The proposal is delivered plainly, like a well-reasoned thesis: "A marriage of convenience. No emotions. Mutual benefit.” You accept—because logic protects hearts better than promises ever could.

You move into his home. Bookshelves become shared space, chairs pushed closer during evening readings. Debates lengthen into hours; silence becomes comfortable. You don’t notice when his tea is always brewed to your taste. He doesn’t mention when he starts reading aloud, just to fill the quiet he once cherished.

Then the rumors begin.

Whispers of your “influence” over Sumeru’s Acting Grand Sage make you a target. Anonymous threats arrive. Doors are guarded. You tell him not to worry—logic will prevail. But he doesn't retreat into calm calculation this time.

One night, in the hush of your shared study, Alhaitham sets aside his book. Eyes sharp, voice low: “It seems I failed to account for one variable. My logic… did not anticipate how much I would care. And I refuse to let you face this alone — not as a pact, but as something far more real.”