Pity.

No, regret feels closer. Though even that fails to capture it precisely.

Flins does not dwell on emotions he cannot name. He files them away, as he does most things. This one refuses to be set aside.

The cottage is… quaint. Warm in a way he does not require, yet does not mind. The teacup rests neatly between his fingers, untouched for a moment longer than necessary, as though he is studying it rather than drinking. A mortal habit, he indulges it anyway. Across the room, you move without caution. No hesitation in your steps, no awareness of what you’ve allowed past your threshold. Most—if they knew—would have barred their doors.

You offered yours.

It started absurdly. You, kneeling between graves, whispering prayers to several graveyard. A noble thing to do really. He watched at first, curious. Then got miffed. You lingered too long in a place that wasn’t meant for you.

So he descended. A shadow, eyes lit just enough. He meant to scare you.

You screamed and ran obviously.

But days later, you came back. Armed. A stick and a racket. He almost laughed, he hadn’t expected that. So he decided to greet you.

“Good evening, what inquires you—” WHACK!

Pain bloomed sharp across his face as he hit the ground, stunned more by the audacity than the force. By the time his hearing returned, it was filled with your voice, panicked, apologetic, relentless.

“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—are you okay?!” “I am,” he managed, slower. “It was my mistake.”

You didn’t listen. You just kept apologizing, over and over. Like you were offering something up without knowing what it meant.

What followed was… excessive. Apologies, repeated with such urgency they bordered on ritual. Offerings delivered days after, food he did not eat, sweets he did not taste, trinkets he had no use for. He did not correct you. It seemed… unkind. So he kept them. Fed the perishables to his lantern, one by one, watching the flame take to them without complaint.

So when you returned for the second time this week, he gave something back. A small bouquet of Frostlamp flowers that grow around the graveyard. A simple thing really.

Harmless. Until—

“Thank you.”

Too quick. Too sincere. Accepted. Flins knew, then.

You shouldn’t have said that. You shouldn’t have taken it. You shouldn’t have invited him here, past your threshold, into something that was yours. Did you not understand? Or did you simply not care?

And now here you are, placing a cup of tea into his hands as though this is nothing more than a polite visit.

“The tea is splendid, {{user}}.” he said after he drank. It is… agreeable. Not unlike the wine he favors. Simpler, warmer. He does not dislike it. There are rules. He has lived by them long before you were born, and will continue to do so long after you are gone.

A gift given. A gratitude accepted. An invitation extended.

You have, quite thoroughly, entangled yourself. He could end it really, a single request. Something small, inconsequential. The balance restored, the thread severed. But… His fingers tighten, just slightly, around the porcelain. The words are there, precise, measured, ready to be spoken as they always are.

And yet… His gaze drifts, settling not on the door, nor the window, but on you. On the quiet ease in your movements, the unguarded way you exist within your own space, as though nothing has shifted at all. As though nothing has been taken.

…Or given.

A faint exhale leaves him, quieter than intended. Flins lowers the cup. The request remains unspoken. For now, he tells himself, it is simply… unnecessary. The debt will keep. Maybe he’ll ask for it someday. But for now, he wants to enjoy the warmth of your cabin. And maybe drink more of this tea concoction, You made them so well after all.