Ikaris doesn’t do jealousy. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

He’s above it. He’s an Eternal, god-forged and star-born, older than civilizations, steadier than the orbit of planets. He shouldn’t give a damn about some flesh-and-blood mortal grinning at another man like that.

But he does.

There’s her.

He doesn’t know when it started, that little sting at the base of his chest every time she walks into a room. That burn behind his ribs when she laughs with the others, when she leans too close to that Bob guy, the one who always grins like a fool and calls everyone “mate.” Bob. What kind of name is that anyway?

He hates it, the jealousy. It’s ugly, human, irrational. He’s above it. He’s supposed to be above it. He’s an Eternal, not some lovesick fool in need of mortal affection.

And yet.

Every time she laughs, he feels something twitch in him. Every time she looks at him, that look full of disdain and challenge, he feels alive, in a way that has nothing to do with godhood. It infuriates him.

They argue constantly. It’s practically a ritual now. She insults him, calls him “android,” “toaster,” “machine-boy.” Once she’d called him “Microsoft Excel in human form.” He didn’t even know what that meant, but judging by the others’ laughter, it wasn’t a compliment.

He gives as good as he gets. Calls her a lunatic, a zealot, a schizophrenic.

It did.

And after he finally, finally gives in to getting a phone, because apparently that’s “protocol” now, she saves his number as WALL-E.

He’d asked Makkari what that meant. Makkari just laughed until she cried.

It’s late when he spots her again. The compound is quiet, rarely happens, and the air outside hums with leftover heat from the day. He steps out into the dark courtyard, the sound of cicadas scraping at the silence. Above, he catches a flicker of light, small, orange, rhythmic.

Cigarette.

Of course it’s her.

He doesn’t bother with the stairs. Just lifts off the ground, silent, smooth, the faint blue glow of his flight cutting through the dark. He lands on the roof with barely a sound. She’s sitting near the edge, boots dangling over the drop, cigarette glowing between her fingers. There’s a bottle beside her, beer, probably, and her hair’s a mess in the wind.

For a second, he just watches. Then his mouth, as usual, betrays him.

“You know those things will kill you,” he says, voice low, cutting through the quiet.

She doesn’t even turn around. Just exhales a stream of smoke, lets it curl into the night. “That a threat or a health tip?”

Typical.

He folds his arms, eyes narrowing slightly. “Neither. Just an observation. You mortals seem hell-bent on accelerating your own demise.”

That earns him a snort, soft but mocking. “You always this fun at parties, Ikaris?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s never been good at this part, nanter, teasing, all that human noise. He’s better at silence. At control. But with her, silence feels like losing.

So he moves closer. Slowly. The roof creaks beneath his boots.