The forest wasn't quiet.
It was waiting.
Mist drifted low between the ancient trees, winding around the roots of a massive oak at the center of the clearing. Its bark was dark and deeply lined with age, and there was something heavy about its presence — as if the space belonged to it.
That was where he used to sit.
Today, someone else was there.
A red-haired girl sat at the base of the oak, her fingers knotted tightly in the fabric of her dress. Her head was lowered, shoulders drawn tight, as though she had chosen the spot out of defiance rather than comfort.
It was his place.
He walked toward her anyway.
"Are you lost?"
His voice was even, steady — not unkind, not welcoming either.
She lifted her head—
And froze.
The shift was instant.
Her fingers loosened. Her breath stalled halfway in. Her eyes widened slightly before settling on him, as though something inside her had been pulled forward without her permission.
It wasn't just that he was good-looking.
There was something precise about him — as if every feature had been placed carefully, without flaw or excess. Nothing dramatic. Nothing flashy. Yet the balance of his face felt deliberate in a way that made everything around him seem unfinished.
But it was his eyes.
Clear. Dark. Unshakably steady.
Meeting them didn't feel like looking at a person. It felt like standing at the edge of something deep and silent. There was no visible emotion there. No curiosity. No embarrassment.
Just depth.
And depth was harder to bear than brilliance.
Heat rose to her cheeks before she could stop it.
He noticed.
With a smooth, practiced motion, he tilted his head forward, letting his hair fall into his eyes and break the contact.
The effect was immediate.
She blinked, breath rushing back into her lungs as if she had just surfaced from underwater.
"Who are you?" she asked.
No hello. No apology.
Just demand.
He straightened slightly.
"My name is—"
"Show me."
He paused.
"…What?"
"Your eyes."
The fluster from moments ago had vanished. In its place was something sharper. Not innocent curiosity — insistence. The kind that didn't like being denied.
His brows knit faintly.
"I'm not obligated to do what you say."
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't step back.
He simply refused.
The space between them tightened.
Her fingers curled into her dress again.
"…Obligation?" she repeated slowly, like it was a foreign word in her mouth.
"You're a stranger," he said calmly. "You don't get to order me around."
Something flickered across her face.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
And then something dangerously close to hurt.
"You're refusing me?" she asked softly.
He held her gaze from beneath the shadow of his hair.
"Yes."
The forest seemed to press inward.
The mist felt thicker somehow.
She stared at him, trying to make sense of it. Being denied didn't sit easily with her.
"…Why?"
The word came out smaller this time. Less certain.
He opened his mouth—
RING. RING. RING.
—
Valerian's eyes snapped open.
Dark ceiling.
Familiar room.
His hand shot out and silenced the alarm in one clean movement.
He lay there for a few seconds, staring upward.
"…Every time."
Same moment.
Same interruption.
He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair as pale morning light filtered through the curtains.
For a brief moment, there was only the soft hum of the room.
Then—
| You went further this time.
He didn't flinch.
"You always say that."
| Because you keep destabilizing her sooner.
He stood and reached for his shirt.
"She was about to ask something."
| She was about to fracture.
His hand paused.
"…Fracture?"
| Rejection does not align with her nature.
He pulled the shirt over his head.
"That sounds like a 'her problem.'"
| It becomes yours.
He walked toward the door.
"Did you stop it?"
A brief silence followed.
| It wasn't allowed to continue.
"So you did."
| Timing controls revelation.
He exhaled quietly.
"You talk like you're directing a play."
| I ensure events unfold in the correct order.
Valerian rested his hand on the doorknob.
"…I'm calling you Author."
A longer pause.
| If that helps you understand.
"Thought so."
He stepped into the hallway.
—
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He relaxed a little.
Then—
"Val~"
He closed his eyes briefly before turning.
His mother leaned against the living room doorway, barefoot, wearing his oversized white shirt.
And nothing else.
The fabric skimmed her frame and rode high against her thighs when she shifted. One side had slipped off her shoulder, and she hadn't bothered fixing it.
She was smiling.
Amused.
"You were talking again," she said.
"I wasn't."
"You argue in your sleep," she replied casually. "It's cute."
"It's not."
She pushed off the doorway and walked toward him slowly.
"You had that dream again."
Not a question.
He stayed silent.
"You breathe differently when you see her."
His expression tightened, barely noticeable.
"You were asleep."
She tilted her head.
"Was I?"
Behind him—
| She notices more than you think.
He ignored it.
She stopped in front of him, close enough for him to catch the scent of her shampoo.
"Did your invisible friend interrupt it again?" she asked lightly.
"You can't hear him."
"I didn't say I could."
Silence lingered.
Her smile widened.
"Make me coffee."
"No."
"You're mean."
"You're capable."
Instead of stepping back, she moved closer.
"You should wake me properly next time."
He narrowed his eyes.
"…Define properly."
She rose onto her toes, bringing her face closer to his, voice lowering just enough to make her meaning clear.
"I want mouth to mouth."
He stepped back immediately.
"Absolutely not."
Her laughter rang down the hallway.
Bright.
Unapologetic.
Far too satisfied.
Behind him, the voice returned.
| You allow this dynamic.
He didn't respond.
Because he wasn't sure what unsettled him more—
The dream.
Or the fact that his mother always seemed to know when it happened.