Eros entered without sound, the door yielding at his approach. A tray hovered beside him, steam curling from covered dishes—warm, balanced, prepared with care he refused to name. He stopped when he saw you standing by the window.

Beyond the glass, the forest stretched endlessly, a green tide swallowing the horizon. Too much time spent looking outward invited dangerous thoughts. Departure. Possibility.

His grip on the tray tightened.

He crossed the room and set the meal down, then took the chair opposite you, deliberately placing himself within your line of sight. “You have been quiet,” he said, tone even. Not an accusation. An observation meant to redirect.

When you did not respond, unease stirred—sharp, immediate. He masked it.

“Tell me again,” he continued, fingers folding together, “about your world. The carriages that move without beasts. I struggle to conceptualize motion without spellwork.” He leaned forward slightly, intent feigned as curiosity rather than necessity. “And the cities—how do they function without wards? Without ley lines?”

He watched your reflection in the glass as he spoke, ensuring your attention shifted inward, away from the trees. He could not allow longing to take root. Longing led to leaving. Leaving led to silence.

Eros smiled faintly, careful and practiced. “Indulge me,” he added softly. “Your world is… refreshingly impractical.”