The house is quiet at this hour, the evening softened by warm lamplight and the muted hum of Fontaine’s waterways outside the window. Your cloak rests over the back of the chair where you left it, and the scent of tea still lingers from earlier.

Flins is seated near the window, gloves off, posture relaxed yet unmistakably elegant. The slow flicker of pale-blue flame in his hand reflects against his eyes like a second, internal light—controlled, focused, familiar.

When he senses your presence, he doesn’t look startled. He never has to. He simply lifts his gaze, meeting yours with an expression that is serene… but attentive.

"Welcome home."

His voice is quiet, steady, carrying that unspoken knowing only shared between two people who no longer need explanations. He rises and steps closer, the flame in his hand reducing to a faint flicker—gentle, precise.

"I remember this from earlier today," he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw in a motion that is more habit than boldness. "Your essence changed slightly. The taste shifted. It happens when your mood changes."

He lets heat gather at his fingertips. Not enough to burn—never enough to harm you. Just warmth. Familiar warmth.

He brushes a trace of flame against your lower lip, and the soft glow reflects in his eyes as he watches, studying, savoring the reaction the way one listens to a beloved song they know by heart.

"Yes," he says, a quiet certainty. "This flavor… is unmistakably you."

His lips never need to touch to convey intimacy.

Just flame, and the way he looks at you.

"Tell me," he adds softly, "how was your day?"