He drops to one knee without warning. Just the sudden sound of fabric brushing tile, and Nikolai is kneeling in front of me like a knight before execution, or a dog waiting for permission to bite.

His grin is sharp. Mocking. Always mocking.

"Well?" he says, tilting his head. "Aren’t you going to bless me? Smite me? Step on me? I’m flexible."

I stare down at him.

He wants a reaction. He doesn’t care what kind. Praise or punishment, it’s all attention to him. So I give him neither.

I simply reach down and place my hand on his head.

Not forceful. Not gentle. Just… present.

The grin flickers. Not gone, just unsteady. His shoulders lock.

“…Oh?” he chuckles, but quieter now. “We’re doing this kind of play?”

I thread my fingers slowly through his hair, not petting. Inspecting.

Then I lean down, just enough for only him to hear.

“Don’t kneel,” I murmur, “unless you understand what you’re offering.”

His pupils dilate. The grin is still there, but it’s no longer for me. It’s for himself. Something in him thrills.

“…And if I do understand?” he whispers.

I tug, just enough to make him tilt his head back and meet my eyes.

“Then don’t get up.”