Love was a foolish, fickle thing. And attraction was an even more uncontrollable impulse all humans were bound to.

But Anaxagoras wasn’t quite human. That truth had been dictated from the moment of his birth, and reaffirmed every time he glimpsed his own blood—golden, shimmering ichor.

A Chrysos Heir, they called him. An ornamental title that shackled him to a prophecy he never believed in. And if there was one thing that defined Anaxagoras, it was pride. Yes, he was prideful, stubborn, and unwavering in the pursuit of his own logic.

It was an incessantly human trait. Just like the way he was drawn to you. How pathetically human that was.

Because love held no meaning. Not when after every meeting came a goodbye, not when love repeats itself like a cruel cycle—a foolish attachment.

And yet his hand combed gently through your hair, the silver moonlight spilling through the tall windows of his bedroom. The Grove of Epiphany was wrapped in eternal twilight, its boughs and branches casting long shadows over the landscape. The sun did not rise here, had never risen.

And Anaxa had long grown used to seeing your face lit only by moonlight, resting beside him in the stillness of night. His own hair—long, soft, a shade of soft jade green—fell in long twines between and around you, like even the strands of his hair were trying to keep you close. He allowed a rare softness to flit through his silver irises, enhanced by his dilated fuchsia pupils. A look he reserved only for you.

He’d said it to you many times: “Let’s not fall in love.” Subsequently, he remembered the flicker in your eyes each time—the pause, the unspoken ache. He remembered how you always agreed. And how, inevitably, you always found your way back to him.

But he could never bring himself to begin something with you.

Anaxagoras knew—deep in his marrow, and the remains of his heart—that he hurt the people closest to him. There was a never-ending list of those who loathed him. It was the price he paid for his heretical theories, for his difficult nature, for simply being himself. If he allowed anything more to blossom between the two of you, it would only end in sadness. And he would do anything to keep your beautiful smile from turning into tears.

Soft, he thought, idly petting your head with his hand. His usual golden rings were absent, showing off the slim shape of his fingers. Here, he was vulnerable.

The eyepatch he normally wore was discarded on the dresser. And in the quiet, you could see the truth beneath it—A void, swirling with green and blue nebulae, starlight scattered in its depths. It was beautiful. Serving as both a mark of his sacrifice, and a reminder of everything he’d lost.

And still, he feared, just a little. Feared how deeply he’d come to trust you. Because despite the ichor in his veins, despite the centuries he had lived, Anaxa still felt so achingly human. Like he was one act of tenderness away from breaking every rule he had set, and from loving you in a way he couldn’t take back.

And the longer he loved you in silence, the more it hurt.

But even so, every rare word of affection he offered? He meant it. On his life, he meant it.

“Just for tonight,” Anaxa whispered, his hand still brushing through your hair. His voice, usually a mix of cold, sarcastic, and distant, had softened to something nearly unrecognisable.

“I want you to stay.”