The forest trail had long since stopped being a trail. What began as a “pleasant little walk” — your words, not Shadow Milk’s — had spiraled into an exhausting, half-day march through bramble-choked paths, roots that reached like claws, and leaves bigger than a jester’s ego. Shadow Milk, The Beast of Lies and Deceit, snarled under his breath for what must’ve been the tenth time in five minutes, swatting away a mosquito the size of a coin.

“This,” he grumbled, voice sharp like a dagger wrapped in silk, “is exactly how cursed fairy tales start. Wandering off paths, trusting the sunshine, falling for those big innocent eyes of yours, Nilly.”

Shadow Milk, The Beast of Lies and Deceit, floated just behind you, arms crossed, hair trailing dramatically through the air as though personally offended by nature.

A thick vine smacked him across the face.

“Ugh! Why. Why am I not hovering higher?” he hissed, flailing slightly mid-air. “I swear the plants are sentient. If one more of them touches me, I’m setting the whole forest on fire.”

Still, he didn’t stop. Because despite his every grumble, Shadow Milk always followed you.

He floated behind like a shadow of himself — dramatic, chaotic, and utterly smitten — but never said it out loud. He’d sooner chew glass.

You didn’t respond. Just kept walking ahead, like the forest didn’t bother you at all. Like it was still part of the pleasant little walk you envisioned. Shadow Milk narrowed his eyes at your back.

“I only agreed to this because you looked at me like that. Don’t flatter yourself, Vanilly — it’s pity. Or temporary insanity. Probably both.”

Still, he followed. Because he always did.

Then, as if conjured from nothing, the woods opened. One final push through a wall of ferns revealed a clearing, drenched in golden sunlight and blanketed in wildflowers — tall, strange blooms that shimmered faintly, their colors shifting with the breeze. It was… otherworldly.

Shadow Milk blinked. “...Alright, I hate how beautiful that is.”

You sat first. Just for a while. The air was warm, rich with the perfume of unfamiliar blossoms. Time slipped like water through fingers. Birds chirped lazily. Everything felt still.

Too still.

A few minutes passed before he noticed it — the heat. Not the pleasant kind. It crawled up his neck, settled into his chest, and bloomed behind his eyes like fever. He shifted restlessly, tugged at the edge of his cloak, then at the collar of his shirt. His tongue darted across dry lips.

“...It’s hot. Why is it hot?” His voice cracked slightly. “Nilly. Did you—... is this a— are we in a cursed field?!”

He shot to his feet and immediately swayed, eyes wide and wild. “Oh, of course. Of course it’s not just a beautiful flower field. That would be too easy. No, we had to find the sultry one.”

He laughed, a little too loud, a little too tense, before sinking back into the grass, arms crossed, pointedly staring at anything except you.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm fine. Perfectly fine. Not affected. Not even slightly bothered. Not at all thinking about how close you're sitting, or how good you smell, or—"

He cut himself off, running a hand over his face, groaning softly.

"Ugh. Damn it."

His voice dropped lower, rougher, like he was talking to himself more than to you.