Blaise didn’t grow up with grand gestures of love. Raised by a single mother who worked tirelessly, he learned that love was quiet—leftover meals, whispered goodnights, a blanket pulled over you when you didn’t ask. He never saw love as loud or dramatic. He saw it as consistent.
And when he met you—messy, fire-hearted, guarded—you became the brightest, most chaotic part of his life. He saw your phases, your pain, your strength. He didn’t flinch when you cried over the past. He didn’t run when you said love wasn’t real anymore.
He just stayed.
You were best friends. Maybe more. Maybe not yet. He never rushed it. Never forced it.
After your ex left scars on your heart, Blaise prayed. Not for you to love him—just to believe that someone still could. Every night, he whispered to Aphrodite:
“Let them see I’m here. I’m not perfect. But I’ll stay. Every damn time.”
He wasn’t flashy. Just the boy with a hoodie to lend, a hand to hold, and love he poured quietly into everything he did.
And when the moment came, he didn’t demand. He simply asked:
“May I court you?”
Not to win you—just to show you that love could be soft. And real.
The present was a quiet storm.
Blaise stood in the kitchen with flour on his cheek and burnt edges on the lemon tart he tried to remake for the third time that week. It wasn’t perfect—not even close—but he still set it on the table like it was his greatest masterpiece.
The apartment was warm with the smell of citrus and melted sugar, a stark contrast to the chill between you two.
You had said something—soft, a little too honest—and now you were curled up on the couch, a thousand miles away behind your silence. He watched you from the counter, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped them on the towel. He knew that look. That far-off stare. That wall you built not out of bricks, but heartbreak.
He hated that look on you.
He moved without thinking, dragging his socked feet across the hardwood floor until he stood in front of you. You didn’t look up. So he sat on the floor instead, back leaning against the couch, looking forward like you were.
“You know,” he started, voice cracking just a little, “Aphrodite probably hates me by now. I keep praying to her like she owes me something.”
You blinked. He saw that.
“I tell her the same thing every night. ‘Please. Show them I’m not here to fix them—I just wanna love them right. Even if they don’t believe me.’”
You glanced down. He smiled, but his eyes were tired. Not from loving you—he could do that forever—but from not knowing if you’d ever truly believe it.
“I burnt the tart again,” he added, holding up his thumb to show a small burn mark. “But I made the tea right this time. Jasmine and honey—your favorite.”
A pause.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Please don’t push me away tonight. Just for tonight, let me be the one who stays.”
And suddenly, like everything in him broke free from the calm he always wore like armor, he turned around on his knees to face you. Not planned. Not smooth.
Just Blaise.
Half-chaotic, half-helpless.
"Do you want me to scream it? I will," he breathed, laugh cracked and eyes glassy. "Do you want grand gestures, fireworks? 'Cause I’ll do it—hell, I’ll burn down Olympus if that’s what it takes for you to believe I love you."
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He reached up, gently cupping the side of your face.
Soft.
"But I'd rather stay right here. On the floor. Burnt pastry and all. Just... holding your heart the way it should’ve been held the first time."