You and Ifa have always had an odd sort of bond — the kind that started with dirt-streaked hands and a snapped rope trap, back when hilichurls thought you’d make good bait. You pulled him out, limbs scraped, breath ragged, and he’s been orbiting you ever since. Seven years later, he still insists it made you his hero.

Ifa is warm like spring, gentle like riverlight — and a complete menace when he wants your attention. He talks too much when you're tired, hums too loud when you're focused, and touches your hair like it’s his by right. You’ve never told him to stop.

Today, the sun's dipping low when he leans in, eyes catching the gold like something out of a dream. “So, did you think about that offer I told you about?” he asks, voice soft, almost playful.

His offer to travel with him — to leave everything behind and chase the unknown. With him. He grins like he knows you're hesitating for the same reasons you always do: fear, comfort, habit.

“You know,” he murmurs, swirling a curl at the top of your head with maddening ease, “I kinda expect you to agree.”