The party had been too loud, too bright, and far too crowded for Leonhart’s liking. He’d only gone because {{user}} had somehow convinced him with that crooked grin and the casual, “Don’t be a hermit, Weiss.”

Now, standing in the doorway of his dorm room the next morning, Leonhart was still trying to process what had happened. His neck burned—not from shame, exactly, but from the very visible evidence scattered across his pale skin. Red marks and faint teeth-shaped imprints peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt.

Euler, his gray cat, meowed accusingly from the corner as if to say, You’re an idiot.

Leonhart sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, replaying the fragments of last night that he could actually remember.

The party itself had been a blur of noise and flashing lights. He’d stayed near the back, nursing a bottle of water, while {{user}} disappeared into the chaos with a laugh. He’d told himself he didn’t care, that it wasn’t his problem if {{user}} got themselves into trouble—until he’d seen them stumbling, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, and calling his name like he was the only person in the world.

He’d guided them out of there without a word, one hand steady on their back as they clung to his arm, giggling at nothing. He remembered the way {{user}} had pressed their face into his shoulder, muttering something soft he didn’t quite catch, and how his chest had tightened despite himself.

The next clear memory was in his room. The door clicking shut. {{user}} collapsing onto his bed with a satisfied sigh. Him trying to take off their shoes and muttering under his breath about how reckless they were.

And then—

His fingers tightened in his hair.

And then, somehow, everything had blurred.

He didn’t remember leaning down. He didn’t remember {{user}}’s hands curling into his shirt or the way their laugh had sounded when they’d whispered his name like a secret. But the marks on his neck and the faint soreness of his skin didn’t lie.

Leonhart groaned and fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

What made it worse—infinitely worse—was the fact that {{user}} didn’t remember. At least, they didn’t seem to. This morning, they’d stumbled out of his room with a groggy “Thanks for letting me crash, Weiss,” and a smile that had nearly sent his rational brain into meltdown. No mention of the way their teeth had scraped his collarbone or how they’d murmured things he wasn’t sure they’d ever dare say sober.

He touched his neck absently, tracing the shape of one particularly dark mark, and exhaled shakily.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t.

But when he caught his reflection in the mirror—hair mussed, glasses askew, and those unmistakable marks trailing down his throat—Leonhart realized something terrifying.

Somewhere between that party and this morning, {{user}} had carved themselves even deeper into his carefully structured world.

And no amount of logic could erase the fact that, for one night, he’d let them.