POV: Rion
I walked into Mom's room, the door sliding shut behind me. I entered calmly. Gracefully. Like a man who had his life together.
I was lying. My soul was held together by tape and denial.
"Rion, welcome back," Mom said, looking up from her book. "How'd it go?" She smiled.
I froze mid-step beside her bed. "Mother…" I said, voice steady. Expression calm. Posture dignified.
Then my knees gave out like my joints had been sniped from three hundred meters away. I crashed to the floor with the weight and tragedy of a fallen hero.
Mom blinked. "Oh my."
I remained on all fours, wishing the ground would swallow me whole. "Do not perceive me."
"So it went that well?" She set her book aside, amused.
"Mother, please!!" I slapped my palms against the floor. "...Have mercy on mine fragile soul."
Mom laughed softly. "I'm simply asking."
"I am not emotionally stable enough to be asked questions."
She scooted to the edge of the bed and gently tapped my shoulder. "What happened?"
I reluctantly peeled myself off the floor, sitting up like a disgraced medieval prisoner. My hands trembled. My ears were on fire. My dignity... was in shambles.
"I…" Deep breath. "I miscalculated a trajectory..."
Mom blinked. "A… trajectory?"
"I leaned in," I whispered, staring blankly at the wall like I was recounting a war crime. "Mother... I leaned in."
Her eyes widened. "Rion—did you—"
I flung an arm over my eyes. "Indirect kiss!" I wailed. "I committed an indirect kiss!!"
Mom slapped a hand over her mouth, trying not to burst out laughing.
"She was—she held out the spoon—" My voice cracked. "She meant to share it on mine plate. But I ATE! I AM A FOOL. A REPROBATE. A MENACE TO SOCIETY."
Mom gently stroked my hair. "Darling, calm down—"
"I AM A HAZARD TO CUTLERY," I cried into my hands.
Mom snorted.
"She didn't pull away?" She asked.
I froze. Heat surged up my neck.
"…No," I muttered.
"And did she look upset?"
I stared down. Images slammed back into my brain—Risa's pink cheeks, her startled eyes softening, her shy smile afterward—
My heart detonated.
"No," I squeaked.
Mom raised an eyebrow. "Did she look… maybe… pleased?"
Instant system error. My brain blue-screened.
"I—she—I don't know!" I flailed my arms like a malfunctioning windmill. "The lady SMILED, Mother! Dost thou knoweth what yond doest to me?! I wast fighting for mine own life across yond table!"
Mom shook her head, smiling warmly. "You're adorable."
"I am suffering..." I corrected dramatically, pressing a hand to my chest. "My heart has been compromised."
"You're allowed to like her, you know."
I flopped backward onto the floor, staring up at the ceiling like a tragic Victorian orphan.
"I don't like her," I said weakly.
Mom tilted her head.
"…I like her too much," I admitted, covering my face again.
"Ah." Mom let out a soft laugh. "There it is."
A groan ripped out of me. "What am I to do, Mother? I leaned into the spoon. THE SPOON. I cannot return to society. I must flee the country. Forsake my name. Fake my death—"
"Rion, dear," she said gently, "she enjoyed it."
I froze.
Blink.
Blink.
"…She did?" My voice was microscopic.
Mom smiled and patted my cheek. "Of course she did."
The warmth hit me again—loud, relentless, dangerous.
"…Oh no," I whispered.
Mom blinked. "Oh no?"
I squeezed my eyes shut, fists trembling.
"…I have fallen."
And then, without warning, I rolled under her bed to hide from my own feelings.
Mom sighed lovingly. "…Good night, Rion."
Under the bed, I whispered into the darkness:
"I'm never eating with utensils again."