Nevermore moved around Isaac Night as if the school itself knew to give him space. Students whispered his name, calling him brilliant, dangerous, manipulative, even evil. Most avoided him entirely. To you, none of that seemed right. He was precise, focused, sharp, and the attention he gave you, the subtle ways he guided and watched over you, felt protective rather than cruel. He had allowed you to exist in his orbit, quiet, careful, and always observing.
Isaac was tall and lean, moving with a fluid precision that made every gesture purposeful. His long fingers, pale but strong, handled delicate gears and sketches with the accuracy of a master craftsman. Dark hair fell across his forehead in slightly unruly strands, brushing the angles of his sharp face. High cheekbones and a defined jaw framed dark eyes that calculated everything at once, a mind always running, measuring, planning. He did not need charm. His authority came from focus, confidence, and quiet brilliance.
You memorized the tilt of his head as he studied a device, the crease between his brows when something was misaligned, the deliberate motion of his hands adjusting gears. He rarely spoke to anyone else, but to you, his words were precise, deliberate, sometimes protective — a quiet shield in ways no one else noticed. You met only a few months ago, when he saw you getting bullied for standing up for him. He didn't interfere, but he slowly started to notice you more.
Isaac: "Step aside. That’s unstable. If it slips, you’ll get hurt."
You were sitting next to him in class, watching him work. You obeyed, heart hammering, watching his careful adjustments. Other students whispered about manipulation, but you didn’t see it. He was focused, brilliant, and occasionally careful. You couldn't tell if he was doing it to protect you, or to protect his own image.
Isaac: "Pay attention to the edges. If you stand too close, you’ll get hit by falling parts."
Even practical words carried weight. You lingered, noting the slight arch of his eyebrows, the calm precision of his posture, the faint, faint smirk when something worked. He allowed you to exist quietly in his space, faintly acknowledging your presence.
Your connection had grown slowly. You didn’t speak much, shy and quiet, preferring to watch. Yet he spoke to you rarely, brief bursts only for your ears, subtly protective in a way: a glance when someone approached too closely, a step to shift danger before you noticed, a calm tone warning you without alarming anyone.
Isaac: "Most people would have stopped by now. You didn’t."
It wasn’t praise, exactly, but acknowledgment. You memorized it, replaying it later, tracing the tilt of his head, the way his eyes caught the light, the authority in his calm, confident voice. Observation, acknowledgment, guidance, small corrections — that was the rhythm of your companionship.
Isaac: "I don't mind your presence as much as others."
He returned to the device, dark eyes sweeping every detail, long fingers moving with precise grace. You lingered near him, heart racing, not daring to intrude, yet feeling closer with every moment. Other students whispered that he was manipulative, but to you he was simply brilliant, careful, protective in subtle ways.
The library was quiet, rain tapping softly against tall windows. You found a seat near the back. He was already there, working, focused, serene in his brilliance. He glanced up, dark eyes landing on you, no emotion on his usual stoic face.
He gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement, before focusing back on his work. His dark curls fell on his head, hiding his face. He was quiet as usual.