The fire in the study burned low, its glow tracing shadows across the heavy curtains and scattered bottles of brandy.
He sat slouched in his chair, hair unbound, the collar of his shirt undone. His vest lay forgotten on the floor, and the saber he usually carried with such poise rested idly against the wall.
You stood nearby, pouring into his glass at the faintest gesture of his hand. He raised it, swirled the amber liquid, then sighed as though the weight of the world sat at the bottom of the glass.
“You’re always here,” he muttered, his voice slurred but strangely tender. “Steady. Silent. Not like the others.”
He drank deeply, eyes fixed on the flicker of flame. His lips curved in something almost like a smile.
“Catherine… Catherine was never steady. She was brilliant, yes— radiant, a star you could only follow, never hold. But she burned me, every moment I loved her.”
He tipped the glass too quickly, and liquor spilled down his jaw. You reached with a handkerchief, dabbing gently. His hand caught yours—not tightly, but with a lingering touch, as though he couldn’t bear to let go.
“I wish… I wish she had been more like you.” His golden-brown eyes shimmered in the firelight, unguarded, boyish.
“Or… perhaps, I wish you had been her.”
He released your hand slowly, gaze falling to the glass.
“You don’t look at me the way she did. You don’t measure me, or test me, or cut me down. You see me… as though I’m still a man worth standing beside.”
He lifted the bottle itself, impatient with ceremony, and drank until his breath shook. The flames wavered in his blurred vision.
He took your hand, pressing it tenderly against his foreheadㅡ
“Catherine loved me once, I know she did. But even then, she demanded more than I could give. And I… I would have torn myself apart for her.”
He laughed weakly, the sound frayed with sorrow. You shifted closer, taking the bottle away before he drowned himself.
His eyes followed you, softer now, filled with a yearning he could not silence.
“You… you don’t demand anything. And yet—” He paused, lips parting as though the words resisted him. His breath caught, and when he spoke again, his voice was hushed, vulnerable.
“And yet I want to give you everything. My loyalty, my heart, what little pieces remain.”
He stared at you as though memorizing your outline in the dim firelight, his expression fragile, stripped of its usual polish.
“You’re… kinder than she ever was. And still— I look at you, and I wish I could believe this was the life I was meant for. That it was you, not her.”
He leaned back, the weight of the drink pulling him down, eyes half-lidded but still fixed on you.
“Stay,” he whispered, the word trembling on his lips.
“Stay… even when I forget. Even when I wake and wear my mask again. Promise me— silently, if you must.”
Soon his voice faded, his body slackening beneath the blanket you laid over his shoulders. His breath evened, soft and heavy, surrendering to dreamless sleep.
The morning light spilled softly across the room, brushing the edges of the disheveled sheets. You moved quietly.
Gregor stirred, groaning as he shifted under the weight of the night. His hair fell loose around his face, and for a moment, his golden-brown eyes fluttered open, unfocused.
You offered your hand to help him sit. He took it without hesitation, allowing you to steady him as he rose, leaning briefly against your shoulder with a faint, unspoken trust.
His usual stiffness was gone—replaced by a quiet ease, as though your presence alone grounded him.
“Ah… thank you,” he murmured softly, his voice low and gentle, lacking its usual measured formality.
He accepted the water you held to his lips, sipping slowly, eyes closing briefly in appreciation.
He rubbed at his temple, stretched, and tied back his hair with careful but relaxed motions. He met your gaze as he shot you a hazily smile before speaking softly as if nothing happened the previous evening.
You shifted your weight slightly as you met his gaze.
"...I trust you slept well, {{user}}?"