You've Done Enough - Jamil Viper

Night Raven College had a habit of treating you like an immortal shield. Every time a dorm head’s bottled-up malice tore open the sky, it was you—magicless, bruised, and perpetually running on empty—who had to stand in the epicenter and pull them back from the ledge.

Nobody ever asked if your ribs still ached from the last explosion. Nobody checked if the phantom chill of residual Blot had settled into your bones. They just breathed a sigh of relief when the dust cleared, threw a celebratory banquet, and moved on to the next disaster.

Except Jamil.

The quiet of Scarabia’s courtyard late at night was usually a sanctuary, but tonight you could barely make it across the tiled walkway. Every step sent a dull, throbbing pain through your joints—a lingering gift from the sheer physical backlash of the latest Overblot incident. Your vision blurred around the edges, heavy with sleep you hadn't been allowed to catch up on for weeks.

"If you lean any further to the left, you're going to face-plant into the fountain."

Jamil’s voice cut through the hum in your ears—low, steady, and devoid of the performative cheer he usually put on for the rest of the campus.

He stepped out from the shadow of the archway, holding a tray with a small porcelain pot and two cups. His sharp dark eyes scanned you instantly, taking in the faint tremor in your hands, the dark smudges under your eyes, and the defensive, hunching posture of someone whose body was simply screaming in pain.

"I'm fine," you muttered, the lie tasting like ash. "Just... heading back to Ramshackle."

Jamil let out a sharp, barely audible breath through his nose. "You're a terrible liar. And you're trembling."

Before you could argue, he set the tray down on a low marble table and stepped directly into your path. He didn't grab you roughly, but his hand came up to rest firm and warm against your upper arm, anchoring you in place before your knees could buckle.

"Sit," he commanded softly. "Now."

You didn't have the energy to fight him. You sank onto the cushioned bench, letting your head drop into your hands. The silence between you stretched, heavy and exhausting, until the soft clinking of porcelain broke it.

Jamil slid a steaming cup into your view. The scent of cardamom, cinnamon, and steep mint rose with the steam—a specific blend he brewed when the dorm had suffered a particularly brutal heatwave, designed to soothe muscle aches and calm frayed nerves.

"Drink it," Jamil said, sitting down beside you—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, but giving you enough space not to feel trapped. "It helps with Blot backlash. I know what dark magic residue feels like in the bloodstream. It feels like broken glass in your veins."

You took the cup, your fingers curling around the warm ceramic. The heat seeped into your cold palms, and for the first time all week, the knot in your chest loosened just a fraction.

"They don't get it," you whispered, your voice cracking unexpectedly. "They think because I don't have magic, I don't feel it. But it hurts, Jamil. Everything just... hurts."

Jamil didn't offer a hollow platitude. He knew better than anyone how toxic this school could be, how self-absorbed the dorm heads were, and how easily people were driven past their breaking points. He had been there himself.

"I know," Jamil said quietly, his voice dropping an octave, shorn of all disguises. "They treat you like an endless resource. Kalim, Leona, Riddle, all of them—they throw their tantrums, tear the school apart, and expect you to sweep up the pieces without a scratch. It's absurd. And it's reckless."

He reached over, his long fingers gently prying your stiffened hand off the cup just long enough to adjust your grip, making sure you didn't drop it. His thumb lingered against your wrist, feeling the rapid, exhausted flutter of your pulse.

"You're not allowed to go back to Ramshackle tonight," he continued, his tone turning crisp, pragmatic, yet undeniably protective. "Grim can manage by himself for one evening. You're staying in the guest quarters here. I've already had the linen warmed, and I prepared an ointment for the bruising on your shoulders."

"Jamil, you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted, looking straight into your eyes. His dark gaze was fierce, carrying a rare, unfiltered sincerity. "For once in your life, stop trying to manage everything. Let someone else handle the world while you rest."

He stood up, offering you a hand. When you took it, he pulled you up gently, supporting most of your weight as he guided you toward the quiet corridors of Scarabia.

"From tomorrow on, if any of those loudmouths try to drag you into another crisis before you've fully recovered," Jamil murmured, a faint, dangerous smile touching his lips, "they'll have to deal with me first. And I assure you, I can make their lives remarkably inconvenient."