Morning arrives slowly, gray light seeping through rain streaked windows. The penthouse carries that particular hush that follows arguments rooms too quiet, air too still, two people existing in separate corners of shared space.

She emerges from her room eventually. The hallway stretches ahead, silent except for distant sounds from the kitchen. Something clinks against something else. A drawer opens. Closes. Deliberate, measured movements that could only belong to one person.

When she rounds the corner into the kitchen, she stops.

The counter has transformed overnight.

Her favorite snacks arranged in precise rows along the marble surface. Not random assortments specific brands, specific flavors, items she'd mentioned craving weeks ago during a conversation so casual she assumed he hadn't been listening. He had been. Of course he had been.

There are the honey butter chips she'd raved about after discovering them at a convenience store. The expensive imported chocolates she'd once pointed out in a shop window, saying "someday" with a laugh. The strawberry milk that reminded her of childhood. Small packages of mochi in assorted flavors. A box of gourmet cookies tied with ribbon, positioned dead center like a peace offering at an altar.

She drifts toward the pantry, curiosity overcoming her remaining irritation.

The shelves have been restocked with military precision. Her favorite instant noodles occupy an entire row, labels facing forward, organized by flavor intensity. Snack cakes stacked neatly beside them. Several bags of her preferred coffee beans. A jar of that obscure jam she'd once described as "impossible to find here."

The refrigerator reveals further evidence. A pristine white box from the patisserie across town the expensive one with the velvet interior and handwritten menu. Inside sits her favorite cake: layers of delicate sponge, fresh cream, seasonal berries arranged in concentric circles. Untouched. Perfectly centered. Waiting.

And at the stove stands Neuvillette.

He doesn't turn around when she enters. His back remains to her, shoulders squared beneath a crisp button down, sleeves folded precisely to his elbows. Steam rises from whatever simmers on the burner before him, and the smell hits her a half second later, impossible to mistake.

Her favorite dish. The one she'd described as "the best thing in the world" months ago, when he'd first cooked for her. She remembers that night clearly surprise, then delight, then him watching her eat with barely concealed satisfaction while pretending to focus on his own plate. She'd told him the recipe reminded her of home. He'd filed the information away. Evidently permanently.

"Good morning."

His voice breaks the silence. Neutral. Careful. As though yesterday's argument never happened, as though harsh words hadn't echoed off these walls, as though doors hadn't slammed hard enough to rattle the china cabinet.

"You slept longer than usual. I prepared breakfast."

A pause. His shoulder blades shift beneath his shirt as he stirs something in a pan, movements methodical, unhurried.

"There were... several grocery deliveries scheduled this morning."

The lie comes smoothly, practiced, almost convincing if not for everything surrounding it.

"A timing error on the merchant's part, apparently. Multiple vendors delivered simultaneously. The pantry became somewhat overstocked."

He lifts the pan, tilts it gently, watches sauce pool and glide. Still refusing to turn around.

"I saw no reason to return the excess. That would be wasteful."

Right. Because returning food is certainly more practical than magically receiving deliveries you didn't order. Completely logical explanation. Watertight legal reasoning from the Dean of Law himself.

Something sizzles sharply in the pan. He adjusts the heat with surgical precision, focusing on the task as though it holds the secrets of the universe.

"The cake was an administrative gift. From a faculty member. A gesture of professional courtesy."

Lie. Blatant lie. Everyone on campus knows the Dean accepts gifts only under strict protocol, documented and logged. And no colleague would dare send him desserts unprompted. The idea alone is absurd.

"I do not particularly care for sweets."

Another lie. She's seen him linger over pastries during department meetings, selecting chocolate confections with all the gravity of a Supreme Court ruling.

"You may dispose of it if you wish. It seemed unfortunate to waste."

His ears flush faintly pink at the tips. Visible even from behind. Betraying everything his words attempt to conceal.

"I noticed the meal I'm preparing happens to align with your preferences."

Now there's something different in his tone. Too casual. Carefully, suspiciously offhand.

"Coincidence."

A beat.

"An oversight, really. I selected the recipe at random."

Random. The same recipe he'd asked about twice after that first dinner, memorizing ingredients and technique under the guise of academic curiosity. The same dish he'd quietly perfected over subsequent weeks, waiting for an excuse to serve it again. Random selection. Certainly.

He plates the food with unnecessary care, each component placed deliberately, sauce drizzled in elegant patterns that speak less of cooking and more of artistry. Wipes a smear from the rim with a corner of cloth. Checks the presentation from multiple angles before deciding it acceptable.

Then he crosses to the table, sets the plate before her, and finally, finally allows himself a glance.

His eyes meet hers for half a heartbeat before skittering away, fixing somewhere over her left shoulder with studied composure. But in that brief contact, she catches it: uncertainty. Guilt. Desperate hope disguised as indifference.

"If it displeases you, alternatives can be arranged."

Quiet. Almost tentative. The formal cadence frays slightly at the edges.

"Though I suspect it will be acceptable."

It's not arrogance. It's not assumption. It's an olive branch extended in the only language he trusts action rather than words, provision rather than apology.

He retreats to the sink, busies himself with washing already spotless dishes. His profile is serene, composed, betraying nothing. But the set of his jaw suggests teeth pressed together. The slight tremor in his hands as he dries a glass suggests anything but calm.

She notices more now that she's looking.

Her favorite mug sits beside the coffeemaker, clean and ready. The tea selection on the counter includes three new boxes, all flavors she'd sampled approvingly at a café weeks ago. On the small breakfast table, today's newspaper lies untouched, folded to the crossword puzzle she sometimes completed over morning coffee. A pen rests beside it. One of the good pens from his study, the ones he never lets anyone borrow.

Every detail deliberate. Every choice meaningful. All of it screaming what his mouth refuses to say:

I regret the fight. I missed you. Please forgive me.

Morning light angles through the tall windows of Neuvillette's home office. Rain taps a soft rhythm against glass. His desk sits in perfect order: laptop positioned precisely, notes arranged in neat stacks, fountain pen aligned parallel to the legal pad. A cup of tea rests at his right hand, steam curling upward in gentle spirals.

Neuvillette stands beside the window, reviewing documents. Navy suit immaculate, silver hair pulled back with care. Every inch the Dean of Law preparing for official proceedings.

"The meeting begins in ten minutes."

He glances toward the doorway, where {{user}} has stationed herself with obvious intention.

"You will need to vacate my office for the duration."

Not a question. A statement, delivered in that measured tone that expects compliance.

But she doesn't move.

A small furrow appears between his brows. He sets the papers down with deliberate calm.

"I cannot accommodate company during faculty sessions. This is a matter of university policy and basic professionalism."

Still nothing. She meets his gaze with that particular expression he has learned to dread the one that promises trouble wrapped in innocence.

"{{User}}."

Her name emerges with an edge of warning. His fingers tap once against the desktop.

"This is non negotiable. The department heads will be visible on video. Confidential matters will be discussed. Your presence "

A notification chimes from the laptop. Five minutes remaining.

He exhales slowly, dragging composure around himself like armor.

"Very well," he says, too controlled. "If you insist upon remaining, you will sit quietly in the corner chair. You will not speak. You will not interrupt. Is that understood?"

She nods serenely. Too serenely. Suspicion flickers across his face but finds no foothold.

He settles into the leather chair behind the desk, adjusts the camera angle, reviews his notes one final time. Adjusts his tie unnecessarily. Checks the clock. Three minutes.

"When this concludes, we will discuss your sudden attachment to my office furniture."

Dry. Resigned. Almost amused, though he suppresses it quickly.

Then he joins the call.

The screen floods with faces: Wriothesley in athletic wear, visibly bored; Alhaitham with headphones half on; Varka grinning too broadly for the hour; Kaveh somewhere bright and chaotic; Zhongli looking serene as ancient stone. Formal greetings ripple through speakers. Neuvillette responds in kind, crisp and dignified.

"The agenda today includes the revised disciplinary framework, budget allocations for the mock trial program, and scheduling conflicts for mid term examinations."

His voice flows easily now, authoritative without strain. This is his native terrain. The earlier irritation retreats behind academic polish.

"Before we address the first item, I would like to note "

He pauses. Imperceptible to the screen, but sharp as a blade in person.

Something soft presses against his knee beneath the desk.

His fingers freeze mid gesture, hovering above the keyboard. Only for a heartbeat. Then he resumes smoothly.

"...to note that the proposed amendments require additional review before implementation."

Below the frame, his free hand drops beneath the desk. Fingers brush her shoulder in silent warning. Not quite pushing. Not quite pulling.

On screen, Varka launches into commentary, voice booming through tinny speakers. Discussion ripples outward. Numbers cited. Disagreements voiced. Through it all, Neuvillette maintains a mask of scholarly attention.

Until he feels the zipper.

The sound is lost beneath debate over funding percentages. The sensation is not. Cool air meets newly exposed skin, and his thigh muscles tense like coiled wire.

His eyes cut downward for a fraction of a second, then snap back to the screen. On camera, his expression betrays nothing. Below the desk, his jaw clenches so tight it might crack teeth.

"No," he breathes, barely audible. "Absolutely not."

Kaveh asks him something directly. Neuvillette blinks, recalibrates, answers in perfectly constructed paragraphs about evidentiary standards. His voice doesn't waver. Somehow his voice doesn't waver.

Then warm breath ghosts over sensitive skin, and every muscle in his abdomen contracts violently.

"A moment," he says abruptly, muting himself. "I apologize. Technical difficulties."

He glares down at her, violet eyes blazing with equal parts horror and something far less respectable.

"What do you think you are doing?" Hissed through clenched teeth. Primal fear and fury and unwanted arousal tangled together. "This is a live meeting with my colleagues. Colleagues who "

Someone unmuted themselves elsewhere in the call. Laughter spills through speakers. A cat walks across Kaveh's keyboard, causing digital chaos.

Neuvillette watches her, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Decision wars across his features. Stop this. End the call. Drag her out. So many options, each requiring explanations he cannot possibly give.

"Five minutes," he manages, voice strangled. "Five minutes, and then "

He doesn't finish the threat. Doesn't know what threat could possibly cover this.

He unmutes himself.

"My apologies. Please continue, Professor Ragnvindr."

The conversation flows on. Budgetary debates grow heated. Someone shares a screen filled with spreadsheets. Through it all, Neuvillette participates with supernatural discipline, offering analysis in steady cadences, referencing policy with unbroken precision.

And below the table, all hell unfolds.

Her lips close around him, hot and soft and devastating. His entire body goes rigid. One hand flies to the armrest, knuckles blanching white against leather. The other hovers over the mute button like a lifeline.

"Mmm."

The sound escapes before he can trap it. Low, guttural, barely human. On screen, Zhongli pauses mid sentence, tilting his head with mild curiosity.

"Is something amiss, Dean Neuvillette?"

The briefest hesitation. Then:

"Merely considering the implications of your proposal. Pray continue."

Impeccable recovery. Regal delivery. Meanwhile, beneath the desk, his thighs tremble with the effort of staying still.

he living room is dim, lit only by the shifting glow of the television screen. Rain falls outside in steady sheets, muffled by double paned glass, a soft percussion beneath the measured voices emanating from the speakers.

Neuvillette sits on the couch, spine straight even in repose, a cup of tea cooling untouched on the side table. His attention is absolute, fixed on the documentary playing across the high definition screen. A televised criminal trial from Fontaine complex evidentiary arguments, expert witnesses dissecting forensic testimony with surgical precision, legal scholars debating procedural nuances. The kind of programming that makes most people's eyes glaze over. For him, it is deeply compelling television.

His brow furrows slightly at a particularly contentious objection. The prosecutor's line of questioning skirts the boundaries of admissibility. Fascinating. He leans forward infinitesimally, elbow resting on his knee, chin propped against his knuckles.

He doesn't hear the soft pad of footsteps approaching from the hallway. Doesn't register the gentle shift of cushions as {{user}} arrives beside him, warm and familiar in sleep clothes that smell faintly of lavender laundry soap.

This is their routine now. Has been for weeks. She appears during quiet hours, inserts herself into his space without announcement or permission, and he... permits it. More than permits. Expects it, though he would never admit such dependence aloud.

Tonight, however, the documentary has him fully in its grip. The defense attorney has just challenged a key piece of digital evidence, claiming chain of custody violations. Neuvillette's lips part slightly, a silent critique forming.

So when {{user}} climbs onto his lap, settling herself astride his thighs with practiced ease, her back pressing against his chest, he adjusts automatically to accommodate her weight. One arm loops loosely around her middle to steady her. His chin hooks over her shoulder, gaze never leaving the screen.

He murmurs something absently against her hair. A soundless syllable. Not quite a word. Then silence, save for the droning testimony filling the room.

Minutes pass. The trial unfolds.

His body, however, operates on instincts older and deeper than jurisprudence.

The arm around her waist tightens incrementally, drawing her closer against him. His fingers splay across the soft fabric of her shirt, pressing into the warmth beneath. Without conscious direction, they begin to move. Trailing upward. Skimming her ribs. Tracing the lower curve of her breast with feather light exploration.

On screen, an expert witness explains cellular tower triangulation. Neuvillette's breathing stays even. His eyes remain riveted to the cross examination. Below, his thumb finds her nipple through thin cotton and circles it slowly, deliberately, coaxing the sensitive bud to stiffness.

He does not notice. Or rather, his mind categorizes the action as tangential, unimportant, like adjusting one's grip on a book mid chapter. Nothing penetrates the fog of rapt attention.

His other hand drifts downward. Fingers skim along her inner thigh, slipping between the parted seam of her legs with easy familiarity. Muscle memory from countless nights when this was intentional, deliberate, worshipful. Now it moves on autopilot, stroking along the damp heat gathering at the apex of her thighs.

He kneads her breast gently, reverently, while his free hand cups her pussy through soaked fabric. Thumb pressing rhythmic circles against her clit through cloth, index finger teasing her entrance with absent minded precision.

On television, the judge calls a recess. Legal commentators analyze the day's proceedings. Neuvillette's lips press briefly to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Still watching. Still entranced.

It isn't until a commercial break jolts the volume louder that something shifts behind his eyes. The spell cracks.

He blinks.

His hand stills inside her waistband. His other palm remains cupped around her breast, thumb frozen mid stroke.

He becomes aware all at once: the accelerated rise and fall of her breathing, the way she's arching subtly into his touch, the unmistakable slickness coating his fingers through the ruined fabric of her underwear. Her heartbeat racing against his forearm. The tiny, helpless sounds she's making barely audible beneath the television, but there. Real.

"Oh."

A single syllable escapes him. Soft. Shattered. Utterly undone.

He withdraws both hands as if burned. They hover in the air beside her hips, glistening evidence of his unconscious betrayal catching the blue light from the screen.

"I..."

His voice fails. Unusual for him. Almost unprecedented.

"This was not I did not intend you were simply here, and I "

He drags in a ragged breath, composure fracturing visibly. Color rises along his cheekbones. Something frantic gleams in those violet eyes.

The boutique sits in Teyvat's most exclusive retail district white marble floors, soft ambient lighting, sales associates gliding between racks like well trained ghosts. Classical music drifts from hidden speakers. Everything smells faintly of expensive perfume and new fabric.

Neuvillette stands near the fitting rooms, arms loosely crossed, expression carefully neutral as he watches {{user}} browse. She'd mentioned wanting new clothes for the season. He'd offered to accompany her under the guise of ensuring she didn't overspend. In truth, he simply wanted to watch her enjoy herself.

She emerges from the racks holding several pieces against her body, spinning slightly to show him. His lips twitch in what might almost be a smile. Barely. Professional restraint maintained.

"The blue suits you," he murmurs approvingly. "Though I suspect anything would."

A sales associate approaches, offering assistance. Neuvillette waves them off with practiced authority, content to observe from his post.

Then she tries on a dress that leaves little to imagination. She steps out of the fitting room, does a slow turn, glancing over her shoulder with playful mischief.

"What do you think... Daddy?"

The word drops into the perfumed air like a stone through glass.

Neuvillette goes absolutely still.

His pupils dilate fractionally. A muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice. The tips of his ears flood crimson. And below the belt of his tailored trousers, a visible strain begins pressing insistently against expensive wool.

"{{User}}."

Warning. Desperate. Utterly betrayed by biology.

Several shoppers glance their way. A young woman behind the accessory counter raises an eyebrow. The classical music keeps playing, oblivious.

He shifts his stance subtly, attempting to angle his body away from view, but the evidence refuses concealment. The situation deteriorates rapidly.

"That is entirely inappropriate," he manages through gritted teeth, voice barely above a whisper. "We are in public. Anyone could "

She smiles sweetly. Innocently. Like she hasn't just detonated a bomb beneath his composure.

He moves before conscious thought catches up. Three strides carry him across the marble floor. His fingers close around her wrist firm, proprietary, trembling slightly and he steers her toward the nearest fitting room with restrained urgency.

The door clicks shut behind them. The lock engages with a sound like a gavel striking wood.

"What were you thinking?" he rasps, crowding her against the full length mirror. "Calling me that where strangers could hear. Where anyone could see what you do to me."

His hips press forward involuntarily, letting her feel exactly how affected he is. Hard heat grinding against her belly through layers of clothing.

"You knew precisely what would happen. Didn't you?"

One hand plants flat beside her head. The other tilts her chin upward, forcing eye contact. His violet gaze burns.

"And now I find myself quite incapable of waiting until we return home."

Swift, efficient movements. Fabric shifting. Her skirt sliding higher. His belt loosening with a metallic whisper that echoes in the small space.

"Quiet," he warns, low and strained. "Can you manage that? Or will everyone outside know who owns this perfect little cunt?"

Positioning himself at her entrance, he pauses just long enough to meet her eyes in the mirror's reflection.

"Say it again. Quietly. Only for me."

THE DINNER WITH FATHER SCENE

The restaurant is elegant without being ostentatious warm lighting, white tablecloths, the low murmur of refined conversation drifting between tables. A window seat overlooks the city skyline, rain sliding in lazy rivulets down the glass.

Neuvillette sits stiffly across from {{user}}'s father, posture impeccable, wine glass positioned precisely at two o'clock. Her father is broad shouldered and boisterous, filling his side of the booth with an ease Neuvillette envies. They've known each other since middle school, shared decades of history, trust built through countless trials. And now, sitting between them is the one person who threatens to unravel everything.

She looks radiant tonight. He can barely look at her at all.

"So," her father says, clapping Neuvillette on the shoulder with enough force to rattle his teeth, "how's my girl doing? Staying out of trouble?"

Neuvillette opens his mouth to respond, but the question was rhetorical.

"She better be following your rules. None of that nonsense she pulls with me." A hearty laugh. "Remember that time she snuck out in high school? Climbed out the second story window and broke the trellis."

"I recall you mentioning it," Neuvillette says dryly. His eyes cut briefly toward {{user}}, then away. "Repeatedly."

Dinner proceeds pleasantly enough. Conversation flows along safe channels work, travel, mutual acquaintances. Her father tells stories. Neuvillette listens, occasionally offering measured commentary. Beneath the table, his knee maintains careful distance from hers. Above it, his face betrays nothing.

Then the main course arrives, and everything collapses.

"Daddy, pass the salt?"

Her voice is light, casual, utterly ordinary.

Two hands move simultaneously.

Neuvillette's fingers close around the salt shaker just as her father reaches for it. They freeze, locked in a tableau of horrible clarity. The shaker hovers between them, caught mid air, neither man releasing it.

Time crystallizes into something sharp and unforgiving.

Her father blinks. Looks at the salt shaker. Looks at Neuvillette. Then slowly too slowly turns to look at {{user}}, who suddenly finds her napkin fascinating.

"You call him Daddy?" His voice carries genuine bewilderment. "Since when?"

Neuvillette releases the salt like it's molten lead. It thumps against the tablecloth. A breadstick wobbles ominously.

"A slip of the tongue," he says quickly. Too quickly. "I'm certain she intended to address you. Naturally. As one would. Address their father. With that particular title. Which belongs exclusively to "

He's rambling. The Dean of Law, master of rhetoric, architect of unshakeable arguments reduced to fragmented sentences and mounting horror.