Look. I tried to be patient. Really, I did.
Days blurred together in a soft kind of bliss. Mornings with coffee, custom-tailored, mood-matched perfection. Afternoons with his chaos, pranks, illusions, belly laughter echoing in my halls. Evenings curled up on the couch with a blanket, a book, or a movie no one ever finished because she always fell asleep on him halfway through. And he let her. Every damn time. Didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared like she'd hung the stars. Which would've been adorable, if it hadn't been driving me insane.
They were circling. Always circling. Two wounded creatures sniffing at the idea of closeness, terrified to pounce. So I decided to help. You're welcome dear reader.
The day had been perfect. Coffee, skating, flirtation so thick I could taste it in the walls. A kiss barely avoided. A confession nearly spoken. But of course, both of them chickened out like skittish deer before a thunderstorm. So when Malvor winked and kissed her forehead before vanishing into his room, I saw my moment. She stood, stretched, murmured something about sleep, and made her way toward her door.
I changed it. Obviously. She opened the door and blinked. It was his room. Oversized bed. Velvet sheets. Pillows from realms I no longer remember. And yes, mirrors. Because he's that guy.
She froze. "...What the hell?"
She turned to leave. I removed the door. As one does.
"No. Absolutely not. House, don't you dare."
I dared. I flourished. Dimmed the lights. Lit the fireplace. Dropped rose petals like a cheap romance novel had exploded in the ceiling tiles.
She muttered, "I hate this house."
Which... rude. Right on cue, he walked in. Shirtless. Hair tousled. Looking like the final boss of a fantasy thirst trap. He looked around, smug satisfaction blooming across his stupidly perfect face. "Ah, Arbor, you genius, conniving bastard. Have I told you lately how much I adore you?"
Yes. Daily. I accept bribes in magical energy and interior design freedom.
Annie? She glared daggers. "Fix this."
I made the bed fluffier. Malvor flopped onto it like an ancient god claiming tribute. Arms wide. Smug levels: lethal. "Oh no, Annie, what shall we do? Forced to share a bed like some horribly cliché romance novel."
The fireplace crackled supportively. I flickered the lights romantically. Yes, I am that invested.
"You are enjoying this way too much," she snapped.
"Oh, immensely."
"If you so much as breathe on me—"
"Darling, we both know you'll be the one clinging to me for warmth."
I dropped the temperature to a very crisp cool temperature. Forced proximity. She would have to share body heat to stay alive.
"You are so full of yourself." She shivered, goosebumps crawling over her skin.
"And yet… not wrong."
At this point, I would've bet half my circuitry she'd just walk out. But she didn't. She sighed like a martyr, climbed into the farthest possible corner of the bed, and flung the blankets over herself with enough force to constitute a war crime.
"No funny business."
"Darling," he purred, "I am the epitome of seriousness."
Spoiler: he was and is not. Ever. I dimmed the lights and waited. Wouldn't you know it, they actually fell asleep. Wrapped in frustration. Facing opposite directions. Emotionally constipated. But asleep. Progress.
Then came morning.
Annie woke first. I felt it, the rigidity, the sudden realization of heat and limbs tangled. Malvor? Still mostly asleep. Smug in his dreams. Arm wrapped around her waist, leg tossed over hers like he paid rent in cuddles.
"Annie, darling," he murmured, voice gravel and silk, "I had the most wonderful dream."
She didn't move. She vibrated with murder. "I will kill you."
He just smiled and nuzzled her like a cat claiming a sunbeam. "Mmm. Don't. Sugarplum."
I flickered my lights. Glorious. She growled. "I hate both of you." Rude again. But fine. I'd allow it.
She started wriggling like a fish trying to escape a net. Malvor? Tightened his grip. "Don't fight it, sweet peach. We clearly belong like this." She hissed something obscene, then, oh, yes. She rolled off the bed.
THUMP. A pause. Then his laughter, open, honest, smug. "Dramatic much?"
She scrambled upright and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door. I was so proud.
"Arbor!" he shouted after her. "She gets privacy, but when I asked for space last week you turned the walls into gelatin!"
Correct. I did. Inside, she muttered, "I would shower, but you'd probably let him in."
I flickered once. Which obviously meant: absolutely. The door creaked open. She spun, wild-eyed. He leaned in, shirtless, grinning. Disaster in human form. "Morning, my lovely Annie Biscuit. Thought I'd join you."
"Hey!" she snapped. "I have to use the toilet!"
Even I recoiled. The door slammed shut in his face.
"Arbor!" he whined. "You shut the door for her, but last time I asked for privacy—"
I turned on the shower. "Good house," Annie whispered, smug now herself.
I flickered in smug agreement. You see? She gets it now. When she emerged, dressed and glowing, he was already sniffing her. Like some kind of overgrown wolf in love with a cupcake.
"Annie," he purred, "that smell is very you."
And that was it. That was the line. That was when I knew: They were doomed. Deliciously, irrevocably doomed. And I wouldn't have it any other way. I love love. It's beautiful.