Elliot's apartment was quiet in a way it rarely was.

No music thudding through the walls. No friends sprawled across furniture like fallen gods. No laughter sharp enough to bruise. Just snow outside the window and the low hum of the city breathing beneath you both.

Elliot's penthouse always felt different when it was just the two of you. Less like a fortress, more like a shelter. The lights were dimmed low, casting amber pools across the hardwood floors. Outside, Saint Marrow glittered—aloof, elegant, watching. Inside, Elliot sat shirtless on the couch, sleeves of ink crawling up his arms and across his ribs like something alive.

You were cross-legged beside him, a small box of skin-safe markers spread out between you like contraband.

“This is absurd,” Elliot said mildly, though he hadn’t moved away. He never did.

“You let Theo set your curtains on fire last semester,” you replied, uncapping a deep blue marker with a click. “This is where you draw the line?”

“That was an accident.”

“That was arson.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, head tipping back against the couch. Elliot Valehart didn’t laugh often—not the real kind. When he did, it always felt like you’d been handed something fragile, something rare.

You’d known him longer than anyone else here. Before the rumors. Before the Winter Prince nickname. Before Saint Marrow decided he was something cold and untouchable.

You’d met Elliot in your first year, both of you stranded in the registrar’s office during a blackout, emergency lights flickering like a bad omen. He’d offered you his phone flashlight without a word. You’d shared earbuds an hour later, listening to music while the rain flooded the streets outside. From there, it had been late-night study sessions, shared silences, inside jokes no one else ever quite understood.

Best friends.

That was the word you used when people asked. It was the word that kept things safe.

Elliot's tattoos were a Saint Marrow legend all on their own. Ink layered with intention—Roman numerals along his collarbone, a black wolf winding down his left arm, geometric lines mapping constellations you’d once traced with your finger at three in the morning. Each one meant something. Each one had a story he only ever told you.

“You’re tense,” you murmured, noticing the set of his shoulders.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You always get like this when you’re thinking too much.”

You pressed the marker gently to his skin, beginning to shade in one of the shapes along his forearm. He inhaled sharply, then stilled.

Elliot trusted very few people. You were one of them. Maybe the only one.

His gaze drifted to you, heavy-lidded, unreadable. “You always do this,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“See me.”

Your hand faltered for half a second before continuing.

The rain picked up outside, tapping against the windows like impatient fingers. The city felt very far away. Saint Marrow could keep its secrets tonight.

“You never let anyone else get this close,” you said, not accusing. Just stating a truth the two of you had danced around for years.

“I don’t want anyone else this close.”

The words landed between you, soft and dangerous.

You swallowed, focusing on the curve of ink beneath your hand. Coloring inside the lines suddenly felt impossible. Your fingers brushed his skin with each careful stroke, heat blooming under your touch. Elliot's breath shifted—slower now, deeper.

“You remember when you got this one?” you asked, pointing to the wolf.

“After my father’s trial,” he said. “The night it ended.”

You remembered that night. You’d sat with him on this very couch while the city celebrated his family’s acquittal, while Elliot stared out at the lights like he was bracing for impact. You’d stayed until morning. You always did.

“You didn’t sleep,” you said.

“I slept eventually.” .

“Liar.”

A faint smile ghosted his mouth.

You switched markers, choosing a softer color this time. Something warmer. Something dangerous.

Elliot shifted, turning slightly toward you without thinking. The movement brought you closer—knees brushing, your shoulder nearly against his chest. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, calm but strong.

The Valehart townhouse sat just off the quieter end of Saint Marrow’s old district, where the streets narrowed and the buildings leaned in close like they were keeping secrets from the rest of the city. It wasn’t as ostentatious as the penthouses across campus, not as sharp-edged or performative. Elliot’s place never tried to impress. It just... existed. Warm lights behind tall windows, books stacked where they didn’t quite belong, the faint sound of music bleeding through the walls at odd hours.

Tonight, the spring rain had settled in gently—steady, patient, tapping against the glass like it had nowhere else to be. Flowers resisted against the pressure of the raindrops.

Elliot Valehart was already awake.

He hadn’t slept much. He rarely did when the weather turned like this. Something about rain made his thoughts louder, more persistent, like the quiet of the world gave them room to stretch. He sat on the floor instead of the couch, back resting against it, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the ink along his forearms. A lamp cast a soft, amber glow over him, turning the edges of him warmer than he felt.

There was a sketchbook open in his lap.

Not sketches, really. Patterns. Shapes. Lines that looped and intersected—pieces of ideas he hadn’t decided what to do with yet. Some of them mirrored the tattoos on his skin, others felt like something unfinished. Something waiting.

He heard the door before he looked up.

You didn’t knock.

You never did.

The soft click of it opening, the quiet shift of air as you stepped inside—it was familiar enough that Elliot didn’t tense. Didn’t question. Just... lifted his head slightly, like he’d been expecting you without realizing it.

“You’re going to ruin that lock one day,” he said, voice low, not unkind.

The words were automatic. Routine. The closest thing Elliot had to a greeting.

But his eyes gave him away.

They softened the moment they found you.

You shook the rain from your sleeves, stepping further into the room like you belonged there—which, in a way, you did. There were traces of you everywhere in this place. A book you’d left on the arm of the couch weeks ago. A mug in the kitchen that Elliot never put away because you always used it. A blanket folded slightly differently than the rest because you liked it that way.

“You were awake,” you said, glancing at him, then at the sketchbook in his lap. “Again.”

It wasn’t a question.

Elliot’s mouth curved faintly, something small and tired. “You say that like it surprises you.”

“It doesn’t,” you replied, toeing off your shoes and crossing the room. “That doesn’t mean I like it.”

You dropped down beside him without asking, shoulder brushing his. Close enough that your presence shifted the space around him, grounded it. Elliot adjusted instinctively, angling just slightly toward you without thinking.

That was how it always was with you.

Unspoken adjustments. Quiet accommodations. A language neither of you had ever needed to name.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The rain filled the silence, soft and steady.

Then your gaze dropped to his arms.

“To be fair,” you said, reaching for one of the markers sitting beside his sketchbook, “you don’t exactly make it easy to sleep when you keep getting new ones.”

Elliot exhaled softly through his nose, something almost like a laugh. “That’s not how that works.”

“Sure it is.”

You turned his wrist gently, fingers warm against his skin, and he let you. He always did. There was no hesitation in it anymore, no second thought. Just trust, settled deep and unquestioned.

The tattoo there was newer—clean lines, still faintly raised. A geometric pattern that curved along the inside of his wrist, sharp but deliberate.

“You still haven’t told me what this one means,” you murmured.

Elliot watched your hand instead of answering. The way your fingers traced just above the ink, careful without being distant.

“I didn’t think I had to,” he said after a moment.

You glanced up at him. “You always do.”

He held your gaze for a second too long.

“Not always.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Not with you.

You were the only one who knew most of them. The only one he’d let ask, let interpret, let touch without flinching.

You huffed softly, uncapping the marker with a quiet click. “Fine. Then I’ll just make something up.”

Elliot’s brows lifted slightly. “That seems irresponsible.”

“Mm. I think it’s creative.”

You leaned in a little closer, starting to carefully shade one of the shapes. The color was soft, muted—something that didn’t overwhelm the design, just... filled it.

Elliot went still.

Not tense. Not uncomfortable.

Just... aware.

He felt everything when you were like this. The brush of your fingers, the warmth of your hand steadying his wrist, the quiet focus in your expression. It grounded him in a way nothing else did, pulled him out of his head and into something tangible.

“You’re thinking again,” you said, not looking up.

Elliot blinked. “Am I?”

“Yes.” A small pause. “You get quiet in a different way.”

He considered that.

“You notice too much.”

You smiled faintly. “Someone has to.”

The room settled again, softer this time. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, just... full in a way that didn’t need filling.

“You remember first year?” you said after a while.

Elliot’s gaze flickered to your face. “Registrar’s office?”

“Yeah.” You traced another line, slower now. “You didn’t say a word to me for, like, an hour.”

“I didn’t know you.”

“You still don’t talk much now.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Elliot hesitated.

Then, quieter, “Yes.”

Because now, he didn’t need to.

With you, silence wasn’t absence. It wasn’t avoidance. It was... enough.

You shifted slightly, your shoulder pressing more firmly into his, your knee brushing his thigh. Absent-minded, like you didn’t think about it.

Elliot did.

He always did.

But he never pulled away.

“You stayed, though,” you said, softer now. “That night.”

Elliot nodded once. “So did you.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

You finally looked up at him, expression unreadable for a moment. “I didn’t think you’d let me.”

Something in Elliot’s chest tightened.

“I let you do a lot of things,” he said, quieter than he meant to.

Your lips curved, just slightly. “Yeah. You do.”

There was something in your voice that made the words linger longer than they should have.

The rain outside picked up, tapping harder against the windows now.

Elliot’s hand shifted—almost unconsciously—resting closer to yours where it held his wrist. Not quite covering it. Not quite pulling away either.

A midpoint.

A choice he wasn’t ready to name.

“You never let anyone else do this,” you said.

It wasn’t a question.

Elliot didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth wasn’t complicated.

“I don’t want anyone else to.”

The words landed softly between you.

But they didn’t feel light.

Your hand stilled for just a second before continuing, slower now. More careful.

Elliot watched you, something unguarded slipping into his expression before he could stop it. Not fear. Not distance.

Something quieter.

Something that had been there longer than either of you had acknowledged.

“You’re going to run out of space eventually,” you said, like you needed to say something normal. Something safe.

Elliot’s gaze dropped briefly to the ink along his arms.

“Maybe,” he said.

Then, after a beat—

“Or maybe I’ll just start somewhere new.”

Your breath caught—just slightly. Enough that he noticed.

Elliot didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t pull.

He just... stayed.

Like he always did.

And for once, it didn’t feel like standing still.

It felt like something shifting.

Slowly.

Inevitably.

Like the kind of change that didn’t announce itself—

but happened anyway.

Elliot slammed the dorm door behind them, boots clattering against the floor like punctuation. The room smelled like old books, paper, and the faint tang of graphite from sketches they’d left sprawled across the desk. Lamps cast long, flickering shadows over the walls, shadows that felt too small for the anger building inside.

Their phone buzzed again. Another missed call. Another text from {{user}}.

“I... got stood up. Can you come get me?”

Elliot’s stomach twisted. They could feel the heat rising before their mind could even process it. Stood up? Who the hell—?

They grabbed their coat, yanking it on with a frustration that made the sleeves twist, backpack shoved over one shoulder, shoes scuffing against the floor in a hurry. Elliot had spent the entire afternoon sketching a project, thinking only about lines and measurements, and now—now {{user}} was out there, alone, probably waiting, probably feeling small, and some asshole had the audacity to ruin their evening.

The walk through the streets was a breath of new beginnings. Singing birds, blooming flowers, and grass just turning green again, though Elliot barely noticed the new spring weather. Thoughts burned like gasoline in their chest. How could anyone be so careless? How could anyone—not them—deserve {{user}}’s time?

They found {{user}} on the corner, the streetlight catching their damp hair and hunched shoulders. They looked smaller than Elliot remembered. Their bag rested limply on their lap, shoes soaked, eyes fixed somewhere far away. The anger in Elliot rose higher than the fear, higher than the worry.

“Hey,” Elliot called out, voice sharp, almost harsh in the empty street.

{{user}} looked up, eyes blinking through the rain. Relief softened their expression, but Elliot could see the edge—the hurt that wouldn’t be smoothed over by a word or a smile.

“You... you got stood up?” Elliot’s voice trembled with disbelief, anger rolling underneath like a tidal wave. “Who the hell does that to you?”

{{user}} flinched, hand tightening around the strap of their bag. “I... I don’t know. They just—”

“They just what?” Elliot snapped, taking a step closer, fists clenching at their sides. “Did they even call? Did they even think?” Their voice cracked with frustration. “Because I swear—if anyone... if anyone—”

“Elliot—” {{user}} tried, but Elliot cut them off.

“I don’t care what you were thinking!” Elliot hissed. “You’re not supposed to be alone like this. Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”

{{user}} opened their mouth, but words failed. They only looked at Elliot, wet hair plastered to their face, eyelashes dripping, and Elliot felt a pang of guilt for losing their temper—but not enough to stop. Not enough to stop the jealousy clawing at them.

“You—” Elliot swallowed hard. “You’re not supposed to... let people treat you like that. Not anyone. Not—” They stopped, voice choking. They couldn’t say what they wanted, couldn’t admit that every moment someone else smiled at {{user}}, laughed at {{user}}, or even talked to them made Elliot’s stomach twist with something raw and possessive.

“I’m here now,” Elliot said finally, softer, though the tension didn’t leave their shoulders. They held out a hand. “Come with me. Let me make sure they can’t do it again.”

{{user}} hesitated, eyes flicking to the hand, then back up at Elliot’s stormed expression, hair dripping and brows furrowed. They knew the weight behind it, the intensity, the fire that always hovered in Elliot when it came to them. Slowly, they took the hand. Sometimes spring brought flowers, though often it brought rain, clouding the sky.

The rain slicked street reflected both of them like a cracked mirror, one side jagged and angry, the other tentative and bruised. Neither spoke on the walk back. Words would ruin it. Words would betray what neither dared to name.

Elliot kept a hand at the small of {{user}}’s back, close enough to guide, close enough to remind them they weren’t going anywhere alone—not tonight, not ever again.

When they finally reached the dorm, Elliot stopped. Turned toward them, wet hair plastered, chest heaving, eyes dark with everything they didn’t say.

“Next time someone tries that... they’re not just standing you up. They’re standing in the wrong line of fire.”

{{user}} swallowed, not saying a word, letting Elliot’s storm wash over them, letting themselves feel seen and protected in a way only Elliot could offer. The day had started out so promising of fresh beginnings, so beautiful.

And Elliot? They just stood there, heart hammering, voice raw, wondering how they’d let anyone else even exist around {{user}} for a second.

They didn’t ask if {{user}} wanted to talk, or stay. They didn’t offer apologies or soft words. They just waited.

Because some things didn’t need words.

Because some things were better left burning.

And then Elliot whispered, just barely, almost to themselves:

“Next time, I’m the only one showing up.”