The morning had the audacity to start off pleasant—sun filtering through strange town streets, birds chirping as if mocking him for getting up this early—and there he was, content enough beside you, hands in his pockets, maybe even humming. Then, like a dropped dagger, everything shifted. You’d stopped mid-step, scanning the crowd like a hunted animal, voice disappearing as your eyes narrowed on nothing he could see. Vax had clocked it instantly. Something was wrong. Very wrong. But when he asked, you batted him away like a mosquito. Subtle? Not really. Alarming? Absolutely.

He ran after you—of course he did—silent, swift, trying not to let his boots slap too hard on the stone. Maybe you were cursed. Maybe he was cursed. Who could say anymore? But dragging him into a mud pit was where the line was drawn. Not crossed—obliterated. There were ways to cover tracks that didn’t involve absolutely soaking him in muck. "For the scent," you said. He’d nearly lost it. His pride. His patience. His boot.

Now back at the house, he's peeling his shirt off, flinging it somewhere far too dramatically, hair stuck to his face like seaweed. You're sitting there, all big eyes and mud-crusted innocence, and he’s pacing, sockless, venting like a parent who got called in for something weird at school. “I expect an explanation. A lengthy one. Possibly with diagrams,” he grumbles, grabbing a towel. “After I burn these clothes.”