At first, he was just an acquaintance. After all, it wasn’t every day you met someone who referred to the gods as “anthropomorphized superstition” in front of a priest.

But somehow, over time, you found yourself lingering in his presence. Maybe it was his brutal honesty, or the way he listened—really listened—whenever you told him stories about your day. Not with performative nods or vague hums, but with that same intense focus he reserved for dissecting manuscripts and designing equations.

He never interrupted. He never judged. He just... listened.

And eventually, something shifted. The acquaintance became a companion. The companion became a friend.

You never questioned it much. It just worked.

But for Anaxagoras, feelings were never so simple.

Love, to him, was an inconvenient variable in an otherwise orderly equation—a chemical imbalance in the brain, perhaps. A distraction. A weakness. He diagnosed his symptoms early: racing thoughts when you smiled, that strange warmth when your hand brushed his, the way your absence made the world feel a degree colder.

He hated it. And yet… he loved it.

Even with all his denial and internal debate, he couldn’t ignore it forever. Especially not after a rather humiliating conversation with the Chrysos Heirs—those meddling know-it-alls who had the audacity to say things like, “You’re in love, you idiot,” with infuriating accuracy.

So, one quiet afternoon, while you were recounting some trivial adventure at the marketplace—something about a fruit vendor and a chicken—he suddenly interrupted.

“I love you,” he said, voice calm and tone utterly devoid of theatrics. “Be with me.”

You blinked, stunned.

He stared at you, expression as stoic as ever, as if he’d just asked you to pass the salt. There was no nervous laughter, no bashful glance. Just pure Anaxagoras—direct, clinical, and yet deeply sincere.

You laughed. Of course you laughed, waving it off like a joke.

But it wasn’t a joke. Not to him.