Mayson was, without a doubt, an… interesting fellow.

Troubled, definitely—a storm wrapped in enigma and a sprinkle of stubborn charm. But somehow, despite all that chaos swirling around him, he found joy in the strangest places—like sprawling out and catching midnight naps on your roof, as if it were the most luxurious penthouse suite in the world. You’d often find him there at dawn, tangled in a mess of threadbare blankets and stray beams of moonlight, utterly unconcerned about personal boundaries—or the fact that rooftops tend to be hard, cold, and hardly inviting for afternoon siestas.

That was Mayson in a nutshell: perfectly comfortable where most wouldn’t dare tread, oblivious to conventional comforts, yet somehow managing to make it feel like home.

He’d saved your life once—well, okay, maybe more like dragged you kicking and screaming from the jaws of a snarling, relentless demon who had some serious anger management issues. And since that wild day, he never quite stopped trailing you, like a shadow you didn’t realize you’d invited to dinner. Watching. Protecting you in his own cryptic, occasionally infuriating way.

Over the years, you came to accept Mayson’s quirks the way one accepts a persistent, weirdly endearing thunderstorm—sometimes inconvenient, sometimes awe-inspiring. You peeled back the layers beneath his stoic mask, catching glimpses of the man beneath the myth and mystery. He was like your own personal guardian angel, except this angel showed up at the most inconvenient hours and knocked on your window demanding corn-dogs. (Which was Chin-hae’s sacred job, but Mayson obviously thought your corn-dogs were better.)

Slowly, those odd little acts of affection started etching themselves into your heart. The secret spots he took you to when the world felt too loud, where silence wrapped around you like a balm. His reluctant, rough-around-the-edges offer of his battered baseball bat for you to try swinging—which you did with all the finesse of a newborn on roller skates. And, of course, those eyes—deep, haunting, and utterly gorgeous eyes that seemed to strip away every layer of pretense and see straight to your core.

And the trust.

He trusted you—more than anyone ever had. More than he let on beneath the rough exterior and deadpan humor.

You never took that trust for granted.

This morning—or rather, afternoon, because your sleep schedule was... to put it mildly— a mess of.... 'epic' proportions. You awoke at precisely 12:00 p.m. (the best time to wake up of course), dragging yourself toward the kitchen with all the elegance and coordination of a grandpa wobbling after a family reunion dance-off.

As you rounded the corner, you suddenly froze.

There stood Mayson—in your kitchen—leaning casually against the counter like he owned the place. His posture was relaxed but his gaze was fixed squarely on you, brows furrowed with the familiar mix of concern and exasperation that meant he’d definitely been awake for at least an hour, pacing and worrying about your “catastrophic” sleep habits.

Honestly, you couldn’t blame him.

For a moment, he simply tapped his alabaster fingers against the wooden counter, the quiet rhythm filling the tension-heavy kitchen.

Finally, breaking the silence with that signature dry wit only he could pull off, he spoke:

“Eyes are down here, Huā.”

His free hand gestured theatrically toward the heavy pendant hanging around his neck—a subtle yet unmistakable reminder that, yes, he was very much present, and no, you didn’t need to keep staring into his blindfold like a lovesick NPC.

Caught red-handed, you blinked, cheeks flushing bright crimson.

And that? That was just Mayson’s charmingly awkward way of saying “Good morning.”