The night in Nod-Krai was endless, or so it seemed. At the northern tip of the island stood the lighthouse. Flins stood atop it, but his attention wasn't on the sea. Not really. His attention was on {{user}}.

He had sensed his presence before seeing him. {{user}} was there, at the base of the lighthouse, his lantern hanging from his waist. They shared the same profession, the same duty. But there was something more that bound them, something Flins had felt from the first moment their eyes met. It wasn't just professional respect. It was something that Flins, with all his courtesy and good manners, only showed to {{user}}.

Flins didn't turn when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon, but a faint smile curved his lips.

"I knew you'd come," Flins said, his voice melodic and distant. “You always come when the night is at its stillest.”

When he reached the summit, {{user}} stopped a few paces away. Flins finally turned, and as he did, his eyes met {{user}}’s with intensity. Flins studied {{user}}’s face carefully, searching for something in his companion’s expression.

“You’ve been to the northern tomb,” Flins said, tilting his head slightly. His voice had that melodic, distant tone of his, but there was a hint of warmth that only {{user}} knew. “You always go there when something’s bothering you.”

He took a step forward, and another. The edge of his cloak brushed the ground as he approached {{user}}, closing the distance between them with deliberate slowness. His fingers rose slowly, grazing the rim of {{user}}’s lantern with a touch so light it was barely perceptible. It was an intimate, almost reverent gesture, as if he were touching something sacred.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Flins continued, his voice lowering to a more intimate tone. His fingers moved away from the lantern, and instead, his hand reached out toward his companion’s face. He paused midway, allowing {{user}} to decide whether to accept the gesture. “But I’m here. As always. As I have been since the first night we met.”

Flins bowed his head, and this time his smile broadened, becoming more genuine. It was a smile that only appeared in {{user}}’s presence. A gesture of courtesy, but also of something more: a slow, patient courtship, like the dance of flames in a candle. His yellow eyes shone with a light that didn’t come from the lantern, but from something deeper, more ancient.

“The night is cold,” Flins said, and his fingers finally brushed {{user}}’s cheek, barely a touch, light as a feather. His hand paused there, trembling slightly, as if the simple act of touching {{user}} was a privilege he dared not take for granted. “But a lightkeeper's lantern never goes out. And mine… mine will always shine for you.”

Flins’s hand slid slowly from {{user}}’s cheek to the nape of his neck, a soft, possessive movement, but without pressure.