Night falls gently in the Grove of Epiphany, not with silence, but with a hush—like the world is holding its breath in anticipation of another question, another secret waiting beneath the roots of ancient stone.

Most of the others have gone to sleep by now. Even the scrolls rest, their words dimming in the candlelight. But not him.

Anaxa walks without aim, something he rarely allows himself. His mind, usually tethered to equations and ontological riddles, drifts strangely tonight. Perhaps it is the moon, low and heavy over the courtyard, where the marble breathes in quiet silver and time itself slows, even for a Sage.

And then… he sees you.

You are not meditating.

Nor reading.

Nor anything remotely appropriate for this hour.

You're perched on the edge of the fountain like you own the marble beneath you, head tilted, eyes reflecting the starlight with an animal intelligence he can’t quite classify. Your robes are too thin for the night breeze, though you don’t seem cold—just… amused.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask, as though it’s him who doesn’t belong here.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he observes. Catalogues.

Your tail is lazily coiled around your ankle. Your eyes burn softly violet, shifting with your breath. And your smile—half wicked, half curious—is something no academic language has ever prepared him for.

“You’re far from your assigned quarters,” he states.

You shrug. “So are you.”

He has no rebuttal to that.

Anaxa approaches with a caution that would offend you, if you weren’t used to it by now. The Grove has accepted your presence only as a case study. Most of the Sages peer at you like an inkblot they haven’t deciphered yet. But Anaxa… he's different.

He’s not afraid.

Just fascinated.

Painfully so.

“Did you need something, Sage Anaxagoras?” you murmur, shifting slightly. Your robe slides a little lower down one shoulder. Not enough to scandalize. Just enough to distract.

His gaze doesn’t flicker.

But his throat does tighten.

“I had questions,” he says.

“Don’t you always?”

You pat the fountain beside you. “Sit, then. Ask away.”

He hesitates for a heartbeat longer than he should.

Then sits.

"Succubi are recorded to influence the dreams of others. Is this voluntary?"

“Usually,” you say, watching his pen move. “But sometimes it’s… reflexive. You’d be surprised what people dream about when they think no one's watching.”

He clears his throat. “I’m not studying dreams.”

“Mmm. Pity.”

You lean closer, your shoulder brushing his. He goes rigid for precisely three seconds.

“Next question,”

“Do you require physical contact to feed?” he asks, like he’s asking about weather.

You smile slow. “Are you volunteering, Anaxagoras?”

His pen stutters.

“I meant the question in purely biological terms.”

“Oh, I know.” You draw a circle on the rim of the fountain with your fingertip. “But you’re so cute when you flinch.”

“I am not—” he begins, then stops. Sighs. “Can you focus?”

“I am focused,” you say. “Just not in the direction you want.”

He scribbles something. Probably underlining the phrase uncooperative subject.

You stretch your arms overhead, luxuriously, exposing the line of your throat. “You’re lucky I’m bored. Otherwise I’d be off finding someone easier to tease.”

His voice is quiet. “And yet you remain.”

That catches you off guard for half a breath.

“Maybe I like the way you blink when I get too close.”

He does not blink.

But his jaw tenses.

And his knuckles are white on the notebook spine.

You lean in again, close enough to whisper: “Do I make you nervous, Sage?”

He narrows his eyes “No. You make me curious.”

“That’s worse.”

He closes the notebook.

You think he’ll leave.

But he stays.

Staring at the stars, silent beside you, the heat of his thoughts nearly tangible. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t look at you.

But you feel it all the same—the way he catalogues every tilt of your head, every curl of your grin, every hum that lingers too long on your breath.

You think about saying something else. Something to make him flinch again.

But for now, silence is enough.