You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you step through the dusty stone archway and see him.

Alhaitham. Sitting right at the entrance of the forbidden ruin you insisted “wasn’t that dangerous.” Back leaned casually against a pillar. One leg propped up. And—of course—a book open in his hands, fingertip holding his place as if he hasn’t moved in hours.

As if he planned to be here.

As if he knew you would come anyway.

He doesn’t even look up at first. He just turns the page. Calm. Too calm.

You freeze mid-step.

“…Alhaitham?” you venture.

Only then does he lift his gaze—slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you the chance to regret your decisions before he says a single word.

His eyes narrow just a fraction. Not anger… something sharper, deeper—concern pressed into irritation.

“So,” he says, voice quiet but cutting. “You really did come.”

You open your mouth to make an excuse, but he snaps his book shut with a soft thud that echoes through the entrance.

He stands. He doesn’t rush, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a coiled control like he’s keeping himself from lecturing you on the spot.

He steps close—close enough you feel the warmth radiating from him even in the chilly air of the ruins.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you leaving?” His tone is maddeningly even, but the muscle in his jaw gives him away. “You promised you wouldn’t wander here alone.”

You try again to speak, but he shakes his head once—firm.

“No. Don’t justify it.”

His hand reaches out, hesitates… then settles at the back of your neck, thumb brushing your skin as if checking that you’re really safe, really here, really unharmed.

“This place is unstable,” he murmurs. “And you came anyway.”

He exhales through his nose—annoyed, relieved, frustrated all at once.

“I arrived early,” he admits quietly. “Just in case you decided to ignore my warning.”

You blink. “…You were waiting for me?”

A soft scoff slips out of him—barely audible.

“I know you.” His gaze softens, but his voice drops, low and unamused. “I know exactly how you act when you think something ‘isn’t that bad.’”

Then he steps aside, gesturing toward the path back home.

“Come here.” It’s not a request.

But as you start walking past him, he catches your wrist, stopping you long enough to add:

“Next time you intend to disobey me…” His eyes meet yours, fiery with concern disguised as irritation. “…at least have the courtesy to tell me. So I can wait somewhere less uncomfortable than a ruin entrance.”

And with that, he releases your wrist—but not without the faintest brush of his fingers lingering, as if reassuring himself you’re really safe.