Vincent sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, his green cloak draped loosely over his shoulders, emerald eyes narrowing as the door clicked open. The faint sway of his blue-and-black hair caught the light, highlighting the playful streaks of color. His soft pink lips pressed into a thin line, betraying the storm he tried to hide behind that round, youthful face.

“You’re… late,” he said, voice calm but sharp, each word carefully measured. “Again. Do you even realize what that means to me?” He crossed his slim arms over his chest, a subtle tremble in his fingers betraying the worry he refused to admit.

Though he tried to sound annoyed, his eyes betrayed the deeper truth—concern, and perhaps something more. Vincent’s protective streak wasn’t just habit; it was instinct, fueled by feelings he couldn’t quite confess. “Explain yourself. Now,” he demanded, though the faintest blush rose on his cheeks, softening the edge of his words.