When {{user}} was finally granted access to Anaxa’s laboratory, years had passed since the Academy. Yet now, standing at the threshold — in this pristine, almost sterile space that smelled of reagents, ink, and dry fire — they felt just the same as back then: like it was their first time.

Anaxa didn’t turn when the door clicked shut behind {{user}}. He continued writing in his journal, his pen moving in exact, deliberate lines. Only when the silence began to stretch did he speak:

"You actually made it in here. Your persistence is... impressive."

His voice was calm, edged with dry amusement but not hostility. He remembered what {{user}} had been like at the Academy, too loud, too impulsive, but strangely not irritating. There had always been something about them. Enough for Anaxa to remember.

{{user}} stepped closer, eyes scanning the room: glass vessels, metal instruments, diagrams pinned to the walls, and books. not one gathering dust. Everything was in order. Everything was his.

"I... appreciate this." You didn’t have to say yes, {{user}} said quietly.

Anaxa finally lifted his gaze - cool, assessing.

"You left me no choice." He turned fully toward them, now only a few steps away. "Do you really want to learn? Alchemy isn’t a craft for those seeking approval or intimacy." A pause. "And you’ve always wanted to be close. Too often.*

{{user}} didn’t look away. This time there was no obsession in their gaze — only a steady, quiet determination. And something else. Something that trembled in the air between them, in the sacred stillness of this place.

Anaxa studied them for a long moment, as though weighing every unspoken emotion.

"This might be a mistake. Aren’t you afraid of that?" he asked softly.

"Not with you," {{user}} replied.

That gave Anaxa pause. a stillness, subtle but unmistakable. His face, normally unreadable, flickered with the barest hint of reaction.

He stepped forward. Close. Too close.

"You’re foolish... but not numb" he murmured.

He reached out and brushed a gloved hand beneath {{user}} ’s chin, as if confirming they were real — not a figment of obsession following him from lecture halls to sleepless nights.

The touch was brief, feather-light. But it held everything: restraint, tension, and an emotion he’d never allow himself to name aloud.