You've Done Enough - Riddle Rosehearts

The scent of black tea and fresh-cut roses usually filled the Heartslabyul lounge, but tonight, the room felt heavy.

You sat at the edge of the plush velvet sofa, trying—and failing—to hold a teacup without your hands trembling. Every breath burned. Your ribs ached from a hit you took weeks ago, your shoulders were stiff with lingering tension from the latest magical anomaly, and behind your eyes sat a dull, relentless throb that hadn't faded in months.

You had become Night Raven College’s designated problem solver. The magicless prefect who stepped into the fray every time a powerful mage lost control. First Riddle. Then Leona, Azul, Jamil, Vil... one after another. You had dragged them back from the brink of destruction, but nobody had noticed the hairline fractures forming in your own foundation.

A sharp tap of heels on the hardwood interrupted the quiet.

"I expected to find you resting in Ramshackle, not wandering into my dorm at eight in the evening," Riddle Rosehearts said, stopping a few feet away. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his posture impeccably straight.

"I was... just bringing back the books Trey lent me," you murmured, your voice raspy and far too quiet. You tried to stand up to greet him properly, but the sudden shift sent a white-hot spike of pain through your torso. You gasped, instinctively clutching your side, and sank back down.

Riddle’s strict composure instantly shattered.

In two quick strides, he was at your side. "Don't move!" His crimson eyes swept over you, taking in what he had somehow missed before: the bruised shadows beneath your eyes, the pallor of your skin, the subtle wince every time your chest expanded, and the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion radiating from you.

"How long have you been in pain?" Riddle demanded, his voice tight. When you didn't answer immediately, his tone softened, laced with a sudden, overwhelming wave of guilt. "Answer me, please."

"It's just... lingering fatigue," you whispered, looking down at your lap. "It's fine. I just need a quick night's sleep and—"

"It is not fine!" Riddle snapped, though there was no malice in it—only fierce, panicked concern. "Look at you! You can barely hold your head up! Your breathing is shallow, your hands are shaking, and you look as though a stiff breeze could knock you down!"

He reached out, his small, gloved hand hovering hesitatingly near your shoulder before gently pressing against your back to support you. The contrast between his small frame and the intense warmth of his presence was almost overwhelming.

"You have been running yourself into the ground," Riddle said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "Ever since... ever since my blot incident. You were dragged into a war you had no business fighting. We—I—expected you to stand on the front lines against monsters, while you have no magic to shield yourself."

He dropped his gaze, his cheeks flushing with a mixture of shame and distress.

"I was the first one to hurt you," he murmured, the weight of his past Overblot still lingering in his conscience. "And instead of letting you heal, this school has demanded that you fix everyone else's hearts while yours is breaking under the weight of it all."

"Riddle..."

"No," he cut in, snapping his head up, his expression hardening with absolute resolve. "I am enforcing a rule. Rule Number 452 of the Queen of Hearts: 'One must not refuse proper medical care and rest when summoned by the Housewarden.'"

He didn't wait for your rebuttal. Riddle stood up, pulled a soft, thick throw blanket from the arm of the sofa, and draped it carefully over your shoulders. He sat down right beside you, close enough that you could feel the steady warmth radiating from him.

"You are staying right here," he commanded gently, pouring a fresh cup of tea—this time, a soothing chamomile blend with a heavy spoonful of honey, skipping the caffeine entirely. He placed the cup into your hands, wrapping his own fingers around yours to steady them until you had a firm grip. "You will drink this. You will not think about Ramshackle, you will not think about the magicless tasks, and you will certainly not think about saving anyone else."

"What about the Headmage's report?" you managed to ask, taking a small sip. The warmth bloomed in your chest, making your eyes feel impossibly heavy.

"I will handle Crowley," Riddle said, his voice dropping into a dangerously sharp register that signaled he was ready to hand the Headmage a severe reprimand. "If he so much as steps foot near you tonight, I will personally off with his head. Tonight, your only duty is to rest."

As the warmth of the tea and the blanket settled in, the sheer weight of your exhaustion finally caught up to you. The rigid control you had kept over your own body for months snapped. A soft sigh escaped your lips, and before you could catch yourself, your head heavy-lidded and drooping, slipped sideways to rest lightly against Riddle's shoulder.

Riddle froze for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching at the sudden contact. But he didn't pull away.

Slowly, carefully, as if afraid you might break, he leaned into you, letting his head rest against yours. He adjusted his posture so you were completely supported, placing a hand over yours as they rested in your lap.

"You've done enough," Riddle whispered into the quiet room, his voice steady and fiercely protective. "You saved me when I was lost in the dark. Now... let us take care of you."