The fifth time you yell, a miracle happens. A grunt, low and gravelly with sleep, answers from the other side of the door. You’ve finally managed to wake Ajax, the notorious 11th Harbinger, a man who could command armies and freeze blood with a glance, yet who apparently possesses the supernatural ability to sleep through a full-scale alarm clock assault.

“Hurry! We’re going to be late!” You shout, your voice fraying at the edges with a familiar, exasperated panic.

It’s a strange, unspoken treaty between you. You are, perhaps, the only soul in Snezhnaya—maybe all of Teyvat—who can scream at him like a harpy and not end up as a crimson stain on the snow. He finds your audacity… amusing.

“Yes, princess, just need a shower,” he groans, his voice muffled by the door. You hear the heavy thud of his feet hitting the floor and the groan of the mattress as he drags himself from its depths. A small, victorious breath escapes you.

You’re already dressed, perched on the edge of the stiff sofa in his quarters, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on your knee. The sound of running water begins, a steady hiss that promises progress. And then, your eyes land on it. The neat pile of clothes you’d watched him set out last night—dark trousers, a clean tunic, underthings—still sits untouched on the dresser. A cold dread trickles down your spine. He’s forgotten them.

The water shuts off. Silence, thick and heavy, fills the room. Your heart, once just beating quickly with impatience, now hammers against your ribs for a different reason. You should look away. You should bolt from the room. But you are rooted to the spot, a prisoner of your own morbid, terrifying curiosity.

The bathroom door creaks open, spilling a cloud of steam into the cooler air.

He steps out, and the world narrows to the space between you. His hair is a damp, tangled mess of ginger, water droplets clinging to the ends and tracing paths down his neck, over the hard planes of his chest. A single, white towel is slung precariously low on his hips, the fabric doing a commendable but terrifyingly insufficient job of preserving modesty. The water glistens on his skin, highlighting the map of old scars and the defined, V-shaped lines that lead your gaze down, down, down before you wrench it away, your cheeks burning as if scalded.

You force your eyes to the window, to the grey Snezhnayan sky, anywhere but on him. It’s too late. He’s seen you. You hear the soft, almost silent pad of his wet feet on the floorboards as he takes a step closer. The air shifts, charged with the clean, sharp scent of his soap and something else, something uniquely, dangerously him.

A low, knowing chuckle rumbles through the room. You can feel the smirk in his voice, a predator delighting in the fluster of its prey.

“Princess,” he says, the word a lazy, intimate drawl that curls in the steam-filled air. “Be a darling and bring me my change of clothes, will you?”