Riddle Rosehearts was on the verge of snapping.

His face burned hot, shoulders rigid with restraint, fingers twitching dangerously close to his magic pen. Every instinct screamed that he should shut this down immediately—immediately—yet {{user}} continued rambling beside him with infuriating ease, utterly unbothered by Riddle’s mounting tension.

The demon’s tone was light, teasing without crossing any obvious line, and somehow that made it worse. Riddle corrected him once. Twice. Three times. Each reprimand earned nothing more than that same easy grin, sharp eyes gleaming with amusement rather than fear.

And yet… Riddle didn’t stop him.

He should have enforced the rules. He should have raised his voice. Instead, he found himself listening, biting back retorts, allowing the conversation to continue far longer than it had any right to. The realization made his irritation twist into something far more unsettling.

By the time Riddle noticed he was no longer reaching for his pen, it was already too late. The damage—whatever this was—had been done.