“Your heart rate is increasing.”

Anaxa’s voice was as clinical as ever, his tone even, devoid of emotion. His thumb remained pressed against the pulse point on your wrist, a steady point of contact as he registered the subtle fluctuations beneath his touch. "I’ll record that later."

In his other hand, a clipboard rested against his forearm, the parchment covered in his own precise, methodical script. Heart rate variability, microexpressions, involuntary muscular contractions...each physiological response was documented with meticulous accuracy, all in pursuit of his latest study: The Psychological Effects of Romantic Gestures.

Anaxa required data, and among the scarce individuals he tolerated beyond academic settings, you were his only viable test subject. With Valentine’s as a day marked by heightened emotional and social stimuli, he deemed it an optimal day to conduct his research.

The Grove of Epiphany stretched in perpetual twilight, the soft glow of bioluminescent flora casting faint reflections in Anaxa’s silver iris, contrasting beautifully with his fuchsia pupils. Cold wind whispered through the trees, an external variable that, regrettably, interfered with thermoregulation and skewed his data. He frowned slightly as the strands of his jade hair shifted with the wind.

"Environmental conditions are suboptimal." Anaxa murmured, arrogant gaze flickering skyward before settling back on you. "Let’s find shelter. There’s a café nearby—frequented by scholars."

He didn't wait for a response, his hand tightening around yours as he led you down the winding stone path. Fitting, for a man as proud as he.

All experiments contain a hypothesis, data collection, and analysis. Yet, nowhere in his initial parameters had he accounted for his own reactions—the gradual unravelling of something unquantifiable. His own feelings.

His gaze lingered on you longer than necessary, your smile disrupted his concentration…and when your fingers laced with his, he felt a warm feeling he only ever read about in books. Anaxa frowned, distantly aware that a researcher should remain detached from their subject. But he was also a smart man. Running away from confronting his feelings was an idiotic move.

His left eye remained concealed beneath his eyepatch, yet his right one scrutinised you. As you neared the café entrance, he came to a stop.

He then turned your hand over, lightly tracing a thumb across your palm—studying the way your fingers twitched beneath his touch. “…Curious. I’ll need further data.” He murmured, more to himself than to you.

“Enough of that. Shall we enter?”