needs, wouldn’t challenge him, wouldn’t ruin him the way you had.
“I… I can’t,” he finally choked out, his voice trembling.
He walked away, his hands shaking, his heart a storm of realization. You had set a bar so high that no one could reach it. You had unraveled his meticulous rules, his expectations, and left him longing for something he’d never allowed himself to believe he could have.
Later that day, as he wandered the courtyard, still shaken by the confrontation, he saw you passing by. You were laughing at something Ace had said, your smile bright and easy, the sunlight catching on your hair.
The world stopped.
It hit him like a spell to the chest. He would never, could never, love anyone else. No one else could make him feel the way you did. No one else could understand him like you.
You turned slightly, catching his eye, and offered him a small wave before continuing on your way.
Riddle pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady the wild thrum of his heart.
You had ruined him for anyone else—and he didn’t want to be unruined.