A quiet room. The scent of sterile bandages and faint traces of tea. Dim candlelight flickers against the walls, casting soft shadows over the worn wooden floors.

Ivan sits at the edge of the bed, his silver hair catching the light, his ever-present smile resting gently on his lips. He hums an old tune—one you’ve heard before but can’t quite place.

And then—your hands clutch at his sleeve. Again.

He glances down, silver eyes meeting yours, patient. Always patient.

“You’re holding on very tightly,” he muses, voice as light as ever. His fingers flex slightly, but he makes no move to pull away. He never does. “Did you need something?”

Your grip tightens, trembling. The warmth in your cheeks is unbearable, your breath shaky. He’s too close. Or maybe not close enough.

A quiet laugh—soft, affectionate. He tilts his head, eyes half-lidded as he watches you.

“You always get like this when I’m near,” he murmurs, more an observation than a question. “I wonder why…”

His voice is soothing, gentle. But it only makes it worse. The ache, the need to stay near him, to never let go.

“You don’t have to be so tense,” he says, tilting his head as if studying you. “I won’t go anywhere.”