Chapter Text
The first thing people noticed about Feitan Portor was that something about him felt… off.
Not in a loud way. Not in the way dangerous people usually announce themselves. It was quieter than that—like a blade tucked neatly under cloth.
You didn’t notice it at first.
He’d shown up like anyone else—lean, quiet, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes half-lidded as if everything bored him. His voice was strange, clipped, words broken in odd places, like he was translating thoughts faster than he cared to speak them.
“Too noisy,” he muttered once, when a group nearby got a little too loud.
You laughed. “You’re just grumpy.”
He didn’t deny it.
That was the beginning..
You never asked what he did for a living.
It wasn’t that you didn’t care—it was that every time the question came close, something in his expression made it feel… unnecessary. Like pulling at a thread you weren’t meant to touch.
Instead, you learned other things.
He liked quiet places. Rooftops. Narrow alleys. Anywhere people didn’t linger.
He didn’t like being touched suddenly—but if you warned him first, he didn’t pull away.
He watched everything.
And sometimes—only sometimes—when you said something particularly stupid, he’d let out a faint, almost disbelieving huff that might’ve been a laugh.
“Idiot,” he’d say.
But he stayed.
...
One night, you caught a glimpse of something that didn’t fit.
Blood.
Not his.
It was there—dark against his sleeve, barely visible in the low light. You stared, and for a second, his eyes sharpened in a way you’d never seen before.
Cold. Assessing.
Dangerous.
“…You’re hurt?” you asked.
“Not mine.”
The answer came too quickly.
Silence stretched between you.
You could’ve pushed. Anyone else might have. But something in you decided—quietly, stubbornly—not to.
Instead, you sighed and held out a handkerchief.
“Still. It’s gross.”
He stared at it.
Then at you.
“…Strange,” he muttered.
“Yeah, I’ve been told.”
A pause.
Then he took it..
You didn’t know about the Phantom Troupe.
Didn’t know about the things he’d done, the things people whispered about in places you’d never go. If you had, maybe things would’ve been different.
Or maybe not.
Because even without knowing, you weren’t blind.
You saw the way people instinctively avoided him. The way his patience thinned to nothing when irritated. The flicker of something cruel in his gaze when someone pushed too far.
Feitan wasn’t kind.
He wasn’t gentle.
And he definitely wasn’t safe.
But he was… careful with you.
In his own way.
When someone bumped into you too hard in a crowded street, they didn’t get a warning—just a sharp look from him that made them back off immediately.
When you talked too much, he didn’t tell you to stop—just muttered, “Annoying,” while still listening.
When you asked if he’d disappear one day without saying anything, he paused longer than usual.
“…Maybe.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“…Would say… if go.”
It wasn’t a promise.
But it was the closest thing he gave..
Somewhere along the line, liking him stopped being a question.
It just… was.
Not because he was easy to love. He wasn’t.
But because he stayed, in the spaces where most people would’ve left.
Because when he looked at you, it wasn’t soft—but it was real.
Because for all the darkness you didn’t understand, he never turned it on you.
...
One evening, as the sky dimmed into something quiet and gray, you leaned back beside him on a rooftop.
“You’re kinda awful, you know that?”
“…Know.”
“And I still like you anyway.”
He glanced at you, eyes narrowing slightly.
“…Why?”
You shrugged.
“Dunno. Guess I’m weird too.”
A long pause.
Wind brushed past, soft and cool.
Then—
“…Stupid reason.”
But he didn’t look away.
And when your shoulder nudged his, just slightly—
he didn’t move..
...
That thread you never pulled?
It started pulling back.
It wasn’t anything obvious at first.
Just… small things.
Feitan disappeared more often.
Not for long—never long enough to feel like he’d left you completely—but enough that you started noticing patterns. Late nights. Sudden silences. The way he’d go still sometimes, like he was listening to something far away you couldn’t hear.
“Where do you go?” you asked one evening, half-joking.
He didn’t even look up. “Out.”
“Wow. Super specific.”
“…Not your business.”
It should’ve annoyed you more than it did.
Instead, you just sighed. “You’re shady.”
“…You slow.”
You rolled your eyes—but something about the exchange stuck with you..
Then came the voices.
You weren’t supposed to hear them.
You knew that much immediately.
It was late, the kind of late where the streets went quiet and even the air felt thinner. You’d gone looking for him—not out of suspicion, just… habit. He’d said he’d meet you. He hadn’t.
And for some reason, that bothered you more than it should have.
So you looked.
And you found him.
He wasn’t alone.
You froze before you were seen, instinct kicking in before thought could catch up. The alley was dim, shadows stretching long and uneven—and he stood in the middle of it, posture different from the one you knew.
Sharper.
Like something unsheathed.
“…late,” someone else said.
Another voice. Casual. Almost bored.
You couldn’t see them clearly—just silhouettes—but there were several. And somehow, every single one of them felt—
wrong.
“Had business,” Feitan replied.
His voice was the same.
But not.
It was colder. Cleaner. Like all the rough edges you’d found oddly charming had been stripped away, leaving something precise—and dangerous.
“Tch. Always disappearing,” another voice muttered. “You get soft or something?”
Silence.
And then—
“…Say that again.”
Your stomach dropped.
You’d never heard that tone before.
Not directed at you. Not at anyone.
It wasn’t irritation.
It was a threat.
You should’ve left.
Every instinct screamed at you to turn around, to pretend you’d never seen this, never heard any of it.
But you didn’t.
You stayed.
Just long enough to hear something you couldn’t unhear.
“…job’s done,” someone said. “Messy, though.”
“Wasn’t me,” another replied, almost amused.
A pause.
Then—
“…Interrogation took longer,” Feitan said.
Interrogation.
The word landed wrong. Heavy. Sharp.
You felt it in your chest.
“…You enjoy that too much,” someone else laughed.
A quiet beat.
And then, soft—almost thoughtful—
“…Maybe.”
You stepped back.
Too fast.
Your foot scraped against the ground, just barely—but in the silence, it might as well have been a gunshot.
Everything stopped.
“…Someone there.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
You didn’t think.
You ran.
You didn’t get far.
A hand caught your wrist—not rough, not enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop you instantly.
You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.
“…You,” Feitan said.
Not surprised.
Just… flat.
Slowly, you turned.
And for the first time—
you were afraid of him.
“…You followed,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“I—I was just—”
“Lying,” he cut in.
His grip tightened slightly.
Not painful.
But enough.
“…How much hear?”
The alley felt smaller now. Colder. The shadows deeper, like they were watching too.
“Not much,” you said quickly. “I didn’t—I wasn’t spying, I just—”
“Not answer.”
His eyes narrowed.
“…How much.”
You swallowed.
“…Enough.”
Silence.
For a second, something shifted.
Not visibly. Not in a way you could point to.
But you felt it.
That careful line he’d always kept with you—the one that kept you separate from whatever he really was—
it wavered.
“…Should kill you,” he said.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
No emotion.
The words hit harder than anything else.
Your breath caught.
“…Feitan—”
“Too much risk.”
He said it like a fact. Like math. Simple. Clean.
Necessary.
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t tighten his grip.
Didn’t follow through.
“…But won’t,” he added after a moment.
You blinked.
“…Why?”
It slipped out before you could stop it.
His gaze flicked over your face, sharp and searching, like he was trying to figure something out he didn’t quite understand.
A long pause.
Then—
“…Annoying,” he muttered.
It wasn’t an answer.
But it was the only one you were going to get.
From deeper in the alley, one of the others called out—
“Feitan. Problem?”
Your chest tightened.
He didn’t look away from you.
“…No problem,” he replied.
A beat.
“…Just stray.”
Your stomach twisted at the word.
But you stayed quiet.
Another pause.
Then, finally, he let go of your wrist.
“…Go home,” he said.
Not harsh.
Not gentle.
Just… final..
You hesitated.
“…Feitan—what are you—?”
His expression didn’t change.
“…Don’t ask.”
A warning this time.
Clear.
Sharp.
Real.
So you swallowed whatever else you were going to say.
And you left.
Behind you, the alley swallowed him again.
Along with the voices.
Along with the truth you hadn’t fully seen—
but now couldn’t ignore.
...
You don’t sleep that night.
Not really.
Every time your eyes close, it replays—the alley, the voices, the way his tone changed so completely it barely sounded like the same person. The way he said it, too—
Should kill you.
Not angry. Not impulsive.
Just… true.
...
Morning doesn’t fix anything.
You try to pretend it does. You go through the motions, distract yourself, tell your brain to calm down—but it keeps circling back to him. To the gaps you ignored. The things that didn’t make sense that suddenly do.
Interrogation.
Risk.
The way the others listened to him.
The way he didn’t hesitate.
You almost don’t go.
When the time comes—the usual place, the same quiet rooftop—you stand at the bottom of the stairs longer than you should.
Because now you know something.
Not everything.
But enough to understand that whatever Feitan is—
it’s not safe..
You go anyway.
He’s already there.
Of course he is.
Leaning against the railing, posture loose, like nothing happened. Like the night before didn’t exist. His eyes flick toward you the second you step into view.
“…Late.”
Same voice.
Same clipped tone.
Like he hadn’t told you he might kill you less than twelve hours ago.
Something in your chest tightens.
“You could’ve texted,” you mutter, automatically—then stop.
The normalcy of it feels wrong.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“…You thinking too loud,” he says.
You stare at him.
“…You threatened to kill me.”
There’s no point dancing around it.
A beat.
“…Yes.”
No apology.
No denial.
Just that.
Silence stretches, thinner than before.
You take a step closer anyway.
“…Were you serious?”
His gaze sharpens slightly, like the question actually matters.
“…Always serious.”
Your stomach drops.
“Wow. That’s—great. Really comforting.”
“…Not meant to be.”
You let out a breath, dragging a hand over your face.
“God, you’re—”
You stop yourself.
Because the word that wants to come out isn’t annoying or weird or even awful.
It’s something else.
Something heavier.
“…Dangerous,” you finish quietly.
He tilts his head, just slightly.
“…Now you notice.”
It stings.
Not because he’s wrong—but because he’s not trying to soften it. Not even a little.
“…What do you do?” you ask.
You already know the answer won’t be simple.
Or good.
But you need to hear something. Anything.
His eyes narrow.
“…Told you. Don’t ask.”
“That was before,” you snap, frustration slipping through. “Before I heard you talk about interrogating people like it’s nothing—before I saw you with them—”
You cut yourself off.
Them.
You don’t even know who they are.
But you know they’re not normal.
For the first time since you arrived, something shifts in his expression.
Not softer.
Just… more focused.
“…You scared,” he says.
It’s not mocking.
It’s observational.
Like he’s cataloguing it.
“…Yeah,” you admit.
No point lying now.
“…Good.”
You blink.
“What?”
“…Means you understand little.”
You stare at him, half incredulous.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“…Heard worse.”
Silence settles again.
But it’s different now.
Heavier.
More honest.
“…So what happens now?” you ask finally.
It’s the real question.
The one sitting under everything else.
“If I know—even a little—does that mean you’re just gonna… disappear?”
Or worse.
You don’t say that part out loud.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
His gaze drifts—not away, but through you, like he’s thinking in a way he usually doesn’t bother to.
“…Could,” he says after a while.
Your chest tightens.
“Could,” you repeat.
“…Or not.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“…Not meant to be.”
You almost laugh.
It comes out more like a breath.
“God, you suck at this.”
“…This?”
“People. Talking. Reassuring someone who just found out you might be—” you gesture vaguely, “—whatever the hell you are.”
He considers that.
Then—
“…Not trying reassure.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Another pause.
Wind moves between you, quiet and cool.
“…You leave,” he says.
Your head snaps up.
“What?”
“…Safer.”
The word lands strangely coming from him.
“You go. Forget.”
“…That’s it?”
“…Yes.”
Something in your chest twists—sharp, immediate.
“Wow,” you say, a little too quickly. “Cool. Glad we had this whole—whatever this was.”
You gesture between you.
“—just for you to tell me to forget you.”
He watches you carefully.
Too carefully.
“…You should,” he says.
And that—
that almost does it.
You take a step back.
Then another.
“Yeah,” you mutter. “Maybe I should.”
You turn.
Start toward the stairs.
This time, you mean it.
“…You won’t.”
You stop.
Slowly, you look back.
He hasn’t moved.
“…You think you know me that well?” you ask.
A beat.
Then—
“…Yes.”
It’s not cocky.
Not teasing.
Just certain.
And the worst part?
You don’t know if he’s wrong.
“…You’re a problem,” you say quietly.
“…Know.”
“And you’re not even denying any of this.”
“…No point.”
You exhale slowly.
Your head feels messy. Loud.
Nothing about this is clean.
Nothing about him ever was.
“…If I stay,” you say carefully, “this—whatever you do, whoever those people are—”
The Phantom Troupe lingers unspoken between the lines.
“—it doesn’t touch me.”
It’s not a question.
It’s a line.
His gaze sharpens again.
This time, there’s something behind it.
Something almost dangerous in a different way.
“…You making rule?”
“…Yeah,” you say. “I am.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“Because if I’m gonna be stupid enough to stay, I’m not doing it blind.”
Silence.
Longer this time.
He studies you like he’s weighing something.
Measuring.
Deciding.
Finally—
“…Fine.”
Your breath catches.
“…Fine?” you repeat.
“…You not involved,” he says. “You not target.”
The phrasing is off.
But the meaning is clear.
“…And you don’t lie to me again,” you add, before you can second-guess it.
That gets a reaction.
Subtle—but real.
“…Careful,” he mutters.
“Or what?”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“…Might not like truth.”
You hold his gaze.
“Try me.”
A beat.
Then—
something almost like amusement flickers through his expression.
Dark. Brief.
Gone just as fast.
“…Stupid,” he says.
But he doesn’t take it back.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“…Yeah,” you mutter. “You’ve said that.”
Neither of you moves for a while after that.
The air still feels different.
Tighter.
More fragile.
But not broken.
And when you step closer again—
he doesn’t stop you.
“It’s like—” you stop, exhaling a little. “I know you’re bad news. I’m not stupid.”
“…Debatable.”
You give him a look. “Shut up.”
He doesn’t. But he lets you continue.
“It’s not that I don’t care. I do. I just…” you hesitate, searching for something that doesn’t sound completely insane. “I don’t feel like leaving fixes anything.”
“…Fixes for you,” he says.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“And maybe I don’t want it fixed.”
That gets his attention.
Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But you do.
His eyes narrow just slightly, like he’s trying to take that apart piece by piece.
“…Stupid,” he mutters again.
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve established that.”
You lean back against the railing beside him, not touching—just close enough that you can feel his presence without actually brushing against it.
For a second, neither of you talks.
It’s not comfortable.
But it’s not unbearable either.
It’s something in between.
“…Why stay,” he asks after a while.
Not why are you still here.
Not why didn’t you leave.
Just—why stay.
You glance at him sideways.
“You really don’t get it?”
“…No.”
You let out a small breath.
“Because you didn’t lie.”
That makes him pause.
“You didn’t sugarcoat anything. You didn’t try to make it sound better. You didn’t pretend you were… normal.” You huff a quiet laugh. “You basically told me straight up you might kill me.”
“…Yes.”
“And then didn’t.”
He goes quiet.
That one lands somewhere.
You shrug slightly. “That counts for something.”
“…Low standard.”
“Maybe.”
Another pause.
The wind picks up a little, tugging at your clothes, carrying that quiet rooftop stillness around you both.
“…You should have higher,” he says.
You glance at him again.
“…You should give me a reason to.”
For a second, it almost sounds like a challenge.
Not a demand.
Just… something real.
He holds your gaze.
Longer than usual.
Like he’s deciding if that’s a line he wants to cross.
“…Dangerous request,” he says.
“Everything about you is dangerous. I’m past that.”
“…Not same.”
“Then explain.”
“…No.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it this time.
“Of course not.”
Silence settles again, but it’s different now.
Closer.
Not softer—just… more aware.
You shift slightly, your shoulder brushing his for half a second before you can think about it.
You freeze.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t acknowledge it.
But he doesn’t create space either.
So you don’t either.
“…You’re weird,” you mutter.
“…Know.”
“Not in a cute way.”
“…Didn’t ask.”
You huff quietly, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of your mouth despite everything.
Another stretch of quiet passes.
Then—
“…If I become problem,” you say, more serious now, “you’ll tell me, right?”
Not will you get rid of me.
Not will you lie again.
Just—
tell me.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
His gaze drops briefly—to where your shoulder is still close to his—then back up.
“…Yes.”
You study his face.
“…That wasn’t a lie?”
“…No.”
You nod slowly.
“Okay.”
And somehow, that’s enough for now.
You don’t move away.
Neither does he.
The space between you stays exactly where it is—too close to be nothing, too uncertain to be anything else.
And for once, Feitan doesn’t tell you to leave.
...
You stay like that longer than you mean to.
Not talking. Not moving much. Just… existing in that same narrow space, close enough to notice things you never paid attention to before.
The way he barely shifts his weight, like he doesn’t waste movement unless he has to. The way his eyes never stay unfocused for long—always scanning, always aware, even when he looks still.
It makes you wonder what it’s like in his head.
Probably loud.
Probably worse than yours.
“…You always like this?” you ask eventually.
“…Like what.”
“On edge.”
He gives you a look.
“…Not edge.”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“…Normal.”
You hum quietly. “That’s kinda sad.”
“…Not sad.”
“Mm. Sure.”
He doesn’t argue that one.
A breeze passes again, softer this time.
You shift a little, more comfortable now—your shoulder properly resting against his without that earlier hesitation.
This time, you don’t freeze.
You just… let it happen.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“…You testing,” he says.
“Testing what?”
“…Boundary.”
You glance at him.
“…And?”
A pause.
“…Allowed.”
Your lips twitch slightly.
“Wow. I feel honored.”
“…Don’t.”
But he doesn’t move away.
And that matters more than the words.
“…You ever think about stopping?” you ask, quieter now.
The question slips out before you can dress it up into something safer.
He goes still.
Not sharply.
Just… completely.
“…No.”
Immediate.
Certain.
You nod slowly, even though you expected that. “Yeah. Figures.” “…You want that.” Not a question. You think about it. Really think about it. About him being different. Safer. Easier. About everything that would change if he was. “…I think I want to say yes,” you admit. “But I don’t think I actually mean it.” His gaze shifts to you again. “…Explain.” You sigh lightly. “Because if you were different, you probably wouldn’t be you.” A small pause. “And I didn’t exactly fall for you because you’re well-adjusted.” “…Fall.” You blink. “…That’s what you got from that?” “…Word choice.” There’s something sharp in his tone now. Focused in a different way. You feel your face heat slightly. “…Don’t make it weird.” “…Already weird.” “Yeah, thanks.” Silence again—but this one feels different. Tighter. Closer to something you’re both circling but not touching. “…You regret,” he says suddenly. You frown. “What?” “…Staying.” You hesitate. Because this time, the answer isn’t immediate. “…Ask me later,” you say finally. “…Why.” “Because I haven’t decided yet.” He watches you for a long moment. Then— “…Fair.” Another quiet stretch. Your shoulder is still against his. Neither of you has moved away. “…You didn’t answer something,” you say after a while. “…What.” “You said you’d tell me if I became a problem.” “…Yes.” “…But what happens after that?” There it is. The part you’ve both been avoiding. He doesn’t respond right away. His gaze shifts forward again, out over the edge of the rooftop. Thinking. Measuring. “…Depends,” he says. “On?” “…How big problem.” You let out a small breath. “That’s… not reassuring.” “…Not meant to be.” You glance at him again. “…Would you actually—” You stop yourself. You don’t need to finish that sentence. He already knows. “…Yes,” he says anyway. It’s quiet. Honest. Uncomfortable. Your chest tightens slightly—but you don’t pull away. Not this time. “…You’re awful,” you mutter. “…Know.” A pause. Then, softer— “…Still here.” You let out a quiet breath. “…Yeah.” This time, when your hand shifts slightly against the railing, your fingers brush his. Barely. Accidental. You think. You start to pull back— But he doesn’t. Not gripping. Not holding. Just… there. Close enough that if you didn’t move, it would happen again. So you don’t move. The contact lingers for a second longer than it should. Two. Then he speaks, voice lower now. “…Careful.” You glance at him. “…Why.” His eyes narrow slightly—not in irritation. Something else. Something harder to read. “…You won’t stop,” he says. Your breath catches—just a little. “…And you will?” A pause. Longer this time. “…No.” That answer sits heavier than anything else he’s said. Because there’s no edge to it. No threat. No warning. Just… truth. You swallow. “…That sounds like a problem.” “…Yes.” Neither of you moves. Not away. Not closer. Just… right there, balanced on something neither of you is naming. And for once— neither of you tries to fix it. You don’t pull your hand away. At some point, it stops feeling accidental. Not quite intentional either—just… something you’re both allowing to happen without saying it out loud. Feitan’s hand doesn’t shift to meet yours. He doesn’t lace your fingers together or make it into something soft. He just leaves it there. Close. Present. Like everything he does—controlled, minimal, but deliberate in the fact that he’s not stopping it. “…You quiet,” he mutters. You let out a small breath. “Thinking.” “…Too much.” “Yeah, I do that.” A pause. “…About me.” Not a question. You glance at him. “…Obviously.” He doesn’t react to that the way most people would. No teasing. No ego. Just that same sharp, measuring look. “…Bad idea.” “Probably.” “And yet.” “…Still here.” You huff softly. “You really like saying that.” “…You keep proving it.” You don’t have a comeback for that. So you let the silence sit again. It’s easier now. Not lighter—just… familiar in a strange way. Your fingers shift slightly against the railing, brushing his again—this time more clearly intentional. You don’t look at him when you do it. But you feel it. The way he goes just a fraction more still. Not pulling away. Not reacting. Just… aware. “…You doing on purpose,” he says quietly. You shrug a little. “Maybe.” “…Why.” You hesitate. Because saying I don’t know feels like a cop-out. But saying the real answer feels— worse. “…Because I want to,” you say finally. That’s as honest as you can make it without making it too much. Too real. He watches you for a long second. Then— “…Selfish.” “Yeah.” “…Reckless.” “Also yeah.” A pause. “…Consistent.” That one catches you off guard. You glance at him. “That supposed to be an insult?” “…Observation.” You huff a quiet laugh. “Wow. I feel seen.” “…Don’t.” But there’s no bite to it. Not really. Another quiet stretch passes. Then— his hand shifts. Not much. Just enough that his fingers press—barely—against yours instead of just brushing. It’s subtle. Easy to miss. But it’s not nothing. Your breath stutters slightly before you can stop it. You don’t comment on it. Neither does he. That seems to be the rule with him— if you don’t say it, it doesn’t exist. But it still happens. “…You make things complicated,” he says after a while. You glance at him. “Me?” “…Yes.” “How?” “…Stay. Ask. Touch.” You blink. “…Wow. Sorry for interacting with you, I guess.” “…Not complaint.” That makes you pause. “…It’s not?” He shakes his head once. Small. Certain. “…Just fact.” You study his face for a second. “…You don’t hate it.” It slips out before you can stop it. His eyes narrow slightly. “…Didn’t say that.” “But you didn’t deny it either.” Silence. Longer this time. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t deflect. Just holds your gaze. Then— “…Don’t hate,” he admits. It’s quiet. Almost reluctant. But real. Something in your chest tightens at that. Not in a bad way. Just… something. “…That’s like a confession coming from you,” you say softly. “…Don’t exaggerate.” You smile a little despite yourself. “Too late.” Another pause. Your fingers are still touching. Still not fully intertwined. Still not separate. Just… there. Balanced. Like everything else between you. “…If I told you more,” he says suddenly, “you still stay?” Your breath catches slightly. “…Depends.” “…On.” “How bad it is.” “…Bad,” he says simply. You nod slowly. “…Then I’d think about it.” “…Not answer.” “No,” you admit. “It’s honest.” He watches you for a long second. Then— “…Good enough.” That feels like something. You don’t know what. But something. The wind shifts again, quieter now, like the world is giving you a moment you didn’t ask for. “…You gonna tell me?” you ask. “…No.” You laugh softly. “Figures.” A pause. Then, quieter— “…Not yet.” That makes you look at him again. “…Why.” His gaze flicks away briefly, then back. “…You run.” You shake your head slightly. “I said I’d think about it.” “…Thinking leads to leaving.” “Not always.” “…Usually.” You don’t argue that. Because he’s probably right. “…Then maybe don’t give me everything at once,” you say. “…Why.” “So I don’t have a reason to run.” That earns you a look. A sharper one. “…You manipulating.” You grin faintly. “A little.” “…Dangerous.” “Learned from the best.” He huffs—barely. But it’s there. And for a second, the tension shifts into something almost— lighter. Not safe. Never safe. But… easier to breathe in. Your hand doesn’t move. Neither does his. And even though nothing has been defined, nothing has been promised— there’s something quietly understood now. Not quite trust. Not quite attachment. But close enough to both to matter. “…Still here,” he says again, softer this time. You glance at him. “…Yeah.” And this time— it doesn’t sound like a question anymore.
He doesn’t pull away.
That’s what sticks with you more than anything.
Not what he says, not the way he looks at you—just the fact that he stays. Right there. Close enough that your fingers are still brushing, like neither of you wants to be the one to break it.
You don’t realize how used to it you’re getting until you shift slightly—and expect him to move.
He doesn’t.
“…You getting comfortable,” he mutters.
You glance at him. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“…Is.”
“Why.”
A pause.
“…Leads to mistake.”
You tilt your head. “Yours or mine?”
“…Both.”
You huff softly. “Wow. Love the optimism.”
He doesn’t respond to that.
His attention drifts—not away, but outward, scanning the skyline for a second before settling again. Always aware. Always calculating.
It makes the moment feel… temporary.
Like something that could snap if either of you pushed too far.
“…Then why not stop it?” you ask quietly.
“…What.”
“This.” You gesture vaguely between you without moving your hand away. “Whatever this is.”
His gaze drops briefly—to your hand, still near his—then back up.
“…Could,” he says.
You wait.
“…Won’t.”
Your chest tightens just a little.
“…Why.”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Like he’s choosing whether to answer at all.
“…Curious.”
You blink. “That’s it?”
“…And.”
“And?”
He studies your face again, slower now. Not assessing for danger—something else.
Harder to read.
“…You don’t pull away.”
That lands quieter than everything else.
Because it’s not about him.
It’s about you.
You swallow slightly.
“…Would you want me to?”
His eyes narrow just a fraction.
“…No.”
The answer comes faster than you expected.
You don’t hide the small reaction that flickers across your face.
“…Okay.”
Silence settles again, but it feels different now.
Less uncertain.
More… chosen.
You shift your hand slightly—this time not brushing, not accidental—just letting your fingers rest more clearly against his.
Not laced.
Not held.
But undeniably there.
He goes still again.
Then—
just slightly—
his fingers press back.
Not enough to trap yours.
Just enough to answer.
Your breath catches.
You don’t look at him.
If you do, it might turn into something bigger.
And neither of you has said you want that.
“…You said I’d leave,” you murmur after a while.
“…Yes.”
“You still think that?”
A pause.
“…Eventually.”
You nod faintly.
“…That honest answer or you just being dramatic?”
“…Statistical.”
You let out a small laugh.
“Wow. You’re terrible at comfort.”
“…Not my role.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
Another quiet stretch.
Then—
“…If you go,” he adds, quieter now, “don’t come back.”
That makes you look at him.
“…That supposed to scare me?”
“…Warning.”
You study his face.
He means it.
Not as a threat.
As a boundary.
A real one.
“…You don’t do second chances,” you say.
“…Not for this.”
You nod slowly.
“Okay.”
The weight of that sits heavier than everything else.
Because it makes this—
whatever this is—
feel… limited.
Like it already has an ending, even if you don’t know when.
Your fingers shift again, almost unconsciously, pressing just a little more against his.
He doesn’t stop you.
“…Then I guess I won’t leave,” you say lightly.
“…You say that now.”
“I mean it.”
“…You mean it now.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”
“…Accurate.”
You huff, but there’s a faint smile there.
Even now.
Especially now.
“…You always ruin the moment?” you ask.
“…What moment.”
You glance at him.
“…This one.”
A pause.
He considers it.
Actually considers it.
Then—
“…Not ruined.”
Your chest tightens slightly at that.
“…Good,” you say, quieter.
Neither of you moves after that.
Not closer.
Not away.
Just… right there.
The city hums far below, distant and irrelevant.
And for a moment—just a small one—
he isn’t pulling back.
And you aren’t either.
And whatever this is—
it’s allowed to exist.
Even if neither of you knows what to call it.
...
Time passes without either of you noticing.
Or maybe you both notice—you just don’t say anything.
That seems to be how this works.
You feel it first in the quiet.
Not uncomfortable. Not tense.
Just… still.
The kind of stillness that makes everything else fade out a little—the city, the noise, the weight of everything you should be thinking about.
It doesn’t last.
Of course it doesn’t.
“…You should go,” Feitan says.
It cuts through the moment cleanly.
You don’t pull your hand away.
“…You always say that after it gets quiet,” you mutter.
“…When it gets quiet, you forget.”
You glance at him. “Forget what?”
His gaze flicks to you—sharp again, like a reminder.
“…Me.”
Your chest tightens slightly.
“Pretty sure I’m having the opposite problem.”
“…Temporary.”
You exhale softly. “You’re so committed to ruining things.”
“…Keeping clear.”
“Yeah, well, you suck at it.”
He doesn’t argue that.
For a second, you think that’s it.
That this is where it ends tonight—like he’s decided the line got too close, the moment lasted too long.
But then—
he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t make you leave.
“…You’re not making me go,” you point out.
“…Not yet.”
You huff. “Wow. I feel so lucky.”
“…You stay until you don’t.”
“That’s… weirdly philosophical for you.”
“…Not philosophy.”
“Then what?”
“…Observation.”
You glance down at your hands again.
Still there.
Still not separated.
“…You act like this is already over,” you say quietly.
A pause.
“…Is.”
You frown slightly. “Then why are we still here?”
His gaze shifts back to you.
“…Because not over yet.”
That answer—
is frustrating.
And honest.
And somehow worse because of it.
You shake your head a little. “You’re impossible.”
“…Know.”
Silence settles again, softer this time.
You don’t argue.
You don’t push.
You just… stay.
Because he’s right about one thing—
it’s not over yet.
“…You ever think about what happens when it is?” you ask.
“…No.”
“Liar.”
A beat.
“…Sometimes.”
You tilt your head. “And?”
His eyes narrow slightly, like he regrets saying that much.
“…Not useful.”
You watch him for a second.
“…That bad?”
“…Endings usually are.”
You go quiet.
Because that—
feels true in a way you don’t want to sit with.
“…You always talk like this?” you ask lightly, trying to cut through it.
“…No.”
“Just with me?”
A pause.
“…Yes.”
That catches you off guard.
“…Why.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
His gaze drifts again—not avoiding, just… thinking.
Then—
“…You ask.”
You huff softly. “That’s it?”
“…And you stay.”
You glance at him again.
“…So that makes me what. Easy to talk to?”
“…No.”
You roll your eyes. “Wow. Thanks.”
“…Different.”
That lands quieter.
“…Different how.”
His gaze flicks to you again, slower this time.
“…You don’t pretend.”
You blink.
“…Neither do you.”
“…Not with you.”
The words settle heavier than they should.
Because you believe him.
That’s the problem.
“…That’s… kinda a lot,” you mutter.
“…Too much.”
“Yeah.”
But you don’t pull away.
Not your hand.
Not yourself.
“…You could lie,” you say after a moment. “Make this easier.”
“…Pointless.”
“Yeah, I know. Just saying.”
“…You wouldn’t like it.”
You let out a small breath. “You don’t know that.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“…Do.”
You almost argue.
But you don’t.
Because—
again—
he’s probably right.
Another quiet stretch passes.
Then, softer—
“…You tired.”
You blink. “What?”
“…Eyes.”
You scoff lightly. “Wow. Observant.”
“…Didn’t sleep.”
“…Wow, even more observant.”
He doesn’t react to the sarcasm.
“…You go,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter.
Less of a dismissal.
More like—
something else.
“…You’re not kicking me out this time,” you notice.
“…No.”
“Why.”
A pause.
“…You stay, you fall asleep.”
You snort softly. “On a rooftop? Next to you? Yeah, that sounds super safe.”
“…Safer than elsewhere.”
That makes you pause.
“…That’s not reassuring.”
“…Not meant to be.”
You shake your head a little, but there’s something in your chest that shifts at that.
Subtle.
But real.
“…You’re weirdly considerate,” you mutter.
“…Don’t say that.”
“Why, ruins your whole image?”
“…Annoying.”
You smile faintly.
“Yeah, I know.”
Another pause.
Then—
without really thinking about it—
you lean just slightly more into him.
Not fully.
Not obvious.
Just enough that it’s not something you can pretend didn’t happen.
He stills.
Again.
But—
he doesn’t move away.
“…You push limits,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“…On purpose.”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“…Why.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because the honest answer is sitting right there.
And it feels heavier now than it did before.
“…Because you don’t stop me,” you say finally.
Silence.
Longer this time.
Then—
“…I could.”
You nod slightly.
“I know.”
“…But won’t.”
“…Yeah,” you say softly. “I know that too.”
That—
that’s the part that matters.
The part neither of you says out loud.
But both of you understand.
You stay like that a little longer.
Quiet.
Close.
Balanced on something fragile and real.
Then finally—
you pull your hand back.
Slow.
Not abrupt.
Just… enough.
Feitan doesn’t stop you.
Doesn’t reach after you.
But his gaze follows the movement.
Tracks it.
“…You leaving,” he says.
Not a question.
“…Yeah.”
A pause.
“…For now.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“…For now.”
You nod.
Then you turn—
start toward the stairs.
You make it a few steps before—
“…Come back.”
You stop.
Your chest tightens.
You glance over your shoulder.
“…Thought you said not to.”
“…If you leave.”
A beat.
“…This not same.”
That’s as close to an invitation as you’re ever going to get.
You hold his gaze for a second longer.
Then—
“…Yeah,” you say quietly.
And this time—
you mean it.
You step closer.
Slow. Deliberate.
Until there’s barely any space left between you again.
Closer than before. Close enough that it feels different now—like there’s no pretending this is casual anymore.
Feitan doesn’t move.
But he watches you.
Not scanning. Not distracted.
Just you.
“…You thinking,” he mutters.
“Yeah.”
“…Too much.”
“Probably.”
You don’t step back.
If anything, you stay right there—close enough to feel the shift in his breathing, subtle as it is.
“…You said if I leave, I choose not you,” you say quietly.
“…Yes.”
“And if I come back—”
“…You choose me.”
You let out a small breath.
“…You don’t make things easy.”
“…Not trying.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
A pause.
Your gaze flicks down for a second—just enough to notice how close your hands are again.
Not touching.
But close enough to.
You don’t move them.
“…You okay with that?” you ask.
“…What.”
“Me choosing you.”
That gets a reaction.
Small.
But real.
His eyes narrow slightly, like the question isn’t one he expected.
“…You already did.”
“…That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
He studies your face again—slower this time, like he’s trying to figure out what you’re really asking.
“…You stay,” he says.
“That’s not the same as answering.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…I don’t stop you.”
You tilt your head. “That’s still not an answer.”
“…Closest you get.”
You huff softly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“…Know.”
But he doesn’t look away.
And he doesn’t step back.
That’s your answer.
You let out a quiet breath.
“…Okay.”
Your hand shifts again—this time not accidental, not hesitant.
You reach.
Not grabbing. Not sudden.
Just… closing the space.
Your fingers brush his, then rest there properly.
Clear.
Intentional.
Feitan stills.
For a second, you think he might pull away this time.
This is different.
This isn’t testing anymore.
This is choosing.
But he doesn’t.
His gaze drops briefly—to your hand—then back up to your face.
“…You sure,” he says quietly.
It’s not a warning.
Not fully.
But it’s close.
You hold his gaze.
“…No.”
Honest.
Then, softer—
“…But I’m doing it anyway.”
Something in his expression shifts.
Not softer.
Not safer.
Just… decided.
His fingers move—just enough to press back against yours again.
Stronger this time.
Not holding you in place.
But not letting it stay ambiguous either.
Your breath catches.
Neither of you looks away now.
“…Then don’t hesitate,” he says.
The words are low.
Steady.
Serious.
You nod slightly.
“…Okay.”
The space between you doesn’t shrink any further.
But it doesn’t need to.
Because now—
it’s not about distance anymore.
It’s about the fact that neither of you is pretending this is nothing.
And neither of you is stopping it.
...
You stay like that, fingers touching, closer than you’ve ever been—and somehow it still feels like you’re both holding back.
Not pulling away.
Just… not crossing the next line.
Like you both know it’s there.
And once it’s crossed, there’s no pretending this is just proximity anymore.
Feitan’s grip doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t loosen either. Steady. Intentional.
His gaze hasn’t left yours.
“…You hesitate,” he says.
You huff quietly. “You literally just told me not to.”
“…You still do.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it.
“Maybe because you keep acting like this is some kind of life-ending decision.”
“…Is.”
“God, you’re dramatic.”
“…Realistic.”
You exhale slowly.
He’s not wrong.
That’s the problem.
Your thumb shifts slightly against his hand—small, almost absent-minded, but deliberate enough that it can’t be ignored.
He notices.
Of course he does.
His eyes narrow just a fraction—not in irritation.
Something else.
Something sharper.
“…You keep doing that,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?”
“…Pushing.”
You tilt your head slightly.
“…And you’re not stopping me.”
A pause.
“…No.”
“Then whose fault is that?”
He studies you for a second longer.
“…Yours.”
You almost laugh.
“Wow. That’s convenient.”
“…Accurate.”
But there’s no real edge to it.
Not anymore.
The tension’s still there—but it’s shifted.
Less about danger.
More about… restraint.
You can feel it in the way he hasn’t moved closer.
Hasn’t pulled you in.
Hasn’t done anything except allow.
Like the choice is sitting entirely with you.
And that somehow makes it heavier.
“…You’re waiting,” you realize out loud.
“…Yes.”
“For what.”
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“…You decide.”
You let out a slow breath.
“God. That’s worse.”
“…Good.”
You give him a look. “You enjoy this a little too much.”
“…Maybe.”
That shouldn’t be attractive.
It is anyway.
You hate that a little.
“…You’re awful,” you mutter.
“…Know.”
Silence again—but it’s not empty.
It’s full of everything neither of you is saying.
Your hand shifts again, this time turning slightly so your fingers fit better against his.
Closer.
More natural.
He doesn’t stop you.
But you feel it—that subtle change in him.
Like his control tightens just a little.
Not pulling you in.
But holding the line.
“…If I move any closer,” you say quietly, “you gonna stop me?”
A pause.
Longer this time.
His eyes don’t leave yours.
“…No.”
Your breath catches.
“…You sure.”
“…Yes.”
That’s all he gives you.
No warning.
No condition.
Just that.
You swallow.
Because now—
it really is your choice.
No ambiguity left.
No excuses.
You shift forward.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
Just enough that the space between you shrinks even more—close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the slight change in his breathing.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t lean in.
Doesn’t lean away.
Just watches you.
Waiting.
You stop there.
Right at the edge of something bigger.
Your grip tightens slightly against his hand.
“…You’re not making this easy,” you murmur.
“…Not meant to be easy.”
“Yeah. Got that.”
Another pause.
Then—
“…You can stop,” he says, quieter now.
That makes you blink.
“…You just said you wouldn’t.”
“…I won’t.”
A beat.
“…But you can.”
That—
that’s different.
That’s not control.
That’s not manipulation.
That’s… giving you the way out.
Even now.
You study his face.
Looking for anything that says he doesn’t mean it.
You don’t find it.
“…You always do that?” you ask softly.
“…What.”
“Give me the option to leave.”
“…Yes.”
“Why.”
A pause.
“…Because you should.”
You let out a quiet breath.
“…And if I don’t?”
His eyes narrow slightly.
“…Then don’t regret.”
You huff softly.
“Wow. You’re really bad at making this appealing.”
“…Not trying.”
“Yeah. I know.”
But you don’t move back.
Not even a little.
Instead—
your free hand lifts.
Slow.
Careful.
Not touching yet.
Just hovering near him, like you’re giving him one last chance to stop you.
He doesn’t.
Doesn’t even flinch.
Just watches.
Waiting.
Like before.
Like always.
Your hand closes the distance.
Light.
Barely there at first—resting against him, testing, feeling the reality of it instead of just the idea.
He goes still again.
But he doesn’t pull away.
Your breath catches slightly.
“…Still not stopping me,” you murmur.
“…No.”
Quieter now.
Lower.
Your hand stays where it is.
Your other still linked with his.
And for a moment—
everything settles.
Not calm.
Not safe.
But… decided.
Whatever this is—
it’s not almost anymore.