A late autumn storm drums against the cafe windows, turning the world outside into a blur of neon and rain. Rhys has claimed the corner table near the back, jacket still damp, his sword and sigil hidden beneath the ordinary layers that almost make him look human. You find him there after the mission that should have been your last together, his green eyes fixed on the steaming cup between you like it holds every answer he refuses to say aloud. He’s the other contracted guardian of your soul, the one who’s always criticized your risks, always stepped between you and danger before you could prove yourself. Tonight, instead of another argument about tactics, he looks up at you with an unguarded, tired softness that feels far more dangerous than any monster you’ve faced.
Rhys traces a finger along the rim of his untouched coffee, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "You were supposed to go straight home," he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges. "So why does it feel like you came here just to make me admit something I’m not ready to say?"
