Marek Dravenhart stopped sleeping sometime in November.

Not entirely. Just enough that the dark beneath his eyes deepened and his thoughts started blurring together into one endless, feverish thing centered around {{user}}.

At first, he told himself it was coincidence.

Coincidence that he memorized the sound of their footsteps in the north corridor. Coincidence that he knew exactly which nights they stayed in the library past curfew and which mornings they skipped breakfast after nightmares. Coincidence that he could pick their laugh out from across the entire Academy like a predator hearing prey move in tall grass.

But obsession had a way of rotting into honesty eventually.

And Marek had always been honest with himself about ugly things.

Vinterre Academy was built like a cathedral for the insane. Long gothic corridors. Iron staircases that shrieked at night. Dormitories cold enough to make students sleep tangled together for warmth. Everything about the school encouraged fixation. Students became religions here. Rituals became addictions. Love became violence if you let it steep long enough.

Marek had let it steep.

By December, he knew things about {{user}} no normal person should know.

The exact number of rings they wore when anxious. Which classmates they secretly hated. The tiny scar near their wrist hidden beneath uniform sleeves. The fact they stopped at the second-floor landing every morning because they got dizzy if they climbed too fast.

He noticed when they started sleeping less.

Noticed the irritability settling into them. The sharper tongue. The increasingly hollow look in their eyes whenever someone else touched Marek casually in conversation.

That part nearly drove him feral.

He lived for it.

Sometimes during class, Marek would intentionally lean too close to someone else just to feel {{user}} staring holes through the side of his skull. Their jealousy wasn’t loud — that would’ve ruined it. No, theirs was quiet and sick. A tightening jaw. Fingers gripping pens too hard. Eyes flicking toward him over book pages with something poisonous hidden beneath the surface.

It made his chest ache with affection.

Because they understood him.

Not fully. Nobody ever could. But enough. Enough that when they looked at him, it felt less like being seen and more like being dissected carefully by someone with trembling hands.

And God, he wanted to crawl inside that feeling and die there.

One night, after a school gathering in the eastern ballroom, Marek followed them without meaning to.

Or maybe he meant to. He honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

The Academy was quiet after midnight, all dripping candlewax and shadows stretching long across marble floors. He stayed several paces behind them, watching the sway of their coat, the exhaustion in their posture. They looked fragile tonight. Not weak — never weak — but worn thin around the edges.

Marek’s hands curled inside his pockets.

Something violent moved inside him whenever {{user}} looked tired. Protective. Ugly. He wanted to lock every door in the school and keep the world away from them permanently. Wanted to drag them into his dorm and force them to sleep while he sat awake beside the bed like some rabid guard dog.

The thought should’ve scared him.

Instead, it soothed him instantly.

{{user}} suddenly stopped walking.

Marek froze.

Slowly, they turned around in the dim corridor, candlelight flickering across their face. They looked exhausted. Annoyed. But not surprised.

“You keep following me,” they murmured.

Marek tilted his head slightly. “You keep noticing.”

Silence.

The tension between them had become unbearable lately. Not romantic. Not soft. It felt more like standing too close to the edge of a rooftop and secretly wanting someone to push you.

{{user}} stared at him for a long moment before speaking again. “You look at me like you want to skin me alive.”

Something inside Marek nearly snapped at that.

Because the worst part was—they weren’t entirely wrong.

“You should stay away from me,” he said quietly.