The insistent chirping of my phone alarm dragged me from a deep, dreamless sleep. Groaning, I fumbled for the snooze button, my body still pleasantly heavy and languid from the previous night's… intense activities.

Finally forcing my eyes open, I squinted at the screen. Midst the usual barrage of social media notifications, a new email stood out: "Guest Star Opportunity - 'Living Next Door'". My eyebrows shot up. It was a hugely popular sitcom, known for its quirky characters and witty writing.

Heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and disbelief, I tapped the email open. It was from my agency. The subject line read: "Read Immediately!"

One-episode arc playing a flamboyant art critic who clashes hilariously with one of the main, more down-to-earth characters. The casting director had apparently seen my recent short film and thought I had the right "eccentric energy" for the role. They wanted me in for a chemistry read with the lead actor, David Chen, that very afternoon.

A wide grin spread across my face. This was the kind of opportunity I'd been working towards.

Swinging my legs out of bed, I glanced at the other side. The sheets were rumpled, still carrying the faint scent of Levi. He was likely in his study already, immersed in some complex equation or philosophical text. I made a mental note to tell him the news over breakfast. He might even crack a rare smile.

A sitcom. Guest star. This day was already looking considerably brighter than my slightly sore posterior might suggest. Time to get moving, learn some lines, and maybe, just maybe, make a splash in the world of mainstream comedy.

The whirlwind started immediately. My agent was ecstatic when I called, her voice a high-pitched squeal of excitement that nearly shattered my eardrum. She peppered me with details: the show's massive viewership, David Chen's approachable but professional demeanor, the potential for future opportunities if this went well.

By mid-morning, I was poring over the sides my agent had emailed – snippets of dialogue between my character, Alistair Finch, and David Chen's character, a pragmatic handyman named Gary. Alistair was theatrical, opinionated, and prone to dramatic pronouncements about art. Gary, on the other hand, was grounded, skeptical, and utterly bewildered by Alistair's pronouncements. The comedic potential was immediately apparent, and a thrill of excitement mixed with a healthy dose of nerves settled in my stomach.

Learning lines wasn't usually my strong suit, but Alistair's flamboyant speech patterns seemed to stick in my mind. I paced the house, exaggerating his gestures and intonations.

By early afternoon, armed with copious amounts of coffee and a slightly better grasp of Alistair's eccentricities, I found myself in a bustling waiting room at the studio. Other actors, a mix of familiar faces and nervous newcomers, milled about, clutching their sides and whispering lines to themselves.

Finally, my name was called. The casting director greeted me with a warm smile. The chemistry read took place in a brightly lit room with a simple set mock-up of Gary's cluttered workshop. David Chen was already there, relaxed and friendly, offering a reassuring smile.

The next hour flew by in a blur of lines, reactions, and comedic timing. David was a fantastic scene partner, his dry delivery a perfect foil for Alistair's dramatic pronouncements. We played off each other well, finding the humor in the clash of their personalities. I channeled all my nervous energy into embodying Alistair's flamboyant mannerisms, letting his theatricality take over.

There were a few moments that felt particularly electric – a bit where Alistair mistook a wrench for a piece of abstract sculpture and delivered a passionate monologue about its "brutal beauty," and another where his overly critical assessment of Gary's woodworking skills led to a hilariously awkward standoff. The room filled with genuine laughter a few times, a good sign.

When it was over, Brenda thanked me warmly, her smile seeming genuine. "We'll be in touch, Raphael," she said, the standard industry send-off, but this time, there was a certain warmth in her tone that offered a sliver of hope.

Stepping back out into the bright sunshine, I felt a strange mix of exhilaration and exhaustion. It had been a whirlwind of a day. The possibility of this gig felt huge, a potential turning point. Now, all I could do was wait. And maybe treat my slightly sore backside to an extra layer of that soothing ointment Levi had so diligently applied.

As I was about to hail a passing taxi, a voice called out my name. "Raphael? Hey, Raphael, wait up!"

I turned to see David Chen jogging towards me, a friendly smile on his face. He was taller than I'd realized on set, with a relaxed, easygoing energy that seemed to radiate off him.

"Hey, David," I replied, a little surprised. "Everything alright?"

He reached me, slightly out of breath. "Yeah, everything's great. Listen, Brenda was really impressed with your read. We all were, actually. You really nailed Alistair."

A wave of relief washed over me, chasing away some of the lingering anxiety. "Oh, wow. That's... really good to hear."

David chuckled. "Yeah, well, the thing is... we're still seeing a few more people for the role, just to be thorough, you know how it is. But... and I probably shouldn't be saying this..." He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "But between you and me, I think you're the one. The chemistry between our characters just clicked, you know?"

My heart did a little flutter-kick in my chest. "Really? You think so?"

"Definitely," he said, nodding firmly. "Look, the final decision isn't mine, obviously. But I wanted to say... I really hope you get it. It would be a lot of fun working with you." He extended his hand, and I shook it, a genuine warmth passing between us.

"Thanks, David. That means a lot," I said, a genuine smile spreading across my face.

"No problem. Listen," he hesitated for a moment. "Brenda mentioned you were heading out. You got any plans for dinner? I was thinking of grabbing some food down the street. You wanna join?"

The whirlwind of the day suddenly felt even more surreal.

"I... wow, that sounds great, David. I'd love to," I managed, still slightly flustered but undeniably thrilled.

"Awesome," he said, his smile widening. "Let's walk. It's just a few blocks."

As we started walking down the sunny street, the possibility of this gig suddenly felt less like a distant dream and more like a tangible reality. And the prospect of sharing a casual dinner with the lead of a major sitcom? Well, that was just the unexpected cherry on top of a very interesting day. I made another mental note – I definitely needed to tell Levi about this development. He'd probably raise a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, at the very least.

David led me to a cozy corner booth, and we settled in, the initial awkwardness of a post-audition dinner quickly dissolving into easy conversation. He was surprisingly down-to-earth for a lead actor on a hit show, talking about his rescue dog, his love for obscure indie films, and the surprisingly mundane aspects of sitcom production.

His continued enthusiasm was incredibly encouraging, though I tried to temper my optimism, knowing how unpredictable the casting process could be.

As the evening wore on, the conversation drifted to more personal topics. He asked about my background, my journey as an actor, and my life here. I found myself opening up more than I usually did with new acquaintances, perhaps put at ease by his genuine interest and easygoing nature.

By the time the plates were cleared and the bill paid, a comfortable camaraderie had formed between us. Walking back out into the warm evening air, the city lights twinkling around us, David clapped me on the shoulder.

"Look, Raphael," he said, his tone sincere, "regardless of what happens with the gig, it was great meeting you. You're a really talented guy."

"Thanks, David," I replied, genuinely touched by his words. "The feeling's definitely mutual. And thanks for dinner."

"Anytime," he said with a friendly smile. "Keep your fingers crossed. I have a good feeling about this."

We exchanged numbers, promising to stay in touch, and then he hailed a taxi, disappearing into the night. I stood there for a moment, the city lights blurring slightly as a wave of exhaustion finally hit me. The day had been a roller coaster of nerves, excitement, and unexpected connection.

Pulling out my own phone, I quickly messaged Levi: "Dinner with David Chen went really well! He thinks I might have the gig. Will tell you all the details when I get back. Prepare for enthusiastic recounting (and maybe a demand for more ointment)."

A small smile played on my lips as I finally hailed my own ride home, the possibility of a new and exciting chapter unfolding before me. Even if nothing came of the sitcom, I had made a genuine connection, and that felt like a victory in itself. But the hopeful anticipation for that guest star role? That was a delicious feeling I wasn't quite ready to let go of just yet.

I found myself constantly checking my phone for emails or calls from my agent. Every unfamiliar number that flashed on the screen sent a jolt of nervous energy through me. I tried to distract myself by meeting up with Finn for coffee.

Levi, ever the grounding force, remained his steady self. He listened patiently to my daily updates, offering logical perspectives and reminding me that the casting process was often lengthy and unpredictable. While I could sense a flicker of genuine interest in his eyes regarding my potential success, he refrained from offering any overly optimistic pronouncements, a trait I both appreciated and occasionally found frustrating in my heightened state of hope.

Then my agent called.

"Raphael!" Her voice was even more high-pitched and energetic than usual, a sure sign of good news. "Are you sitting down?"

I sank onto the nearest chair, my palms suddenly damp. "What is it?"

"They loved you! They absolutely adored you! You got the gig, darling! You are going to be Alistair Finch on 'Living Next Door'!"

A wave of pure, unadulterated joy washed over me, so intense it almost knocked the breath out of me. "No way! Seriously?"

"Seriously! Brenda called me not even an hour ago. They said the chemistry with David was undeniable, and you just embodied Alistair. They're so thrilled to have you!"

“That's incredible! Oh my gods!"

She chuckled, her excitement mirroring mine. "Incredible is right! We need to get you fitted for costumes, go over the shooting schedule... it's going to be a whirlwind, darling! Your first table read is next week!"

The details Maya rattled off swam around me in a happy haze. All I could focus on was the sheer elation of landing this role, this opportunity. It felt like all the years of auditions, the rejections, the small victories – they had all led to this moment.

"Thank you," I managed, my voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for everything."

"Nonsense. You did all the work! Now, go celebrate! Tell that gorgeous man of yours the good news! You deserve a night of celebration!"

As I hung up, a wide, triumphant grin stretched across my face. I couldn't wait to tell Levi. This was huge. This was finally happening. And yes, she was right. Tonight definitely called for a celebration. Perhaps even one that involved less ointment and more… enthusiastic expressions of joy.

I couldn't contain the explosion of joy bubbling inside me. Without a second thought, I rushed to Levi's study and pounded on the imposing steel door, the sound echoing through the house.

The heavy door swung, and Levi emerged, his brow slightly raised in surprise. "Raphael?"

"Levi, I got the gig!" I practically yelled, throwing my arms around him in a tight hug. "Yes! Finally! I really, really wanted this!"

He held me close for a moment. "Congratulations, Raphael. That is wonderful news. You have worked diligently for this; you deserved it."

"Well, thanks…" I pulled back slightly, my grin still wide. "Now it is time for a celebration, right?"

A hint of a smile touched the corner of his lips. "Of course. A celebration is in order. What do you have in mind, dear?"

I wiggled my eyebrows playfully, a mischievous glint in my eyes. "Well… my butt still hurts a little from our… enthusiastic celebrations, so perhaps something a little less physically demanding? What about you bake us a cake?"

A thoughtful pause crossed his face. "An interesting approach to a celebratory ritual, Raphael. But… sure. I will bake us a cake."

Levi's journey into the world of baking had been… intense, to say the least. Once he set his formidable intellect on a new endeavor, he didn't dabble; he immersed himself completely. The initial charm of his enthusiastic experimentation had quickly given way to a comical struggle for fridge space. Our crisper drawers became precarious towers of half-eaten scones, the shelves groaned under the weight of various experimental loaves, and I swear I once found a crème brûlée nestled amongst the vegetables. The upside, however, was that he invariably mastered his craft with astonishing speed, and his desserts were always, without fail, exceptional.

The rhythmic whir of the electric mixer filled the kitchen, a comforting sound that usually signaled impending sugary goodness. Flour dusted the countertop like a fresh snowfall, and the air was fragrant with the promise of vanilla and something subtly citrusy. Levi, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously scraped down the sides of the mixing bowl, suddenly broke the comfortable silence. His voice, calm and measured as always, held an undercurrent that made the mundane question feel anything but.

"Raphael," he began, his gaze still fixed on the swirling batter, "a matter has arisen that requires discussion." He paused for a beat, the only sound the gentle hum of the appliance. Then, he looked up, his intense, unwavering eyes meeting mine, and asked the question that seemed to hang suspended in the flour-dusted air, a question that felt so monumental it momentarily silenced the very sounds of the outside woods.

"Do you wish to move to the Royal Palace?"

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

My head snapped up, my eyes wide with disbelief.

The bluntness of my response clearly surprised him. His brows furrowed slightly, the perfect line disrupted by a hint of confusion. He set the mixing bowl down with an uncharacteristic clatter, a small puff of flour erupting from the impact.

“W-what do you mean by… moving to… what? Royal Palace?”

I felt a strange combination of shock and a growing sense of unreality, as if I had stepped into a bizarre play where I had forgotten my lines.

“Yes.” His tone was simple, direct, devoid of any embellishment or explanation, which only served to heighten the absurdity of the situation.

“Wait…” I stumbled over the word, my mind racing to grasp the implications. “We… we can move to the palace?” I gestured vaguely around our kitchen.

“We were planning on turning it into a museum to better preserve its historical significance. However, I wanted to ascertain your desires on the matter. The option to reside within the palace is available.”

He emphasized the word "option," as if residing in a palace were akin to choosing between two brands of tea. His logical, detached tone did nothing to alleviate the swirling confusion in my head.

"A museum?" I echoed, the word feeling oddly inadequate to describe the sheer scale and history of the place. "You were planning to turn it into a museum? And… and you're asking if I want to… live there instead?"

I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers tangling in the strands, my mind struggling to process the information. This was too much, too sudden, too utterly bizarre.

“You can consider it a gift, Raphael.”

“Levi… just… Oh my god. We can live in the palace? Why? You are not a duke anymore. And you instilled democracy.”

Levi let out a chuckle.

“I am still the Saint of Ascaria. And you are my husband.”

He stepped closer, closing the small distance between us, his eyes, those intense, blue eyes, searching mine. There was a hint of possessiveness in his gaze, a quiet assertion of our bond that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Levi… you know how much I… care about you." My voice was softer now, the initial shock giving way to a more vulnerable uncertainty. "But this… this is a whole other level. I'm worried. Worried about fitting in, worried about the pressure, worried about… changing who we are. Are you sure about this?" I gestured around our kitchen, a space filled with memories of shared laughter, late-night talks, and the comfortable chaos of our everyday life. The sterile grandeur of a palace felt like a world away.

Levi stepped closer, his gaze softening as he reached out to gently cup my cheek. His touch was cold and reassuring. "Oh, my dear Raphael," he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Why are you so worried? It will be only us, and the necessary staff, at the palace. It is not as if we will be thrust into endless courtly balls and political intrigues."

He paused, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "The reason I presented this… proposition, is twofold. Firstly, to celebrate your well-deserved triumph. And secondly," his gaze deepened, becoming more intense, "because if the bureaucratic process for converting the palace into a museum commences, the option of residing there becomes significantly more… complicated. It is a matter of expediency, as well as… a rather grand gesture, I confess."

“Ugh… I understand now… " I groaned, dramatically clutching my forehead. "This is like you offering me a war on Cyrusia right? " My voice dripped with exaggerated exasperation. "Fuck Levi… I thought the world just stopped for a moment. You dropped a nuke on my lap." I waved my hand vaguely, trying to illustrate the sheer scale of the emotional explosion he'd caused.

Levi blinked slowly, his expression thoughtful, as if he were genuinely considering my analogy. "I am still not well-versed in contemporary courting, I suppose."

“Yeah, Levi, what the hell?” I threw my hands up in the air. “You offered me a war and now a palace? The fucking Royal Palace? And you even offered the crown before. Gods, Levi. You need to read some romance books or something.” I shook my head in mock despair. “Maybe start with something light, a nice rom-com? Anything but a historical treatise on power and conquest!”

I chuckled, trying to dispel the lingering tension with a bit of humor. "Okay, okay, I get it. Big gesture, celebration, practicality... Fine. But seriously, Levi, a palace? It's a bit much, even for you."

He stepped closer, the scent of flour and vanilla clinging to his clothes. His eyes, dark and intense, searched mine. "Is it truly so… objectionable, Raphael? To offer you a beautiful home? A place of history and… perhaps a little more space than our current abode?" He gestured vaguely around the kitchen, his gaze taking in the overflowing spice rack and the precarious stack of cookbooks.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "No, it's not objectionable. It's… overwhelming. And a little scary. It's a palace, Levi. Our lives are… quieter. We're used to our little routines, our little world." I hesitated, then voiced the fear that had been nagging at the back of my mind. "I don't want things to change, Levi. I don't want this… this royal life to swallow us whole."

He reached out, his hand gently cupping my cheek. His touch was warm and reassuring. "Raphael," he said softly, his voice a low rumble that resonated deep within me, "nothing will change between us. A building, however grand, cannot alter the essence of what we share. Our 'little world,' as you call it, is not defined by walls or titles. It is defined by us."

He paused, his gaze unwavering. "And I assure you, my dear, I have no intention of allowing anything to 'swallow us whole.' We will navigate this… transition, together, as we always do. With logic, and perhaps a touch of… your characteristic flair." A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Look…" I gestured around the living room, my gaze softening as it took in the familiar surroundings. "I really like this house, Levi. It's more than just a place to live. It has so many memories of us." My voice became a little wistful. "Our first night here, our first day, me getting shot in the shoulder, the Conqueror throwing me across the room like a ragdoll..." I shuddered slightly at the memory. Then, my tone brightened. "Finn and Maya coming over for those chaotic game nights, drinking way too much, having fun… This house has seen it all, the good, the bad, and the utterly ridiculous."

I paused, my eyes meeting Levi's. "Aside from all that sentimental stuff, this house is really practical. It's the right size, the layout works, and we've finally gotten the damn plumbing to stop making those weird noises. So no, I don't want to move to the palace." I crossed my arms, a stubborn set to my jaw.

But then, my expression softened as I considered Levi's motivations. "But, if you're truly concerned about the space situation… if that's the only reason…" I tapped my chin thoughtfully. "We could maybe build another room? Or… or install you an outdoor kitchen!”

Levi's expression softened as well, his gaze sweeping around the living room. "Issue is not the space, my dear," he said, his voice low and contemplative. "While the palace offers… certain advantages, I am not blind to the significance of this house."

"This is the first space I acquired without relying on my… bloodline," he continued, his voice tinged with a quiet pride. "My study is... here. This house holds a certain resonance for me as well." He met my eyes, his gaze intense and sincere. "The offer to move to the Royal Palace is… a complex one, Raphael. It is a confluence of… opportunity, practicality, and, I confess, a desire to offer you something… extraordinary."

“It was… extraordinary, Levi,” I said, my voice dripping with theatrical irony. I spread my arms wide. “I feel like a maiden from the Dark Ages, presented with the keys to the kingdom and a slightly bewildered expression. And, if we're keeping count, it's the third time I've been swept off my feet by a gesture of… overwhelming practicality.”

“Apologies, my dear. I am still calibrating the optimal balance between… efficiency and… emotional resonance.”

I threw my hands up in the air, my voice rising in mock exasperation. “I mean, a palace, a war, a crown. What else are you going to offer? A small country? The moon? Gods, Levi, a bouquet of flowers wouldn't kill you!”

"A small country…" Levi mused, his brow furrowing slightly as he processed my words with his usual logical precision. "You already own Ascaria, Raphael. But if your desire is for another country, consider it done." He paused, as if mentally calculating the logistics of acquiring a sovereign nation. "Perhaps a small island nation in the southern hemisphere? Or a principality with a favorable tax structure?"

I stared at him, my mouth agape.

"What do you mean by even 'own’ Ascaria?'" My voice was barely a whisper, the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation threatening to short-circuit my brain.

Levi blinked, his expression utterly deadpan. "You own me, do you not?"

The non sequitur hung in the air, a perfect illustration of how our conversations often veered into the surreal. I sputtered, trying to find a coherent response, but words seemed to have abandoned me.

“Oh my god.”

Where do I even begin with this man?

This infuriatingly logical man, with his ridiculous pronouncements and his utterly devastating charm. This handsome, alluring devil who manages to be both utterly impossible and completely irresistible. He offers me a royal residence like it's a new kitchen appliance, and then claims I own him? It's enough to drive a sane person to the brink. And yet… and yet, beneath the exasperation, there was a strange, thrilling undercurrent of affection. A perverse delight in the way he consistently managed to shatter my expectations and drag me into his wonderfully bizarre world.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Ugh… No palaces, no invading a small nation, okay? Just… just bake me a cake, please. A nice, normal, non-world-altering cake."

I stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm, my fingers gently brushing against the smooth fabric of his shirt. "And… and I love you, Levi."

He paused, a beat of silence stretching between us, before he spoke, his voice low and resonant. "I… I apologize for not being able to reciprocate the sentiment, Raphael." His hand covered mine, his grip firm and reassuring.

I squeezed his hand gently, a small smile playing on my lips. "You don't have to say it back, Levi. I understand. I also understand your… unwavering loyalty." I met his gaze, letting the depth of my feelings show in my eyes. "It's enough."

The cake was a masterpiece of simple elegance: a rich, dark chocolate confection with a glossy ganache frosting. It was, of course, perfect.

"It's… beautiful, Levi," I said softly, my voice filled with genuine appreciation.

He presented it to me with a slight inclination of his head, a hint of pride in his eyes. "A modest offering, Raphael, but I trust it will prove… palatable."

Later, after we had devoured a significant portion of the cake (and I had liberally praised Levi's baking prowess), I decided it was time for the second part of my "romance remediation" plan.

"Alright, Levi," I announced, grabbing the remote. "Cake: check. Now it's time for… cinematic education."

Levi raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Cinematic education?"

"Romantic movies," I clarified, settling onto the couch and patting the space beside me. "We're watching one. Tonight."

He regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "I fail to perceive the logical correlation between cake consumption and enforced viewing of… emotionally driven narratives."

"It's called balance, Levi," I said with a grin. "You give me palace offers, I give you… rom-com."

I chose a classic, a quintessential rom-com guaranteed to elicit at least a flicker of human emotion from even the most Vulcan-like individual. As the opening credits rolled, I snuggled into Levi's side, determined to guide him through the intricacies of meet-cutes, misunderstandings, and grand romantic gestures.

Levi, to his credit, remained… remarkably attentive. He analyzed the plot points with the precision of a literary critic, questioned the characters' motivations with the rigor of a psychologist, and occasionally offered dryly humorous commentary on the film's more sentimental moments.

There were a few times, however, when I caught a flicker of something in his eyes – a softening of his gaze, a subtle smile – that suggested he might be… dare I say… enjoying himself.

As the film reached its climax, the characters finally confessing their love midst a flurry of snow, I glanced at Levi. His expression was still largely impassive, but there was a definite… warmth in his eyes as he looked at me.

"Well?" I asked, nudging him playfully. "What did you think?"

He paused for a moment, then spoke, his voice low and thoughtful. "The narrative structure was predictable, and the dialogue occasionally veered into… sentimentality. However," he turned to me, his gaze intense, "the underlying theme of connection and vulnerability… I found… compelling."

I grinned, my heart swelling with affection. "See? I knew you had a romantic bone in your body somewhere."

He raised an eyebrow. "I believe the anatomical term is 'skeleton,' Raphael. And my skeletal structure is, to the best of my knowledge, entirely devoid of sentimental tissue."

But his eyes betrayed him. And as we sat there, the credits rolling on the screen, surrounded by the warm glow of the television and the lingering sweetness of the cake, I knew that even Levi, with his logic and his practicality, was not immune to the power of love. Or at least, the power of a well-made rom-com.

"Ah, that reminds me how you lost the bet, Raphael," Levi said, a hint of triumph in his voice. "My prize was you using an endearment of my choosing, remember?"

I groaned, rolling my eyes. "Yeah. So did you pick?"

"My current lexicon is limited to 'dear,' 'pulla,' and 'dearest,' which I believe are perfectly adequate. However, I confess I am encountering difficulty in identifying a suitable alternative. I am, therefore, curious about the range of options you might… offer."

I tapped my chin thoughtfully, a wicked glint in my eyes despite my annoyance at losing. "Hm… Babe, darling, honey, sugar, hubby, sweetie, pumpkin, muffin, cookie…"

"Interesting," Levi observed dryly, his gaze narrowing. "They all appear to possess an… underlying tone of excessive sweetness."

"Yeah," I conceded with a sigh. "Pick your poison, sweetcheeks."

"Sweetcheeks is absolutely off the table," Levi stated firmly. "And as you very well know, Raphael, I am slightly addicted to sugar. I require at least one aspect of my existence to remain free from constant reminders of its… pervasive allure. So, I choose… 'darling.'" He delivered the word with a precise, almost clinical articulation, as if dissecting its etymology.

I grinned, stepping closer and tilting my head. "Darling? Levi, you handsome, charming 'darling.'" I drawled the word out with exaggerated affection, my eyes sparkling with mischief.

He averted his gaze slightly, a hint of discomposure in his typically unwavering demeanor. The effect was… utterly endearing.

"Oh? Levi, my darling," I purred, stepping closer and tilting my head to get a better look at his face.

"Please refrain from mentioning—"

"Ah, darling," I interrupted, reaching out to gently brush my fingers against his warm skin. "But why? You are so utterly adorable when your normally stoic facade crumbles." I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Besides, it proves you're not entirely immune to my charms, darling." I emphasized the endearment with a mischievous wink.

Oh, gods. Look at this man.

“Darling,” I drawled, stepping closer and lowering my voice conspiratorially. “You know what I suddenly remembered? Your childhood nickname.”

Levi’s eyes widened slightly. “Raphael, please do not—”

I ignored his plea, my voice dripping with mock innocence. “Master? Was it?”

He visibly flinched, his shoulders tensing.

“It was a childhood nickname born out of—” he began, his voice tight.

I cut him off with a bright, exaggerated smile. “Yeah, you being a little tyrant at the play, right? Stage Master Levi, directing everyone with an iron fist and a tiny little baton?” I mimicked a dramatic conducting motion with my finger, unable to suppress a snicker.

Levi's jaw tightened. “Do not call me that.”

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Sure, I won't call you Master… unless you want me to,” I added with a suggestive smirk. “But, I will call you 'darling' instead. For how long do you want me to call you that, hm? A day? A week? A month?” I trailed my fingers up his chest, watching the internal battle waging behind his usually impassive eyes. “Or… is it a lifetime, darling?”

"While I find the physiological response… intriguing, I must reiterate that the use of 'Master' is… unacceptable. 'Darling' is, however, within the agreed-upon boundaries."

I grinned, snapping my fingers decisively. "Fine, a week then, darling." I emphasized the endearment with a playful wink, as if sealing a deal. “But it is really interesting. You enjoy being dominant but you don’t enjoy the word? It is kinda bizarre to me.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening slightly. "I spent a significant portion of my life being addressed as 'Master,'" he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual inflection. "It was the customary form of address for a… noble in my youth. 'Master Blake,' 'young master'…"

He paused, taking a deep breath before meeting my eyes again. "I do not wish to be reminded of those moments. They are… a chapter I prefer to keep closed. So, yes, please refrain from calling me that. But," his expression softened slightly, a hint of his usual warmth returning, "you are, as always, free to call me whatever else you wish."

"Okay, my darling Levi," I said, softening my tone and stepping closer. "But you can also tell me about your life as a noble. I mean, you were a Duke before you unleashed your fury and dissolved the nobility and ended the monarchy, right? That's not exactly a common career change."

Levi's expression tightened, the warmth in his eyes abruptly extinguished, replaced by a coldness that sent a shiver down my spine. He turned away slightly, his jaw clenching and unclenching rhythmically, as if he were suppressing a violent urge.

"I despised every second of it. There was not a single moment I felt at ease. It was a suffocating existence, a constant violation of everything I held dear. I never once asked to be a noble. I was merely… born into that cage, a prisoner of my rather colorful and often monstrous family."

He paused, his gaze hardening as he stared into the distance. "Then I ended it all. And Gods, Raphael, I am so glad I did. You have no comprehension of the darkness that festers within that system, the corruption and cruelty that become normalized. You wouldn't believe how… easy it was to dismantle everything."

His voice dropped to a near whisper, a chilling note of awe in his tone. "Fifteen years of anticipation, fifteen years of planning and building up to that moment… and it was all so agonizingly easy. Then it ended. In one day. One single day, and the hunt for the nobles was over."

I stared at him, a knot of unease tightening in my chest.

"Levi..." I began tentatively, my voice barely audible. "Are you still... bored?"

He turned to me, his eyes burning with a restless energy that frightened me. "Yes," he confessed, his voice raw with a desperate honesty. "So much. So much so that I am actively, desperately trying to find anything to feel. Anything at all. Instilling a democracy is... sterile, Raphael. It is not fun. It is not what this brain was honed and sharpened for over decades. What am I to do, Raphael? I am so utterly, profoundly bored. This brain of mine does not cease its relentless pursuit of stimulation, always craving a new puzzle, a new challenge, a new hunt. I toppled a nation, I ended a monarchy, I reshaped the very fabric of society. Is there any high left for this mind to chase?"

He started to shake his legs restlessly.

"It was not even hard, Raphael," he confessed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I was merely… thorough and meticulous. No murder, no overt violence. It was all… carefully orchestrated whispers, strategic alliances, the subtle manipulation of information." He shuddered, a strange mix of revulsion and exhilaration passing across his face. "Whispers, Raphael. I ended an ancient bloodline, brought a nation to its knees, with words. And for what? For this… this hollow, echoing nothingness."

He clenched his fists. "I feel nothing. My brain craves it, Raphael. Craves the thrill of the chase, the strategic dance of power, the exquisite tension of each calculated move, every single second of every goddamn day. I miss it so much. I miss the subtle intricacies of the game, the way the pieces moved at my will, the sheer, intoxicating power of seeing the fear in the eyes of those… those noble swine. But it is all gone now. The board is clear, the game is over, and nothing… nothing is fun anymore."

I stared at him, my mind reeling, the words "hollow, echoing nothingness" ringing in my ears like a death knell.

"Okay…" I said, my voice trembling slightly as I reached out to take his hands, my grip firm and desperate. "Okay, Levi. Let's think this through, together. You cannot walk that dark path again. You know what it did to me, what it did to us. Don't you remember?" My voice cracked with emotion. "I had to leave you, Levi. I had to abandon everything we had because I was so scared of what you were becoming, of what you were capable of."

He pulled his hands away, stepping back, his voice low and laced with a chilling certainty. "You have no idea what I am truly capable of, Raphael. You perceive power in terms of armies and battles, but that is a crude and limited understanding."

He gestured around the room. "I own this nation. It is not some polite gesture or a figure of speech. I own it, in its entirety. My wealth, my network of influence, my corporations and foundations, my charities and holdings, the very land itself, the mountains and the seas. Even the people, Raphael. Their livelihoods, their futures, are inextricably linked to my will."

He paused, his voice dropping, a terrifyingly calm tone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "Tell me, Raphael. What would happen if I simply released a statement? A single, casually worded declaration that I am the king now? The transition would be seamless. The people would cheer. They would embrace it. And I… I would feel nothing."

"Okay, okay, so you're bored and powerful and could apparently become king with a strongly worded memo. Got it," I said, my voice strained as I tried to hold onto a semblance of normalcy. "But instead of, you know, plunging the nation into chaos for shits and giggles, how about we find something a little less... world-ending?"

Levi's gaze flickered, a dark amusement sparking in his eyes. "Ending the world is… inefficient, Raphael. And I find the sight of excessive blood… aesthetically displeasing. Though, I suppose I could manipulate the global market, send entire economies spiraling into ruin with a few keystrokes. No… that would also be… ultimately boring. The consequences are too predictable."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a chillingly conversational tone. "Raphael, you misunderstand. This isn't about me wanting to be a king or some petty desire for power. I do not care about such trivialities. I never wanted that life. Okay, not monarchy? Fine. What about communism? I can instill that too, you know. Or fascism. Or anarcho-syndicalism. That is the issue, Raphael. I can do anything. I could release the troops, unleash a wave of calculated brutality, and butcher every single person who displeases me. I could reshape the world in my image with horrifying ease."

He paused, his eyes locking onto mine, his voice devoid of any emotion. "But I would feel nothing

, Raphael. Nothing. That is the core of the problem. This relentless boredom, this gaping void within me... it consumes me."

My stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot. The humor, my flimsy shield against this terror, had fallen apart. He wasn't just indulging my silly attempts to de-escalate; he was genuinely considering them, analyzing their "efficiency" and "predictability."

I recoiled slightly, the chilling detachment in his voice sending a shiver down my spine. I was standing in front of a man who could apparently snap his fingers and upend the world, not out of malice, but out of a desperate, unfillable emptiness.

"Levi..." I whispered, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "Levi, you... you can't mean that. You do feel something. You feel this. You feel me." I stepped closer, reaching out to grasp his hands, my grip desperate. "Look at what we have. Look at what we've built. Is that nothing to you?"

I paused, my voice cracking. "Don't do this to us, Levi. Don't let that... that darkness take you again. I can't... I can't lose you like that. Not again."

"You are viewing this purely from an emotional perspective, Raphael," he said, his voice low and patient, as if explaining a complex equation to a child. "I understand your… distress, but you must attempt to comprehend the… logical framework of my current state. Imagine the one thing that sustains your existence, the very core of your being, the driving force behind every action, every thought. And now… it is gone. Not diminished, not altered, but utterly and irrevocably extinguished. There is only… void now, Raphael. An echoing emptiness where that vital force once resided."

"I tried a great many things in these past months, Raphael. Desperate measures. Antidepressants, the strongest available. I even experimented with combining them, hoping for some… reaction." A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. "I endured therapy for a time. They offered only slivers of solace, fleeting moments of respite in an endless desert of apathy. Then… then you orchestrated my reconciliation with my mother, even with my grandfather." A humorless smile touched his lips. "It all became brutally clear then."

His gaze, previously distant, now locked onto mine with an unnerving intensity, a cold resolve hardening his features. "Why prolong the inevitable, Raphael?"

Ah, fuck…

He became suicidal too.

Just like The Conqueror… The memory of that cold, empty despair, the terrifying certainty in his eyes… it was the same. Fuck… not again. Not Levi. A wave of nausea washed over me, the comfortable reality of our kitchen dissolving into a swirling vortex of fear and a desperate, clawing need to pull him back from the brink.

And then the fragments of past conversations, the dark humor he sometimes employed, clicked into place with sickening clarity. He even joked about suicide once. My blood ran cold. And the gun… gods, the gun. But where? His study. That steel-doored, two security camera’d fortress of his mind. A place where he could… fuck. A fresh wave of panic washed over me, sharp and suffocating.

No…

He was suicidal for even longer. It wasn't just this recent descent into boredom. It went back further, to that desolate, rain-soaked day at the noble cemetery. The raw, anguished shout that ripped through the silence: "Bored!" The memory of his hollow eyes, the chilling indifference in his voice… He’d said that prolonging the inevitable thing there too. Gods. It wasn't a new thought, a fleeting impulse. It was a deep-seated despair, a shadow that had been lurking beneath the surface for months, maybe even years. Fuck.

As I was frozen in a state of panic Levi remained unnervingly still for a fleeting moment. Then he basically lunged towards the kitchen counter. My breath hitched in my throat, a strangled cry escaping my lips. I braced myself, my mind racing, picturing the glint of a knife, the crimson stain… I thought, with a sickening lurch of my stomach, that he was going to stab himself, finally succumbing to that chilling inevitability he spoke of.

But no. Instead, he seized the heavy stone pestle from the mortar. He brought it down with brutal force onto his own left hand, slamming it against the unforgiving countertop. The sound was sickeningly loud – a sharp, wet whack that echoed in the sudden silence. It was followed immediately by a distinct, sickening crack, like bone splintering under immense pressure. His knuckles contorted at an unnatural angle, and I knew, with a fresh wave of horror, that he had deliberately broken his own fingers.

I gasped, a strangled, horrified sound ripped from my throat. My eyes widened in disbelief and terror at the brutal act I had just witnessed. But Levi… Levi didn't even flinch. His face remained strangely serene, devoid of any pain. Instead, his gaze lifted slowly towards the ceiling, a look of utter, almost ecstatic bliss washing over his features. A soft sigh escaped his lips, a sound of profound relief.

"Endorphins," he murmured, his voice almost reverent. "Finally."

"Fuck… Levi… What the fuck…" The words tore from my throat, a strangled, disbelieving cry. Tears streamed down my face, hot and furious, blurring my vision. Violent sobs wracked my body, each one a painful testament to the horror of what I had just witnessed. It wasn't just the brutal, senseless act itself that shattered me, but the agonizing realization that had been building for so long, the pieces finally slamming into place with cruel clarity.

Idiot. Stupid, blind idiot. How could I have missed it? The signs had been there, subtle yet present, woven into his dark humor, his detached pronouncements, his chilling pronouncements of boredom. The cemetery. The joke about efficiency. The locked gun. And I had dismissed them, rationalized them, blinded by my own hope and my own fear. The weight of my failure crashed down on me, suffocating me with guilt and a terror that clawed at my insides. I had been so focused on pulling him back from some abstract darkness that I had completely missed the very real, very present danger he posed to himself. My sobs intensified, a raw, animalistic sound of grief and self-recrimination. "Levi…" I choked out, reaching for him with trembling hands, desperate to somehow undo what had just happened, desperate to rewind time and see what I had been too blind to see.

"Let's… Let's just take care of your fingers now, yes?" I stammered, my voice thick with tears and a desperate urgency. I reached out, my hands trembling, wanting to cradle his injured hand, to somehow make it better, to pull us back from this horrifying precipice. "Please, Levi. Let me help you. Then… then we will try something else. Anything else."

Levi barely glanced at his mangled hand. "Fingers?" he murmured, his voice almost dreamy. "Why? The endorphins are doing their job quite nicely, wouldn't you agree? A welcome sensation, finally. I will… I will fashion a makeshift splint for it after a while. No need for immediate intervention."

"No need to be overly concerned, Raphael," Levi said, his voice still calm, almost clinical, as if discussing a minor inconvenience. He finally glanced down at his mangled fingers, tilting his head slightly in detached observation. "I was… careful. I avoided inflicting permanent damage. It is merely fractured, I believe. A clean break, all things considered."

"Fuck… Levi! You deliberately broke your own hand right in front of my eyes!" I exclaimed, my voice raw with a mixture of horror and fury. Tears still streamed down my face, blurring the grotesque reality of his mangled fingers. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

I took a step closer, my hands trembling as I reached for his injured limb. "No. Screw your endorphins and screw your 'careful' self-mutilation! Just let me take care of your fingers now, Levi, please! Before you decide to break something else! Please, just… let me help you."

Levi finally focused on my face, his gaze surprisingly sharp despite the strange serenity that still clung to him. A flicker of something akin to curiosity crossed his features. "Interesting," he murmured, his voice devoid of judgment, almost analytical. "Even though you harbor such… vehement resentment towards me at this moment, it is quite evident that a significant degree of empathy persists." He watched my trembling hands, a subtle observation of my distress. "A curious dichotomy, wouldn't you agree, darling?"

"Shut the fuck up, Levi!" I spat, my voice raw with anger and residual terror. "You fucking idiot! What the hell was that?" Tears still welled in my eyes, blurring the frantic movements of my hands as I grabbed a dish towel and began to clumsily wrap it around his mangled fingers. "Fuck… I am gonna have nightmares for months because of this. The sound… the crack…" My voice hitched on a sob.

Despite my fury and disgust, my hands worked with a desperate urgency, trying to provide some semblance of support to his broken bones. The makeshift bandage was inadequate, but it was all I could think to do in my panicked state.

"Raphael…" Levi said softly, his voice losing some of its earlier detached quality. "I apologize for making you witness that. It was… an impulsive decision. A regrettable display." He gently unwrapped the clumsy dish towel I had fashioned into a bandage, his touch surprisingly careful despite his broken fingers.

"Allow me," he murmured. He moved with a surprising degree of dexterity, considering his injured hand, reaching for the neatly organized first aid kit on the far side of the kitchen counter. With practiced movements, he selected splints, padding, and tape, and then, with an unsettlingly clinical efficiency, he expertly began to set and splinter his own broken fingers.

"No, Levi, the fuck you are not just splinting your own hand!" I declared, my voice shaking with residual adrenaline and a fierce surge of protective anger. I stepped forward, my gaze unwavering. "You are going to a hospital, right now, for those fingers, and then, you are going to see a psychiatrist, and a psychologist, you goddamn idiot! This… this isn't just boredom, Levi! This is… this is serious. And I am not letting you brush it off like it's a spilled cup of tea!" My voice cracked with emotion, the image of him calmly breaking his own bones still burned behind my eyelids.

"I need this pain, Raphael," Levi stated, his voice quiet but firm as he meticulously adjusted a splint. "I truly do. It is… a necessary anchor in this relentless void." He finally met my gaze, a weariness in his eyes that belied his composed demeanor. "And as for your suggestions… I have already explored both of your options, extensively. Do I truly seem like the kind of individual who would dismiss the potential benefits of therapy? Please, Raphael. My own company produces a significant portion of the antidepressants prescribed in this nation, and I assure you, I was an early and dedicated participant in their clinical trials, as well as various other therapeutic modalities."

He finished taping the last splint with precise movements. He flexed his fingers slightly, a faint grimace finally flickering across his face, though it seemed more from the awkwardness of the splint than actual pain.

Fuck… His lunge for the kitchen wasn't a desperate attempt to end it all, not in that moment. It was… it was for me. So… so he can stay with me a little longer. That horrifying thought burrowed deep within me, a cold, wriggling thing. That's why he basically lunged for the pestle. When I begged him to stay.

"Levi…" I pleaded, my voice thick with unshed tears, my gaze locked on his carefully splinted hand. "Just please… promise me. Promise me you won't hurt yourself. In any way, shape, or form. Please." My heart ached with a raw fear I hadn't felt since… since before. I racked my brain, desperate for any lifeline, any distraction. "You… you enjoyed baking for a while, remember? … Ah." A fragile idea sparked in the darkness. "Levi… what if… what if we went to Cyrusia with me? Just… a trip? A change of scenery?"

Levi tilted his head, his expression thoughtful, the earlier manic energy momentarily subdued. "Cyrusia? I do not speak Cyrusian, Raphael. And as an Ascarian, procuring a visa is… not a straightforward process."

"That's the beauty of it, darling," I said, trying to inject a note of forced cheerfulness into my voice, my hope clinging to this fragile idea. "You won't understand a word, but your magnificent brain… it'll sponge up every single bit of information. The sounds, the rhythms, the inflections… information it has never encountered before. A brand new puzzle, Levi. A whole new world for that restless mind of yours to explore."

"Will you visit your family?" Levi asked, his gaze direct, cutting through my forced optimism.

Ah, fuck. My family. The family that had essentially abandoned me with that cold, impersonal letter… But…

A bitter smile touched my lips. "You miss being… menacing, don't you? Why don't you come to Cyrusia and scare my family shitless? They deserve it, trust me. And here's the real challenge for that brilliant brain of yours, my dear: you won't understand a single word they say."

"Raphael," Levi said, his voice surprisingly subdued. "I do apologize for my… impulse decision and for exposing you to that spectacle. Please be assured, it is not an occurrence that will be repeated." He paused, then his usual analytical tone returned as he considered my suggestion. "Regarding your proposal for a trip to Cyrusia… regrettably, it presents a near insurmountable logistical challenge, given my… public profile. As a high-ranking person within the Ascarian government, my entry into Cyrusia would likely be met with considerable… scrutiny, if not outright denial. But…" A faint, predatory smile touched his lips, a familiar glint returning to his eyes. "If your desire is merely for me to… 'terrorize' your family, I find myself surprisingly amenable to that concept. Circumventing international travel restrictions for them would be a far simpler endeavor. I can dispatch a private jet to their location at your earliest convenience."

"You have a private jet?"

Of course he had a private jet. Why wouldn't he?

"Of course, my dear," Levi replied, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. "But do not forget my carefully cultivated public image, Raphael. I am green, remember? The Saint of Ascaria. A humble figure dedicated to the well-being of the populace. Owning a conspicuous private jet… it is not exactly in line with that particular narrative, is it?"

"You are a manipulative bastard, Levi," I stated, a wry smile tugging at my lips despite the underlying tension.

"My dear Raphael," Levi countered, a twinkle in his eye, "I rarely utilize the private jet. It's terribly fuel-inefficient, you see. I primarily favor the helicopter. I was being entirely honest about being ecologically thoughtful. One must maintain one's saintly image, after all, even when discussing the potential psychological torment of one's beloved's estranged family."

"You are still a manipulative bastard, Levi," I repeated, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through my worry. His commitment to the absurd, even now, was strangely comforting. "But… there's a slight problem with your kind offer of familial terror. They, uh… they don't exactly have publicly listed contact information. Let's just say my departure wasn't exactly met with a flurry of 'stay in touch' cards. So, while the thought is… darkly amusing, it's not exactly a viable option."

"Ah, my dear," Levi replied, his tone smooth. "Obstacles such as unlisted contact information are merely… data points to be overcome. You provide me with their names and any known address – even a vague geographical location would suffice – and a discreet aircraft will be… situated on their nearest rooftop by tomorrow morning. And to ensure a comfortable and culturally sensitive experience, I will even procure a team of translators. We wouldn't want them to feel unduly alarmed during their… unexpected relocation."

"Levi…" I said, my voice heavy with the weight of years of pain and resentment. "My family… they suck. A lot. They're… vehemently homophobic, and they're Cyrusian supremacists to boot. They made it abundantly clear what they thought of… me. Of us." I looked away, the old wounds still raw. "I haven't seen them in years, Levi. Haven't spoken to them. And honestly… I'm not entirely sure if I ever want to again."

"My dearest Raphael," Levi said softly, his tone devoid of any of its earlier playful menace, replaced by a genuine warmth. "If it is colorful and violently dramatic familial narratives you crave, then rest assured, the chronicles of the Blake family could fill volumes. My curiosity regarding your own lineage was merely that – curiosity. You extended a remarkable kindness to my own fractured family, even managing to… humanize Ragnar in my admittedly jaded perception. There is absolutely no pressure, my dear. If the thought of seeing them causes you pain or discomfort, then by all means, do not. Your peace of mind is paramount." He reached out, and lightly brushed his fingers against my cheek. "We can explore the fascinatingly dysfunctional dynamics of the Blakes for years to come, if you wish."

“Your family sucks more than mine, Levi. I admit that.” I said, a faint, weary smile playing on my lips. “Can we go to the bed, now? Let’s just go and cuddle and sleep, yeah? My gig is like three days later. I will not have another peaceful night.”

"They do possess a certain… flair for the dramatic and the morally reprehensible, I concede," Levi murmured, a hint of amusement returning to his eyes. "Indeed, the Blake family tapestry is woven with threads of intrigue, betrayal, and truly astonishing levels of self-delusion. A far more… stimulatingly toxic environment than your own, it would seem."

He nodded slowly, his gaze softening as he looked at me. "Yes, Raphael. Bed sounds… eminently sensible. And the prospect of simply holding you… that offers a far more appealing form of solace than any self-inflicted pain or grand scheme of familial terror. Come." He gently took my hand. "Let us seek the quiet refuge of sleep and conserve your energy for the cacophony that awaits you in three days. A peaceful night is a precious commodity."

I burrowed close to him, seeking the familiar coldness and solidity of his body like a drowning man clutches a piece of driftwood. Despite the recent horror that still clawed at the edges of my mind, the simple act of being near him, of feeling his presence beside me, offered a small, desperate comfort. I buried my face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him – a subtle soapy scent – a small, grounding anchor in the swirling vortex of my thoughts.