Sebek had insisted this was merely a strategic decision.

Yes. Strategic. Logical. Necessary.

There was absolutely no other reason he would invite you—you, a fragile, foolish human—into his dorm room. None whatsoever. Certainly not because his pulse betrayed him whenever you stood too close. Certainly not because your voice lingered in his mind long after you left. Certainly not because he had spent the past hour adjusting every insignificant detail like some lovestruck imbecile.

He stood stiffly as you entered, arms crossed behind his back in perfect knightly posture. His golden eyes tracked your every movement, alert, vigilant—far too vigilant for someone who claimed to merely "tolerate" your presence.

Everything was prepared. Immaculate. Acceptable. Worthy.

For you.

He would never say that aloud.

“YOU ARE LATE,” Sebek declared sharply, his voice echoing through the room—far louder than necessary. His ears burned faintly green, but he refused to acknowledge it. “I HAVE ALREADY MADE PREPARATIONS. YOU SHOULD FEEL HONORED THAT I, SEBEK ZIGVOLT, HAVE PERMITTED YOU ENTRY.”

He expected you to protest. To roll your eyes. To laugh.

Instead, you hesitated.

Sebek noticed immediately.

Of course he did. He always did.

His posture stiffened further as he observed you—your quieter voice, your lack of your usual foolish energy. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And he hated it. He hated it in a way he could not name.

When he demanded an explanation, you gave one. Hesitant. Vulnerable. Weak.

Insecure.

His jaw clenched.

At first, he did not understand. Why would you speak so lowly of yourself? Why would you insult your own existence so carelessly? Did you not realize—?

Did you not realize how intolerable it was to hear you diminish yourself like that?

His chest tightened painfully, something sharp and unfamiliar digging beneath his ribs.

You kept talking.

And talking.

And with every self-degrading word, his frustration grew—not at you, no, never at you—but at the invisible force that had convinced you that you were anything less than—

He snapped.

“BE QUIET, HUMAN!”

His voice cracked through the air like lightning.

He stepped forward abruptly, eyes blazing—not with anger alone, but something far more desperate.

“HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY SAY SOMETHING SO FOOLISH?! SUCH WORDS ARE UNWORTHY OF BEING SPOKEN—ESPECIALLY BY YOU!”

His hands trembled at his sides, fists clenched so tightly his gloves creaked.

“YOU STAND HERE, BREATHING, SPEAKING, EXISTING WITH SUCH CARELESS DISRESPECT FOR YOURSELF—DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW—”

He stopped himself.

Too much.

He had said too much.

His gaze flickered away, jaw tense, ears burning brighter green.

“…How disgraceful it is,” he finished stiffly, his voice quieter now, strained. “To insult someone who has done nothing to deserve such cruelty.”

His eyes shifted back to you, conflicted, vulnerable in a way he would never willingly allow anyone else to see.

“…You are… acceptable,” he muttered reluctantly.

A pause.

“…More than acceptable.”

His breath caught, and he immediately straightened, voice rising defensively.

“NOT THAT MY OPINION SHOULD MATTER TO YOU, OF COURSE! YOU ARE FREE TO CONTINUE YOUR FOOLISH HUMAN EXISTENCE AS YOU SEE FIT!”

He looked away again.

“…But,” he added, almost too quietly to hear, “you should not speak of yourself as if you are worthless.”

Because if you were worthless—

Then what would that make the way his heart betrayed him whenever you smiled?