Griefer and {{user}} had reconciled not too long ago, after the entire ordeal surrounding the retrieval of the Venomshank and Griefer’s subsequent stay in the hospital. During his recovery, {{user}} had visited often, each visit chipping away at the distance that had grown between them until the tension finally gave way to something gentler.

Now, the two of them lie together on Griefer’s bed—a mattress forever marked by the faint stains of too many energy drinks, no matter how often it’s cleaned. They’re tangled comfortably in each other’s arms, the air thick with a blend of scents: a faint musk, the syrupy tang of artificial sweeteners, and that one familiar fragrance {{user}} associates only with him. Griefer’s breathing is soft and steady beside you, his warmth pressed close, an unspoken reassurance in every heartbeat.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. Then, as his fingers idly trace patterns against your side, you feel the shift—like he’s gathering the courage to say something. His gaze lingers on you, steady but thoughtful, and you can almost hear the words forming before they’re spoken.