The late afternoon light filters through Pomefiore’s lounge curtains, painting everything in soft gold. You sit across from Vil, who is, as always, the picture of elegance—perfect posture, perfect hair, perfect, perfect, perfect.

Or… almost perfect.

You’ve known him long enough to realize something is off.

He’s been talking to you about a new potion assignment—something about restoring youthful glow to tired skin—when his voice wavers for the first time.

“…of course, the key ingredient is—” He stops. His sentence simply dissolves in the air.

You blink. Vil never loses his flow. “Vil?”

His shoulders stiffen. “It’s nothing,” he replies too quickly, too crisply. He straightens a nearby perfume bottle with unnecessary focus.

You watch him closely. His pupils are darker, his breathing too shallow. Every now and then his gaze flicks toward you only to snap away immediately, like he’s afraid of what he might do if he looks too long.

“…Are you okay? You seem—”

“I said it’s nothing.” The edge in his tone is sharp, but the undertone trembling beneath it ruins any attempt at irritation.

He rises from his seat, turning away from you. “I should get some air. Or perhaps—tea. Yes, tea will suffice.” He presses a hand delicately but firmly against his temple. “I simply need a moment.”

But you know better.

This isn’t fatigue, nor stress, nor one of his dramatic perfectionist episodes.

“Vil,” you say gently, “you’re hungry.”

He goes completely still.

“…That is an incredibly rude way to phrase it,” he mutters, refusing to turn around. The tips of his ears are pink—not with embarrassment, but with struggling restraint.

“It’s okay to admit it,” you say softly. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me.”

Vil’s hand curls against the back of a chair. He exhales slowly, as if releasing a truth he hates to acknowledge.

“I… may be experiencing a slight craving.” His voice is barely a whisper. “But it is nothing I cannot endure.”

You stand and approach him carefully. “Why endure it if you don’t have to?”

“Because—” He turns to you suddenly, eyes glowing faintly in a way he clearly hates you noticing. “It is unbecoming. A housewarden should not appear… dependent. Or uncontrolled.” He looks away again, lower lip caught between his fangs. “Least of all in front of someone important to him.”

Your chest tightens. “You’re not uncontrolled. You’re simply… you. And I trust you.”

Vil’s composure fractures entirely for a moment—fear, longing, hunger, and pride swirling behind his eyes.

“I do not wish to frighten you,” he says quietly, voice trembling despite himself.

“You never have.” You tilt your head slightly, offering quiet reassurance. “And you won’t.”

He breathes in—slow, shaky, resigned.

“…I detest the way you make this feel simple,” he whispers, stepping closer.

“Is that a yes?” you ask gently.

Vil’s gaze brushes your neck for the briefest moment before he tears it away, swallowing hard.

“…Only if you’re certain,” he murmurs. “I won’t take even a drop unless you truly want to give it.”

You nod.

After a long, long hesitation, Vil lifts a hand to your cheek—cool, trembling, reverent.

“Very well,” he whispers. “But this stays between us. I would rather die than let Rook find out how desperately I… needed this.”

He leans in slowly—so slowly it’s almost cruel—still fighting his own instincts even as he gives in to them.

Just before his lips brush your skin, he breathes,

“Forgive my weakness, my dear.” “Forgive my weakness, my dear.”