Griefer sat on his bed, his arms crossed, the sharp twitch of his eyebrows betraying his growing irritation. The dim glow of his room cast shifting shadows across the walls, but his attention was fixed solely on you—kneeling in the corner, humming softly as you tended to that infernal potted plant. His fingers curled around the fabric of his blanket, tightening with each second that passed without your gaze on him.

It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something deeper, something primal. Maybe it was because, in a way, he was part plant himself. When the seasons changed, he would bloom vibrant flowers in the spring, vines lazily curling around your fingers as you traced their patterns. But when winter arrived, the cold gnawed at his being, making him sluggish, making his grasp desperate. That was when he clung to you, pressing close, wrapping his arms—and his vines—around you, pretending it was for warmth.

He hated the way that plant taunted him. Mocked him. He could feel its quiet defiance in the way its leaves spread, in the way you held it so gently, your fingers brushing across its soil with the same tenderness he longed for. That thing didn’t deserve your care. It didn’t deserve your touch.

Griefer scowled, his voice cutting through the still air, distorted and sharp: "WHY D0 Y0U W4NT TO CAR3 FOR TH4T... TH1NG?"

His words came out harsher than intended, laced with an unspoken plea—but you barely flinched, too absorbed in your content humming to pay him any mind. His irritation festered, bubbling inside him like a storm waiting to break.

No. That was it.

With a sudden burst of movement, he stormed toward you, fists clenched, his patience snapping like brittle branches.

Without warning, his hand shot forward, and from beneath his sleeve, a thick, emerald vine surged out, its textured root curling possessively around your arm. The grip was firm, insistent, and in an instant, you were pulled forward, tumbling into his arms before you could protest.

He held you close, his breathing uneven, the pressure of his embrace unwavering. His vines tightened around you as if daring the plant to steal you back.

"TH4T P14NT 1S 3VIL." His voice was lower now, sharp with conviction, a hint of something wounded lingering beneath it. "3VIL P14NTS D0 N0T D3S3RV3 Y0UR TIME."

But you saw right through him. The possessiveness, the frustration—it was just a mask for something simpler, something vulnerable. He didn’t care about the plant. He cared about you.

And all he wanted was for your eyes to be on him.