Work Text:
Mel was…intrigued.
Jayce had been acting oddly for days now, not in the “oh gods, he’s broken something volatile again” way, but in that distinctly Jayce way. The restless, distracted, endearingly terrible-at-lying way. He would trail off mid-sentence, smile to himself for no reason, and hover near her with the air of a man barely keeping a secret from spilling out.
It had begun the morning after the gala; their grand, glittering, unmissable debut. The city’s gossip columns had feasted on it for days: Councillor Medarda and her golden inventor and fellow councillor. The pair who had reshaped Piltover’s future now arm-in-arm, radiant and untouchable.
Mel had expected the spectacle; she had designed it with Elora; every step, every flicker of candlelight against gold silk, every deliberate press of Jayce’s hand at her back. She’d meant for the world to see them as inevitable. What she hadn’t expected was the look in his eyes after meeting her brother.
Jayce had shaken Kino’s hand with all the charm and poise she’d coached into him, but something in his expression shifted, something thoughtful, almost awed. When they’d returned home, he’d fallen into one of his contemplative silences, the kind that meant his mind was turning faster than any of his machines.
And then, that note.
A neatly folded slip of paper tucked beneath her breakfast tray, written in his sharp, careful handwriting:
'Please keep Friday night free. And wear something you love. Love you, Sunshine.'
She’d smiled despite herself, although she didn’t do surprises. But she’d done as he asked.
Now, standing at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the Piltover Museum of Antiquities, she folded her arms, suspicious. The façade was dimly lit, the great doors closed to the public, yet one lantern burned steadily near the entrance, as though the building itself was waiting for them.
“Jayce,” she began, her tone edged with wary amusement, “if this is another one of your spontaneous philanthropic gestures, I’d like to note that I’m not prepared to deliver a speech.”
He turned toward her with a grin that was both proud and nervous. “Trust me. You’ll want to see this.”
She arched an elegant brow, but allowed him to lead her inside.
The museum was silent except for the soft echo of their footsteps. The air was cool, fragrant with parchment, oil, and age. Columns rose into shadow; glass cases gleamed faintly in the dim light. No guards, no curators, only them.
When they reached the main hall, Mel halted so abruptly that Jayce nearly collided with her.
A banner hung above the grand archway ahead:
PRIVATE EXHIBITION — THE LOST WORKS OF LEONARDO DA VINCI
For Restricted Viewings Only
Her lips parted. “Jayce…this exhibit doesn’t open until next month. There are no private pre-viewings. You didn’t—”
He had the audacity to look smug. “Called in a few favours. It helps, being known as the Face of Piltover and Councillor Medarda’s kept man.”
Mel’s jaw twitched, half from amusement, half disbelief. “A few favours? Do you mean to tell me you outpaced my uncle and cousin, the Kirammans, and every collector on the continent?”
He met her gaze, and the teasing dropped away. “I wanted you to see it first. You’ve always done the impossible for me—for us. I figured I could meet you halfway, for once. Bring the greatest artistic and scientific mind in history to you.”
Her throat tightened around something unspoken. He could be so earnest sometimes, so guileless in his desire to impress her. The warmth of it crept into her chest before she could stop it.
“Come on,” he said softly. “There’s more.”
They stepped into the gallery.
Soft, golden light illuminated sketches of impossible machines: ornithopters, gears, parachutes, and anatomical studies. Jayce’s eyes gleamed with the same wonder she’d seen in him years ago when he’d first held Hextech in his hands.
“Can you imagine,” he murmured, tracing the air near the glass, “thinking like this in the fifteenth century? It’s like looking at the roots of every modern innovation.”
Mel’s gaze wandered to the opposite wall. There hung Da Vinci’s portraits: faces that breathed through paint, emotions suspended in colour. An unfinished Madonna, a self-portrait in fading ink, a study of human hands rendered with reverent precision.
“He saw the world in light,” she murmured, “and in emotion. His calculations carried longing.”
Jayce glanced over, smiling softly. “You really think art can do that?”
“It’s the difference between invention and legacy,” she said. “One solves a problem. The other reminds us why we solved it.”
He tilted his head. “You always make me see what I miss.”
“And you,” she countered, “make me see what I’ve chosen to ignore.”
Their paths converged at the centre of the hall, beneath a vast brass and linen structure: the crown jewel of the exhibit. A full-scale reconstruction of Da Vinci’s flying machine hung above them, its wings spread wide and luminous under the amber light.
Jayce stopped, looked up, then back at her, mischief flickering in his eyes. “Dance with me.”
Mel blinked. “There’s no music, Councillor.”
He stepped closer, his voice lowering to that honeyed tone that always, always disarmed her. “There’s always music playing when you’re near me.”
Her lips curved despite herself. “That was appallingly romantic.”
“And still true,” he murmured, holding out his hand.
She hesitated—then took it. His palm was warm, calloused, familiar. He drew her in until the silk of her gown brushed against his shirtfront, and together they began to sway: slowly, clumsily, with no rhythm but their own.
Above them, the mechanical wings shimmered as they turned, casting long shadows that merged into one.
Mel rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, feeling the tension there, the restrained energy that never quite left him. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, though her voice softened with each word.
Jayce smiled down at her. “And yet, you’re still here.”
“I suppose someone has to make sure you don’t accidentally destroy a priceless artefact.”
“Your faith in me is inspiring.”
“It’s practical.”
He laughed under his breath. The sound filled the empty hall—gentle, full of affection. His hand at her waist tightened slightly, thumb tracing idle circles at the small of her back.
The teasing faded, replaced by something quieter, heavier.
Mel’s breath slowed. She let her head fall against his chest. Beneath the soft fabric of his shirt, his heart thudded in a steady, grounding rhythm—strong, human, his.
“There,” she murmured.
He tilted his head, smiling faintly. “There what?”
“My favourite sound,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Your heart.”
Jayce’s breath caught, the motion of his chest stilling for a moment beneath her cheek. Then, with a quiet exhale, his chin came to rest gently atop her hair. “You make me wax poetic,” he murmured, the warmth of his voice vibrating against her temple.
“You surprise me more every day,” she replied, and her words came out softer than intended, too honest.
They swayed like that for a long while: two silhouettes beneath the golden wings of a dreamer long gone, surrounded by the delicate hum of preservation: glass, parchment, invention, memory. The air smelled faintly of oil paint and dust, of history waiting to be touched.
Mel thought of the centuries between Da Vinci’s hand and theirs, the unbroken chain of visionaries who had dared to imagine more, to reach beyond what the world permitted. And now here they stood: the builder and the painter, the man of science and the woman of art, holding each other in the middle of it all.
For once, she let herself stop calculating outcomes, stop preparing her next move. She simply felt: the brush of his thumb at her back, the rhythm of his breathing, the pull of something vast and inexplicable threading between them.
When she finally lifted her gaze, Jayce was already watching her, that open, unguarded love written plain across his face. There was no ambition there, no hunger for recognition—only devotion, fierce and steady.
The future, she realised, wasn’t something to predict or control. It was something to build together.
And she was building it with him.
As the two of them turned beneath the golden machine—its wings suspended like a blessing—Mel smiled, soft and secret. The world outside might still belong to politics and power, to speeches and strategy, to the endless game of survival. But this—this quiet, impossible night—belonged only to them.
When they finally stepped out of the museum, thirty minutes later, Jayce rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “So, uh—Elora helped me with one more thing.”
Mel raised a perfectly arched brow. “Oh?”
“Do you mind changing while I do the same?” he asked, handing her a bag from the back seat of the car, his amber eyes weaponised into something boyishly persuasive.
Sighing in mock exasperation, she took it from him and disappeared into the restroom.
Inside, she opened the bag and couldn’t help the amused little huff that escaped her. Elora, of course, had impeccable instincts. Folded neatly inside were some of the most “casual” pieces Mel owned: acid-wash jeans that hugged just right, a black camisole, a crisp white blouse, her gold jewellery—rings, bracelets, earrings—and black-and-gold wedge heels. Effortless, but still unmistakably Mel.
“Not bad, El,” she murmured to her reflection as she slipped on the last earring. She caught her own gaze in the mirror—less formal, more alive. For once, she didn’t look like Piltover’s most calculating councillor. She looked like a woman out on an adventure.
When she returned to the car, Jayce was waiting, casually leaning against the door, now in dark jeans, a red sweater, black boots, the vintage timepiece she’d gifted him, and a simple gold chain at his neck. His hair was a little mussed, the beard framing his grin perfectly.
The sight of him unguarded, radiant in his ease, made her pause. And then he saw her. His eyes lit up instantly, and that smile—the one he seemed to save only for her—spread slowly and wide across his face.
“Perfect,” he said simply, before leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek. Then, like always, he opened her door first before circling to the driver’s side.
“So,” she said as the car hummed to life, her tone a careful blend of suspicion and curiosity. “Where are we going now?”
“Well…” He glanced at her sideways, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You and I both know how competitive we are, especially when it comes to the crossword. So, I thought, why not do something…as a team?”
Her brows lifted, slow realisation dawning. “An escape room?”
Jayce’s grin widened, sheepish and proud all at once. “An exclusive escape room,” he clarified, like that somehow elevated it above the rest.
Mel’s laughter, high and free, filled the car. “I take it you didn’t simply reserve one of those overly dramatised mystery games in the Promenade?”
“Of course not.” His tone carried that familiar blend of offence and excitement. “This one was designed as part of an interactive exhibition, the kind of thing usually booked out months in advance. Elora pulled some strings. It’s a hybrid of art and science puzzles. Thought we could…you know, test our teamwork outside the council chamber for once.”
“Outside the council chamber,” she echoed dryly, turning toward him with a knowing smirk. “Because nothing says romantic evening quite like locking ourselves in a room and being forced to problem-solve under pressure.”
He glanced sideways at her, lips curving. “You love a challenge.”
“True,” she admitted, watching the city lights blur past the car windows. “But if you think I’m letting you take the lead, you’re mistaken.”
He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The drive took them away from the glittering heart of Piltover, toward the industrial quarter, where the gleam of metal and glass gave way to older stonework and iron facades repurposed into boutiques, speakeasies, and private venues. The car stopped before a discreet building marked only by an engraved plaque that read The Codex Experience.
Inside, the air was cooler, touched by faint incense and soft lighting that reflected off brass and marble. A curator: tall, serene, wearing gloves and a thin smile, greeted them at the door.
“Councillor Talis. Councillor Medarda. Welcome. Your private booking has been prepared.”
Mel exchanged a look with Jayce. “Private,” she repeated, her tone halfway between suspicion and amusement. “You’ve been planning this for quite some time, haven’t you?”
Jayce’s grin was boyish again. “Since before the gala.”
The curator led them through a hallway lined with dim holographic projections—paintings that seemed to breathe, gears that turned in slow, silent rhythm—until they arrived at a room marked Da Vinci’s Workshop.
The door slid open.
Inside was an astonishing replica of a Renaissance atelier: sketches pinned to cork walls, half-assembled contraptions suspended from the ceiling, and a massive mechanical globe at the centre, all surrounded by warm lamplight.
“Each clue,” the curator explained, “requires both halves of the human genius: logic and intuition. Science and art. The puzzles adapt to their solvers.”
Mel glanced at Jayce, one perfectly arched brow rising. “So you thought to test whether we truly complement one another?”
Jayce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Something like that.”
When the door shut behind them with a resonant click, a voice—soft, refined, slightly accented—echoed through the room:
‘To free the mind, first free the machine. Balance what is seen with what is felt.’
Mel folded her arms, eyeing the mechanical globe. “Well. I imagine brute force isn’t the answer.”
Jayce looked entirely too pleased with himself. “You say that now, but give me five minutes.”
Their first puzzle was mechanical: interlocking cogs that needed alignment according to the sketches on the walls. Jayce dove in immediately, muttering equations under his breath, while Mel circled the room with the precision of a hawk, examining paintings for patterns.
“Jayce,” she called, her voice smooth as silk. “Notice the colour gradient on the edges of that map; it corresponds to temperature readings on the schematics.”
He looked up, impressed. “How did you—?”
“Because, unlike you, I look at everything, not just the shiny bits,” she teased.
He grinned. “Teamwork, then.”
They worked in tandem: her sharp intuition bridging the gaps his calculations left, his mechanical mind giving structure to her artistic instinct. Every success brought a hum of light through the room, illuminating new symbols and unlocking hidden panels.
When the final puzzle, a pair of mirrored canvases, slid open to reveal a painting of Da Vinci’s flying machine, Mel smiled faintly.
“Full circle,” she murmured.
Jayce stepped beside her, his voice low. “It’s fitting, isn’t it? He spent his life trying to understand both sides of the mind. What could be built, and what could be imagined.”
Mel turned to him, eyes softening. “And here we are, doing both.”
The room lights dimmed, replaced by a soft golden glow that washed over them. A gentle chime sounded as the door unlocked.
“Congratulations, Councillors,” the voice said. “You are free.”
Mel glanced at the door, then back at Jayce. “You realise,” she said, stepping closer until their shoulders brushed, “you’ve now set the standard for every future date.”
He laughed, the sound warm and breathless. “Then I’ll just have to keep outdoing myself.”
“Careful,” she warned, a spark in her eyes. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Oh, it absolutely is.”
And as they stepped back out into the Piltover night, hand in hand, Mel realised that she hadn’t stopped smiling since the moment he’d asked her to dance.
For all his brilliance and recklessness, Jayce had given her something rare, something quiet.
An evening not of politics, not of power, but of partnership.
A night where art met science, and she met him...again,
as if for the first time.