"I'm not wrong, though."
"You never are, right?"
Lucavion didn't answer. He just offered that same insufferable little grin—the one that always suggested he knew more than he was letting on. The one that made professors groan and upperclassmen debate whether they liked him or not.
Mireilla sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I'll just take coffee. Go clean yourself. Or whatever it is you do."
"Hm." He gave a lazy two-fingered wave and turned toward the hall. "Don't blow up the dining hall."
"No promises," she called after him.
He chuckled softly, letting the dormitory's dull thrum absorb the fading tension in his chest. The banter helped. Just a little. A pause from everything that was not easy.
His door creaked open with a quiet push. It was dim inside—shutters half-drawn, only faint dawnlight spilling across the floor. He stepped in, toeing off his boots and dragging a hand through his hair.
And then he stopped.
