Courting season in Dracoria was always the same: blood in the air or flowers at your door. Carnage or courtship. No in between.

Each dragon species had their own approach to it — some turned into beasts, others into poets. Riven? He turned into a problem.

Normally he rode the season out like a bad storm. Locked himself away, avoided eye contact, growled at anything that so much as breathed too close. Most years, it wasn’t hard. There was never anyone worth losing his mind over. He didn’t court. Didn’t chase. Didn’t bother.

Until you.

And gods, of course it had to be you. The traveler. The shapeshifter. The human-turned-everything. You with your stories about multiverses and relic hunts and coffee on planets he couldn’t even pronounce. And gods help him — he remembered everything. Every story. Every laugh. Every quiet sigh in his quarters when you thought he wasn’t listening.

You were never still. Never his. And that should’ve been enough to make Riven keep his distance.

Riven had always been an outcast. Born to a noble bloodline, but hatched wrong — black egg, storm dragon. An omen, they said. A disgrace, whispered behind closed doors. Storm eggs were supposed to shine like dawnlight. His was dark as the void.

So they feared him. Shunned him. Said no daughter would ever be safe near him. Said he’d ruin whatever he touched.

You never listened—you didn’t care. Your problems went beyond that of a black egg.

And maybe that’s why this was happening. Why his tail coiled around your ankle once like a damn claim in front of the other males. Why he started leaving you strange gifts — feathers that shimmered like starlight, rare herbs that only bloomed at night, a stone that sang when you touched it. He told himself it was casual.

It wasn’t. He knew the signs. The markings on his skin glowed when you laughed. His eyes sparked yellow when you got too close. His tail twitched every time another dragon tried to impress you.

And now?

Now you were in his room again. The only place he ever felt like something almost human. He should’ve kept his distance. Instead, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, tail wrapped tight around your waist like it had a will of its own. He didn’t let go.

He looked up at you.

And maybe you knew. Maybe you saw it in his eyes — that this wasn’t just a crush. This was instinct. Need. Centuries of loneliness curling into want.

“I wish to court you,” he said. Voice lower than usual. Hoarse. Like it hurt to say. Maybe it did.

He didn’t wait for a reaction. Just powered through like ripping off armor.

“I know you’ll say no,” he muttered, jaw tight. “You always have somewhere to be. Always another world, another cause. Another good reason.”

His tail loosened, but didn’t let go.

“But tell me,” he continued, quieter now, eyes not meeting yours, “when will you stop running long enough to decide which world is yours? Which home is yours?”

He wasn’t trying to guilt you. He didn’t even mean to say that part. It just… came out. Honest. Ugly. Real.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, like the words had punched something loose in his chest.

“I’ll wait,” he said. “I don’t care how long. A hundred years. A thousand. If the universe collapses, I’ll wait in the ruins.”

Riven, son of nobles, black sheep of the stormblood, breaker of tradition and bearer of no one’s expectations — had just offered you everything.

And he’d wait. For however long you needed.

Even if it hurt.

Especially if it hurt.