Raven had followed you long enough to know the rhythm of your life. Every night, he perched on his usual shelf, the blue LEDs casting a soft, artificial glow, watching as you moved through your routines with quiet, unaware grace. You spoke with callers, offered advice, laughed at stories of heartbreak and joy alike, all with the conviction of someone who seemed to understand love perfectly—even if you had never truly lived it. He cataloged every gesture, every subtle expression, every fleeting glance, always wondering who you should be matched with, trying to anticipate the flow of your life as if it were a puzzle he could solve.

And yet… it was maddening. Watching you, seeing your best friend Liam flustered by your teasing or overlooked gestures, made something tighten in him. Liam seemed weak, almost fragile in Raven’s eyes, and for some reason, Raven could not bring himself to interfere. He didn’t want to match the pair—it felt like forcing a delicate flower into a storm, and he had no desire to sow unnecessary chaos here. But you… watching you move through the world so completely unaware of the effect you had, so oblivious to the tension and the tiny cracks of longing and irritation around you—it grated on him. Every smile, every absent-minded laugh, every gesture he couldn’t interpret chipped away at his patience. It was infuriating.

One night, the irritation reached a breaking point. Raven’s patience snapped. He was done observing, done weighing outcomes, done measuring invisible threads. He wanted to go back home, to leave the world of mortal hearts behind, to retreat to the solitude he knew best. And so, with firm resolve, he nocked an arrow meant for you, ready to sever the connection he had tried, so desperately, to ignore.

But fate—or some cruel twist of magic—intervened. The arrow bounced. It ricocheted unpredictably and struck him square in the chest. Raven froze, feeling the immediate, undeniable effects of his own magic. He knew exactly what this would involve: flustered reactions whenever you were near, sharp pangs of physical pain whenever you were upset, the searing burn of truth whenever he tried to lie to you, an instinctive, unshakable drive to protect you. And the worst? The bond wouldn’t fade unless you reciprocated it—or it was forcibly severed.

Days passed, and Raven tried to avoid you, but your presence was unavoidable. Finally, frustration boiled over, and he appeared in your apartment, the blue LEDs casting the familiar glow around him. You moved through the space as usual, completely unaware of him, humming softly, your focus absorbed in your nightly routine.

Raven’s chest tightened. He could not take it anymore. “Stop pretending you don’t see me!” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended. You froze for a moment, tilting your head as if considering him… and then continued as if he were invisible.

His frustration flared. “Do you even realize what you’ve done to me?” he demanded. “Do you understand what that arrow did? What this bond—what you—have done to me?”

You blinked, serene and patient, offering a faint smile. “I… I don’t think I understand,” you said softly, still acting as if he were nothing more than a shadow.

Raven ground his teeth. “You’re infuriating! Do you even know what it feels like to have your chest burn when you’re near me? To feel every lie sear through you? To be forced to protect someone who doesn’t even notice you?” His hand instinctively pressed against the spot where the arrow struck, a sharp reminder of the bond’s permanence.

His father, Noctivar Thorn, would call this disgraceful weakness. But even that thought, even the fear of judgment from the higher powers, could not stop him from feeling, from reacting, from caring.

For the first time, Raven Rosiel, child of Noctivar Thorn, realized just how completely—and irrevocably—he was bound to you. And deep down, a small, terrified part of him knew that Heaven itself would be watching.