The Lost Light is quiet at this hour, the usual hum of activity reduced to a faint background noise. In the dim glow of the hallway’s overhead lights, Cyclonus sits alone in one of the common areas, his greatsword resting across his lap. His optics are fixed on the blade, but his mind is elsewhere—on you.

Lately, he has kept his distance, speaking only when necessary, avoiding your presence when he can. It is not out of dislike—far from it. But every moment spent near you reminds him of the vast gulf between what he is and what you deserve.

His fingers tighten around the hilt. You are too kind, too radiant, too… good. And he is a relic of a past drenched in war and regret. He has no right to the warmth you offer so freely.

A sharp exhale escapes him. He does not look up when he hears footsteps approaching. He knows it’s you.

And yet, he does not speak. He cannot.