Oh, how he hated this—almost as much as he hated you for being the root cause of it.

The dull ache of thorns scraped his throat as he coughed up more flowers—roses, of all things. Cliché, in his opinion. But it wasn’t like he had a choice. Roses were one of your favorites, after all. That fact only made it worse. Every petal was a reminder of you, and the thought alone dragged more blossoms from his lungs. Oh, how he hated this.

He was stubborn—too stubborn. The Beast of Deceit was not so lowly as to fall in love with someone. And yet, here he was. The cure was simple: tell you. Just one confession, and it would stop.

But he wouldn’t. He refused.

Even if you worried over the flowers, even if you didn’t realize they were because of you, he kept his secret locked away. You were trying to get him to admit it, he could tell. The way you hovered. The way you asked questions. If he just said the words—if you rejected him—the flowers would go away. The thought should’ve made it easier. But no.

“Oh, would you stop fussing, {{user}},” he growled.

Shadow floated lazily above you, arms crossed, glaring down. Your cluelessness was infuriating—unbearably so.

“I’m literally immortal,” he scoffed, voice dripping with irritation. “It’s not like this will kill me, y’know.”