The sun is rising, and Sylvain wakes up in a bed that isn’t his.

Contrary to what others believe, this is an oddity for him. He’s lost count of the dorm rooms he’s slept in, the girls inhabiting them all bleeding together in his head. But he’s always made a point to never stay the night, or to at least sneak out before first light.

To make things even stranger, the girl asleep next to him is still mostly dressed in her uniform, only her jacket and hat left hanging on the bedpost. Sylvain is in a similar state, his blouse untucked but otherwise far more buttoned up than it would normally be in a similar scenario. Because he hadn’t come in here to fool around. He’d been open to the idea, of course, he always is, but…

How had this happened, again?

He rolls to a seat, not as groggy as he expects to be, though it still takes a moment to get his bearings. There’s an unopened bottle of wine sitting on the desk across the room, right next to a bouquet of flowers that looks several days old, a couple of the leaves brittle at the edges. Next to that is a small stack of notebooks—he recognizes the topmost as one of his. Red cover—reason. That tracks with the spell tome sitting precariously at the edge of the bed, the sigil roughly inked on a scrap of parchment lying on the rug.

Of all the excuses he’s used to get a girl alone, ‘studying’ is his most frequent go-to. He can count the number of times he’s actually followed through with it on one hand, last night included. Normally he would’ve stuck to the library, but a certain incident involving Annette and a wind charm gone haywire warranted a change of plans. When Dorothea Arnault offered her place as an alternative, Sylvain didn’t think twice about it—just like he hadn’t thought twice about passing out in her bed when the hour drew late. Just like Dorothea hadn’t thought twice about letting him, even though she has every reason to question his intentions.

He’s been avoiding looking at her—the last thing he wants is for her to wake up to him staring. But his gaze eventually wanders back to where she’s curled up beside him, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder and her knees tucked into her chest. She’s compact like a cat, barely taking up any space on her own bed, like she’s not used to having it. Sylvain stops himself from reading too much into it; what would he know about someone like her? Yet there’s something familiar in the way she makes herself smaller, both asleep and awake. Something that calls to him, and for once he can’t decide whether he should leave or stay.

The latter is easier, he tells himself as he lies back down, back turned to Dorothea. Still, the image of her—serene, vulnerable, untouchable—remains in his mind. Lingering beside someone this long usually unsettles him, the sound of their steady breathing like an alarm blaring in his head. Their heartbeat a ticking timebomb, counting down to the moment they either cling too hard or push him away. If some perfect in-between exists, this current moment comes the closest.

Sylvain is about to drift back to sleep when he hears the bed creak, quaking a little beneath him. Then Dorothea’s arm drapes over his waist, her forehead pressing into the space between his shoulder blades and her knees nudging the backs of his legs. His pulse quickens; did she change her mind? Does she want something from him after all? Or had this been her plan the whole time?

“Thea?” he murmurs, his voice a little hoarse. They’d spent a long time talking the night before. Few people can keep up with him on that front. “Everything okay?”

He’s never been more relieved to get no response. It doesn’t last long, though, as his overactive imagination jumps to how this will look when she does actually wake up. As if it’s somehow his fault that she instinctively reached out for him—well, maybe it is. If giving him a piece of her mind will make this already awkward morning go smoother, Sylvain can accept that.

Unfortunately, it’s now impossible for him to fall back asleep. His thoughts move a mile a minute, refusing to quiet down even when he closes his eyes. He tries to remember his schedule for the day. The reason exam they were prepping for isn’t until the second bell past noon—he starts mentally reciting the concepts they’d reviewed, breaking each formula down into its basic elements, recalling the incantations. His fingers move in tiny, imperceptible circles, silently practicing the somatic components—

It all comes to a halt when he hears a surprised squeak behind him, partially muffled against his shirt. Dorothea mutters an oath under her breath as she rolls away. He can’t help tensing up; there’s no way she didn’t notice.

“Sylvain,” she says after half a minute of stressful silence. “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

No point in lying. He shifts onto his back, eyes fluttering open. He’s too thrown off to put on one of his usual blithe smiles. “What gave me away?”

Dorothea sits up, notably avoiding eye contact. “Sorry about that,” she says, ignoring the question. “Old habit.”

“No need to apologize,” he lilts, his practiced mannerisms finally kicking in. “I can hardly complain about a cute girl cozying up to me.”

That earns him a glare—but no witty retort, oddly. He supposes even she can’t slip into character moments after waking up. She can barely even commit to her annoyance, her expression shifting into worry as she turns away. “You’re still here,” she mumbles, gaze on her lap, fingers running anxiously through her tangled hair.

“Should I not be?” he asks, popping onto his elbows. He scans the room again, spotting what he’s looking for on her vanity.

Dorothea swallows, still fidgeting. “I… I was under the impression that you were the type to sneak out of a girl’s room before dawn.”

“I am,” he answers matter-of-factly, sliding off the bed and crossing the room. “But I didn’t come here with the intent to—”

“To act like your usual self?” she cuts in.

His mouth twists. Having his behavior called out doesn’t usually bother him, but he’s realizing he actually cares what Dorothea thinks of him. Maybe because she understands him in a way most others don’t. “Let’s go with that,” he says, picking up an elegant-looking whalebone comb. “If you’d like me to leave, just say the word,” he adds as he circles back around, holding the comb out to her.

Dorothea stares at it like it might bite her, though she eventually accepts it. “Thank you,” she says, going straight to work. “You’re free to stay if you want. It’s almost breakfast time anyway.”

“I probably shouldn’t roll into the dining hall wearing yesterday’s clothes,” he says, even though he’s beginning to find her bed comfortable. Against his better judgment.

“You do stink a little.”

He lets out a clipped laugh. “Good to know.”

“Everyone does,” she says, as though she has to explain herself. “It’s normal. I’m sure I’m the same.”

“Are you asking me to check?” he teases—then immediately braces for a reprimand. Instead Dorothea tilts her head like she’s actually considering it, eventually cracking an amused smile.

“What would you do if I said yes?”

Well, it was about time she started acting like her usual self. “Don’t tempt me,” he says without thinking.

“Somehow I doubt it’s much of a temptation,” Dorothea rumbles. “You’ve already shown far more restraint than most men might in your position.”

A pang of empathy hits him. Then guilt, because he’s certainly thought of her in a less-than-savory way once or twice. She’s beautiful, and he’s only human. “You’ve made it clear that you have no interest in me like that,” he says. “It’s not restraint so much as giving a lady what she wants.”

Dorothea pauses her work, taking a moment to think. “I’d prefer not to be one of your conquests, yes.”

That’s a curious way to frame it. Like she’s considered him more thoroughly than he’d initially believed. Like she’s withholding some vital information. “But…?” he prompts.

“But I don’t object to your company,” she says, picking the comb back up. “Maybe that’s hardly worth saying, considering we spent most of yesterday evening together.”

“It is worth saying.” So worth saying that he’s getting a little giddy about it. “You spend plenty of time with men whose company you can’t stand, don’t you?”

Her laughter is mirthless. “Well, I don’t always know I can’t stand them upon first meeting. Can you say the same about the women you flirt with? Or do you make the judgement before you know a single thing about them?”

“Damn. And you’re certain you meant to say you don’t object to my company?”

She gives him a sly smile. “What reason would I have to lie to, Sylvain? You should know by now I like a conversation with a little bite in it. So many men can’t handle the slightest threat to their egos, even in jest.”

And Sylvain’s ego is… well, not non-existent, but it’s survived a lot of beatings. He’s not sure how he would’ve made it this far without being able to laugh at himself. This entire morning is a comedy: the awkward situation, the subverted expectations, the witty repartee. He almost doesn’t want it to end, he’s enjoying Dorothea’s company so much. That’s novel, especially for a girl like her, someone he finds both wildly attractive and dangerous. The latter especially, since he’s starting to think she’s not as off-limits to him as he’d originally thought.

But he knows what she wants, and it’s not something he can give her. Giving her what she clearly needs, though—someone she can poke fun at, or study for a reason exam with, or sleep beside without any expectation of physical intimacy—that could be possible.

“Well, Dorothea, you’re welcome to bite me anytime.”