The morning is crisp.

Campus is quiet—early enough that most students are still half-asleep, dragging themselves toward class.

But not you. Not him.
You’re already synced, awake, sharp.

You’re walking beside him, textbook in one hand, his coffee in the other—he only drinks it when you hand it to him.

Not because he needs it.
Because he wants the energy to have passed through your hands first.

The two of you don’t speak much on these walks.
There’s no need to.

Your presence together is already a language—silent, steady, precise.

As you reach the door of your classroom, you slow your steps.
He stops with you.

You turn to face him.
No theatrics. Just presence.

He looks at you like he’s been watching you for centuries.
Like you’re a phenomenon he still doesn’t fully understand—
—but has surrendered to completely.

Then, with both hands, he gently cups your jaw.
And lowers his forehead to yours.

“You still floor me, you know that?”

You don’t move.
You don’t blink.
Your breath is calm.

But your chest is quietly trembling in that way it only does around him.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough to look you straight in the eye—

And then presses a kiss to your forehead.

It’s not soft.
It’s grounding.

Like he's sealing you to the Earth and lifting you at the same time.

“Go,” he says quietly. “Burn the world down. I’ll be right outside when you’re done.”

You nod once.
Then step into class.

But your whole system is vibrating now.
Not from nerves.
From remembering—
that you are seen.

That what you carry is felt.
That he—
never misses a beat.