(AN: Jester finally gets to see Goat mom, and well, he isn't going to be the warmest at first. This will be explained as we go, but do know he has his own issues that Toriel will have to help him through. Also more mama goat and baby Harley bonding, plus Jester.)
Harlequin POV
It's another day.
And I'm still thinking about the pie incident.
Not just any pie.
A living one.
I huff quietly under my breath as I walk, my hands tucked into my pockets, my boots crunching lightly against the dirt as I drift away from the circus like I always do now.
"…Piemon," I mutter, the name feeling ridiculous even now.
A stupid joke.
A bad one.
On purpose.
And she laughed.
Actually laughed.
Not forced.
Not polite.
Real.
I can still hear it if I think about it hard enough—soft, warm, a little surprised like she didn't expect it herself. My grin tugs at my lips just slightly, but it's not the usual sharp thing I wear for others.
It's… quieter.
"…Guess I'm funny after all," I murmur, though there's no bite behind it.
Just a lingering warmth that doesn't quite fade.
My steps don't slow.
They never do when I'm heading this way.
I don't even have to think about it anymore—the woods part for me like they've already decided I belong there. Branches don't snag, roots don't trip me up, the path just… works.
Like it wants me to come back.
Like it knows I will.
Because I always do.
Behind me, the circus fades.
The noise.
The tension.
The constant edge of everything.
Gone.
Replaced with something softer.
Quieter.
Safer.
My jaw tightens just slightly at that word.
Safe.
Yeah.
That's the problem.
I shouldn't feel that.
Not here.
Not anywhere.
But I do.
Every time I step into that clearing.
Every time I see her.
Every time she looks at me like I'm not something broken or useful or temporary—
But something to be cared for.
My fingers curl slightly in my pockets as my mind drifts, uninvited, back to something older.
Warmer.
A memory I don't touch often.
Small hands.
No—
Not hands.
Claws.
Too small to do anything but cling.
Warm scales.
Tendrils curling protectively around me.
A low, rumbling sound—comfort, safety, something that said you're okay, you're mine, you're safe.
My breath hitches just slightly.
"…Tch."
I shake my head, sharp, like I can force it away.
That was a long time ago.
Gone.
Doesn't matter.
Doesn't—
My steps slow for just a fraction before picking up again, faster this time.
Because it does matter.
That's the problem.
Because when I'm with her—
It feels like that again.
Not the same.
Never the same.
But close enough that it messes with my head.
Goat Mom.
I called her that as a joke at first.
Testing.
Pushing.
Seeing how she'd react.
And instead of correcting me—
Instead of rejecting it—
She accepted it.
Like it meant something.
Like I meant something.
My jaw tightens again, something uncomfortable and warm settling in my chest.
"…Yeah, well," I mutter under my breath.
"Too late to take it back now."
And I don't want to.
That's the worst part.
I don't want to.
Because every time I go back—
She's there.
Waiting.
Not impatient.
Not demanding.
Just… there.
Like she expects me.
Like she's glad I came back.
And that—
That hooks deeper than anything else.
I exhale slowly, my gaze flicking briefly over my shoulder.
Back toward the circus.
Toward them.
Jester.
Ticket Taker.
Doctor.
Pierrot.
I'm not stupid.
I can feel it.
The way Jester watches me now—sharper, more focused.
The way Bil's questions have gotten just a little more pointed.
The way Doctor lingers just a second longer when I pass by.
They've noticed.
Of course they have.
I've given them every reason to.
"…Yeah, yeah," I mutter.
"Suspicious."
No kidding.
I'd be suspicious too.
And Jester—
My expression tightens slightly.
He's the real problem.
Because he doesn't let things go.
He observes.
Tracks.
Waits.
And when he decides something matters—
He acts.
I click my tongue lightly.
"…He's gonna follow me."
Not a question.
A certainty.
Sooner or later.
And when he does—
My steps slow just slightly as I think that through.
Because I don't like that.
Not even a little.
Not him.
Not anyone.
Going there.
Seeing her.
Seeing that place.
My fingers curl tighter in my pockets.
Because that place—
That cottage—
It's not like anything else.
It's not part of the circus.
It's not part of the world I came from.
It's—
Mine.
The thought hits harder than I expect.
I stop.
Just for a second.
"…Huh."
My brow furrows slightly, my usual grin gone as I turn that over in my head.
Mine.
Not in the way we claim territory.
Not in the way we control things.
But in a quieter way.
A more stubborn one.
Like something I don't want taken.
Don't want touched.
Don't want changed.
My jaw sets.
"…He's not going there," I mutter, softer now.
More certain.
Because I know how this goes.
They'll question it.
Analyze it.
Decide if it's useful.
Or dangerous.
Or both.
And I—
I don't want that.
I don't want them near her.
Not because I think they'd hurt her.
But because—
They'd change it.
And I don't want anything about that place to change.
Not the warmth.
Not the quiet.
Not the way she looks at me like I'm still something worth caring about.
My shoulders tense before I force them to relax, my steps starting up again as the trees begin to shift around me, the familiar pull guiding me forward.
"…Yeah," I breathe out quietly.
"I'm going back."
Of course I am.
I always will.
Because out of everything I've known—
Everything I've survived—
That cottage is the only place that's ever felt like something I could keep.
Something I didn't have to fight for.
Something I didn't have to pretend in.
And maybe—
Maybe that makes me a little more attached than I should be.
A little more protective than I want to admit.
But I don't stop.
I don't turn back.
Because I already know—
The moment I step into that clearing…
I won't regret it.
Toriel POV
I hum softly to myself as I move about the kitchen, the gentle clink of porcelain and silverware filling the quiet as I set the table.
Two plates.
Two cups.
Two sets of utensils.
It has become… natural.
Effortless.
What was once a habit long forgotten now returns as if it had never left me at all, my hands moving with practiced care as I straighten the cloth, adjust the placement just slightly, ensuring everything is just right.
"…There we are," I murmur, smoothing the edge of the tablecloth with a small, satisfied smile.
The cottage feels different now.
Not empty.
Not quiet in that lingering, aching way.
It feels… lived in again.
Because I know he will come.
He always does.
And I find myself preparing before he even arrives—making sure there is enough food, enough warmth, enough comfort waiting for him when he steps through that door.
My child.
The words settle in my chest, warm and certain, as I turn slightly, my gaze drifting toward the hallway.
Toward the spare room.
I step closer, my movements slowing as I rest my hand lightly against the doorframe, looking inside.
It is no longer untouched.
No longer simply… waiting.
The bed has been made, soft blankets layered neatly, a small collection of items placed carefully along the side—things I thought he might like, things that might make the space feel like his.
Not perfect.
But cared for.
Welcoming.
"…Just in case," I whisper softly.
In case he stays.
In case he needs somewhere to rest.
In case he decides—
My ears lift slightly at the thought, a small, hopeful warmth blooming quietly in my chest.
I would not be alone.
And he—
He would not have to wander.
My fingers curl gently against the wood of the doorframe before I draw in a slow breath, my gaze softening.
"…Asgore…"
The name leaves me before I can stop it.
Quiet.
Fragile.
I close my eyes briefly.
And for a moment—
I am no longer here.
I see him as he was—large, gentle, steady as he worked, building this home piece by piece with his own hands. A place for us. For our children. For a life that was meant to be filled with laughter and warmth and—
I inhale sharply.
No.
Not now.
Not again.
I shake my head gently, forcing the memory back, folding it away where it belongs.
"…It has been long enough," I murmur to myself, my voice soft but firm.
Too long to still be held by grief alone.
Too long to let the past take what little present I have been given.
Because now—
Now I am not alone.
I straighten slightly, my expression softening once more as I glance back toward the kitchen, toward the table set for two.
Toward the warmth that fills this home again.
"I have a child to care for," I say quietly.
Not to replace.
Never to replace.
But to love.
To protect.
To guide.
The way I was meant to.
My hand lifts to rest lightly over my chest, my voice lowering into something steadier—something resolved.
"I will not fail this one."
Not like before.
Not again.
The words are not heavy with guilt.
They are filled with promise.
With determination.
With love.
And as I turn back toward the kitchen, a soft smile returning to my face, I adjust the final details of the meal, the scent of butterscotch and cinnamon once again filling the air—
I wait.
Patiently.
For my child to come home.
Jester POV
I follow.
Silently.
Unseen.
Unheard.
Harlequin slips into the woods with the same careless confidence he always carries, his steps unguarded, his attention forward—never once checking behind him.
Of course he doesn't.
He doesn't think like that.
Not when he believes he's alone.
Not when he believes no one is watching.
That works in my favor.
My limbs shift as I move, the familiar release of my spider-like extensions easing the strain of the terrain. They anchor into bark, catch against branches, carry me upward and forward with controlled precision. Each movement is deliberate, calculated—no wasted motion, no unnecessary sound.
Above him.
Around him.
Never where he expects.
The canopy becomes my path.
I keep my distance.
Close enough to track.
Far enough to remain undetected.
My eyes stay locked on him, every one of them focused, following the rhythm of his movement, the pattern he doesn't realize he's repeating.
He doesn't wander.
That's the first confirmation.
His path is too clean.
Too certain.
He knows where he's going.
That alone solidifies my suspicion.
But then—
The forest shifts.
Subtly.
Most would not notice.
I do.
The air changes first.
A faint resistance, like pushing against something that does not want to yield. My limbs pause briefly against the branch as I test it—not physically, but with awareness.
The woods are not passive.
They react.
To me.
My gaze narrows slightly, my posture lowering as I remain still for just a fraction longer than necessary.
"…Interesting," I murmur under my breath.
The resistance is not aggressive.
Not hostile.
Just… present.
Like something is attempting to guide me away.
Mislead.
Redirect.
My fingers tighten slightly against the bark.
It doesn't work.
It can't.
I've adapted too long, moved through too many environments, navigated too many variables to be turned around by something so subtle.
Still—
That alone confirms it.
This place is not natural.
At least, not entirely.
I adjust my path slightly, compensating for the shifts, recalibrating my movement with quiet efficiency as I continue forward.
Harlequin doesn't slow.
Doesn't hesitate.
Which means whatever is influencing this place—
It's not acting against him.
My attention sharpens.
"…Selective," I note internally.
Allowed.
Guided.
Welcomed.
While I—
Am not.
That makes this far more than a simple curiosity.
I move again, faster now, though no less controlled, leaping silently from one branch to the next, keeping pace without revealing myself.
The further we go—
The stronger it becomes.
Not enough to stop me.
But enough to confirm intent.
This place knows I am here.
And it does not want me to be.
My jaw tightens slightly.
That alone ensures I continue.
Because anything that attempts to hide—
Is something worth uncovering.
The trees begin to thin ahead.
Light shifts.
Warmer.
Softer.
My movement slows.
Careful now.
Measured.
I lower myself onto a higher branch, positioning just out of sight, just beyond the edge of the clearing as I finally see it.
And for the first time—
I stop completely.
Because what lies ahead—
Does not belong.
A cottage.
Warm.
Lived in.
Peaceful in a way that feels almost… wrong given everything surrounding it.
My eyes narrow, every one of them focusing, analyzing, taking in every detail at once.
Flowers.
Animals.
No signs of fear.
No signs of violence.
No signs of what should exist in a place like this.
And Harlequin—
He walks toward it.
Without hesitation.
Without caution.
Like he's returning.
Not discovering.
My grip tightens against the branch.
"…So this is it," I murmur quietly.
The source.
The reason.
The answer.
And I remain still—
Watching.
Waiting.
Because now—
I need to see what happens next.
I watch.
Still.
Silent.
Every limb locked in place against the branch as Harlequin steps into the clearing like he belongs there.
No hesitation.
No caution.
No awareness of how exposed he is.
My gaze narrows slightly, tracking every movement, every shift in posture, every detail that doesn't align with what I know.
Because this—
This is not how he acts.
Not with unknown variables.
Not with anything that hasn't been tested.
And yet—
He walks straight to the door.
Like he's done it a hundred times before.
The cottage stands there, warm light spilling from its windows, untouched by the forest surrounding it. Animals move freely. Nothing hides. Nothing flees.
Everything about it is wrong.
Everything about it is controlled.
Then—
The door opens.
And I freeze.
Not out of fear.
Not out of surprise.
But because what I see—
Does not match expectation.
A monster.
Goat-like.
Tall.
Soft.
There is no tension in her posture, no defensive reaction, no immediate assessment of threat. She simply steps forward—
And embraces him.
Warmly.
Fully.
Like it is natural.
Like it is expected.
My grip tightens.
Because Harlequin—
Does not react how he should.
There is no resistance.
No deflection.
No mockery.
No careful distancing.
Instead—
He returns it.
Not fully.
Not completely.
But enough.
Enough to show comfort.
Enough to show familiarity.
Enough to show—
Trust.
My eyes sharpen.
All of them.
Because that—
That is wrong.
That is dangerous.
That is something I do not allow.
And then—
It gets worse.
His disguise slips.
Not entirely.
But partially.
Enough that I can see it—the shift beneath the surface, the way his form loosens just slightly, the way he allows himself to be seen in a way he never does outside controlled environments.
Outside us.
My chest tightens.
Not sharply.
But enough to register.
Concern.
Real.
Immediate.
Because Harlequin does not expose himself like that unless—
Unless he believes he is safe.
Unless he believes he is protected.
Unless he believes—
That nothing here will harm him.
My gaze flicks to the creature holding him.
Analyzing.
Assessing.
There is no aggression.
No hidden movement.
No indication of threat.
Only—
Warmth.
Care.
Something dangerously close to genuine.
My jaw tightens.
Because that might be worse.
Because something that earns his trust this quickly—
Something that bypasses every instinct he should have—
Is not something I can ignore.
My fingers press harder into the bark beneath me.
Silent.
Controlled.
But tense.
"…What are you," I murmur under my breath, my voice barely there.
Not to him.
Not to her.
To the situation.
Because this is no longer just curiosity.
This is influence.
And I do not yet know if it is intentional.
Harlequin steps inside.
Willingly.
Easily.
Like he has nothing to fear.
The door closes behind him.
And I remain where I am.
Watching the place that just took him in—
Without resistance.
Without question.
My eyes do not leave the cottage.
My posture does not relax.
Because now—
I am not just observing.
I am evaluating.
And if this thing—
Whatever it is—
Has gained that level of access to him…
Then I need to decide—
Very carefully—
What I do next.
Harlequin POV
"…Goat Mom…"
My voice comes out quieter this time.
Less sharp.
Less… me.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor near the fire, absently tracing small patterns into the wood with a faint flicker of magic she had just finished teaching me how to control—well… start to control.
It sputters.
Weak.
Unstable.
Nothing like hers.
Nothing like what she showed me.
I frown slightly at it before looking up at her again, tilting my head just a little, the question sitting there in my chest longer than it probably should have before I finally say it.
"…How old are you?"
It sounds simple.
Casual.
But it's not.
Not really.
My fingers still against the floor as I watch her, my usual grin nowhere to be found, replaced by something softer—something that feels a little too open.
"…I mean—" I start again quickly, like I need to explain myself, like I don't want her to think it's weird. "You just… You know a lot."
That's an understatement.
Hours.
I've been here for hours again.
Listening.
Learning.
Actually learning.
Not just surviving.
Not just figuring things out on my own.
But being taught.
She told me about magic.
Real magic.
Not just the one thing we're born with—the single ability we cling to and sharpen because it's all we've got.
No.
She showed me how it used to be.
How they used to be.
Underground monsters.
Boss monsters.
Elementals.
How their magic wasn't just one thing.
It was fluid.
Adaptable.
Growing.
Changing.
Alive.
My fingers curl slightly against the floor.
"…It's not fair," I mutter under my breath before I can stop myself.
The words slip out, quiet and a little rough.
Because it isn't.
They had so much.
Choice.
Control.
Power that didn't box them in.
And us?
We get one.
One ability.
One thing we cling to until it either keeps us alive—
Or it doesn't.
My gaze drops for a second, staring at my hand as I flex my fingers again, trying to mimic what she showed me earlier.
The magic flickers.
Then fades.
"…I wanna be like that," I admit, softer now.
Not joking.
Not deflecting.
Just… honest.
My throat tightens slightly, something uncomfortable settling there as I look back up at her.
"Like you," I add, quieter.
Because that's what it really is.
Not just the magic.
Not just the history.
It's the way she is.
Calm.
Warm.
Whole.
Like she isn't constantly held together by habits and instincts and things that were never meant to be normal.
My gaze lingers on her for a moment longer before I look away again, rubbing the back of my neck awkwardly.
"…Sorry," I mutter.
"Just… never heard about any of this before."
That's the part that stings the most.
That this—
All of it—
Was real.
And I just…
Didn't know.
Didn't get to have it.
Didn't get to grow up in it.
My shoulders drop slightly, the tension easing just enough to show through.
"…Feels like I missed out on something," I admit quietly.
Something important.
Something I should've had.
My fingers tap lightly against the floor again before I glance back up at her, the question still there, still lingering beneath everything else.
"…So how old are you?" I ask again, softer this time.
Less curiosity.
More… wanting to understand.
Because if she's lived through all of that—
If she remembers what it was like—
Then maybe—
Just maybe—
She can help me understand what it means to be something more than what I've been forced to become.
Toriel POV
His question surprises me.
Not entirely—
But enough that I pause.
I had been watching him quietly, observing the way he sat so close to the fire, the way his magic flickered uncertainly at his fingertips, the way his expression softened when he thought I was not looking.
A child.
That is what he is.
No matter how he carries himself.
No matter the sharpness in his voice or the habits he has built to survive.
To me—
He is a child.
When one has lived as long as I have… the difference becomes clear.
Years blur.
Time stretches.
And those who have only lived a fraction of it—no matter how hardened they may seem—are still so very young.
Still learning.
Still growing.
Still in need of guidance.
"…My dear," I begin softly, my voice warm as I set aside what I had been holding and step a little closer to him.
His words linger in my mind.
The way he said it.
I want to be like that.
Like you.
It makes my heart ache.
Not because he is wrong—
But because he believes he has missed something, he can never have.
Because he believes he is… less.
My hand lifts gently, resting atop his head, my touch light, careful, as though I might startle him if I am not mindful.
"You have not missed as much as you think," I say softly.
And I mean it.
Because I can feel it.
The change in him.
Subtle—but undeniable.
The magic here has begun to settle into him, weaving gently through what was once strained, what was once worn thin from years of surviving rather than living.
His soul—
It no longer trembles the same way it did when he first arrived.
It is quieter now.
Softer.
Healing.
And his body…
I have noticed.
Of course I have.
He holds himself differently.
There is a faint fullness to him now, a steadiness where there had once been something fragile, something stretched too thin.
He does not seem to realize it.
But I do.
Because I have seen what happens when monsters are deprived of what they truly need.
"…Your body has been trying very hard to endure," I continue gently, my thumb brushing lightly against his hair.
"Without the magic it was meant to rely on."
My expression softens, my eyes filled with quiet sorrow—not for what he is, but for what he has gone through.
"…That is not something you were meant to live without," I murmur.
No monster was.
And yet—
He has.
For years.
My hand remains there, steady, grounding.
"But now… it is beginning to recover," I add, my tone warming again.
"The magic here is helping you. It is giving your body what it has been missing."
Not all at once.
Not in a way that overwhelms.
But gently.
Patiently.
Just as healing should be.
I lower myself slightly so that I am closer to his level, my gaze meeting his with that same soft, reassuring warmth.
"As for your question…"
A small, amused breath escapes me, my ears lifting just slightly.
"…I have lived for a very long time, my child."
I do not give him a number.
Not because I am hiding it—
But because it would mean very little to him.
"…Long enough to remember what magic was like before it began to fade," I continue.
"Long enough to see how much has changed."
And yet—
I am still here.
Still able to guide him.
Still able to offer him something he has never truly had.
My hand moves from his head to gently cup his cheek, my touch soft, grounding, full of quiet affection.
"You do not need to become what we were to be whole," I tell him gently.
Because that is what he is truly asking.
Not about age.
Not about magic.
But about worth.
About belonging.
"You are already more than you believe yourself to be."
My thumb brushes lightly against his cheek, my smile returning—soft, proud, filled with a mother's quiet certainty.
"And you are still growing."
Still healing.
Still becoming something better than what the world forced you to be.
"And I will help you," I add softly.
Because that—
That is something I will not hesitate to give him.
Not now.
Not ever.
Jester POV
I do not move.
Not for hours.
The branch beneath me has long since stopped shifting under my weight, my limbs anchored, stilled into place as I watch.
And I watch.
Every movement.
Every word.
Every change.
The cottage glows warmly below, light spilling from its windows as if the world beyond it does not exist. As if the forest does not press in around it. As if nothing out there matters.
As if we do not matter.
My eyes narrow.
All of them.
Because inside—
Harlequin sits close to her.
Too close.
Relaxed.
Open.
Wrong.
He should not look like that outside of controlled space.
Not here.
Not with something we have not vetted, not assessed, not understood.
And yet—
He leans into her presence without hesitation.
Allows it.
Accepts it.
My grip tightens slightly against the bark, tension running through my limbs in a slow, controlled line as I track the moment her hand rests on him.
On his head.
His cheek.
Affection.
Casual.
Unrestricted.
Unchallenged.
Something in me spikes.
Sharp.
Immediate.
My hackles rise instinctively, a low tension coiling beneath my skin that I do not bother suppressing—not entirely.
"…No," I murmur under my breath.
Because that is not hers to give.
Not like that.
Not to him.
Harlequin is—
My gaze sharpens further.
My Harlequin.
Not owned.
Not controlled.
But part of something.
Part of us.
Of the structure.
Of the pack.
And this—
This outsider—
This creature wrapped in warmth and sweetness and something that feels too perfect to be real—
She acts as if she has the right to step into that space.
To replace what we are.
To offer something we did not.
My jaw tightens.
Because that—
That is the problem.
Not that she is harming him.
Not that she is threatening him.
But that she is giving him something we did not.
Something he is responding to.
My eyes flick to him again, watching the way he sits there, the way his posture has softened, the way his usual edge has dulled just enough to be noticeable.
He is… comfortable.
That alone is enough to set every warning in place.
"…You trust too easily," I mutter quietly.
But that is not entirely fair.
He does not.
Which means—
She has earned it.
Quickly.
Too quickly.
My fingers press harder into the bark.
This is influence.
Whether she intends it or not.
And influence—
Must be understood.
Must be controlled.
A voice flickers at the edge of my thoughts.
Measured.
Familiar.
Bil.
You are spying on him.
You are overreacting.
My expression hardens.
"…Irrelevant," I murmur, dismissing it immediately.
Because this is not about privacy.
This is not about boundaries.
This is about risk.
Unknown variables.
Uncontrolled elements.
A factor that has inserted itself into our system without notice.
Without permission.
Without explanation.
And Harlequin—
He is already adjusting to it.
Already returning.
Already changing.
My gaze flicks once more to the cottage, to the soft glow, to the quiet, unnatural peace of it.
"…What are you trying to do," I whisper under my breath, not expecting an answer.
Not needing one.
Because intent does not always matter.
Effect does.
And the effect is clear.
He is being pulled.
Not forced.
Not manipulated in the obvious sense.
But drawn.
And that—
That is more dangerous.
Because it means he is choosing it.
Choosing her.
My posture lowers slightly, tension coiling tighter, more controlled now as I settle deeper into observation rather than reaction.
I will not intervene.
Not yet.
Not without understanding.
But I will not ignore this.
Not anymore.
Because whatever this is—
Whatever she is—
She has inserted herself into something that is not hers.
And I do not allow unknown influences to take hold without consequence.
My eyes remain fixed on the cottage.
Unblinking.
Unwavering.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because sooner or later—
I will have to decide what to do about her.
Hours pass.
I do not shift.
Do not blink.
Do not look away.
The light in the cottage dims slowly as time stretches on, the warmth inside never fading, never flickering the way it should.
And then—
Movement.
The door opens.
My focus sharpens instantly, every limb tightening against the branch as Harlequin steps out into the clearing—
And she follows.
The goat monster.
Still calm.
Still warm.
Still wrong.
I track them both, every motion precise in my awareness as they come to a stop just outside the cottage.
And then—
Harlequin moves.
Not like before.
Not guarded.
Not measured.
He removes it.
Fully.
His mask.
His disguise.
Gone.
My breath stills.
Because he does not do that.
Not here.
Not anywhere outside of us.
And then—
It gets worse.
He leans forward.
Presses his horns—his face—against hers.
A gesture.
Not casual.
Not meaningless.
Instinctive.
Deep.
A monster's act.
Family.
Pack.
Trust.
Something sacred.
Something not given lightly.
Something not given to outsiders.
Something in me snaps.
A low, guttural growl tears from my throat before I can stop it, the sound sharp and raw as I drop from my perch in a single, fluid motion, limbs retracting as I land hard against the ground.
The impact barely registers.
I am already moving.
Already there.
The air shifts violently with my presence, the calm of the clearing breaking in an instant as tension floods the space.
Harlequin reacts immediately.
Of course he does.
His tendrils rise on instinct, snapping into place between us as he steps in front of her without hesitation.
Protective.
Defensive.
Against me.
My eyes widen—
Just slightly.
Because that—
That is not right.
That is not acceptable.
"…Harlequin," I say, my voice low, controlled—but edged with something far sharper beneath it.
A warning.
A command.
A question all at once.
He freezes.
Not completely.
But enough.
Because he recognizes it.
Because he knows.
And then—
He sees me.
Really sees me.
And everything changes.
The color drains from his face, his posture faltering just slightly as realization hits.
He wasn't alone.
He wasn't unseen.
He wasn't—
Safe.
My gaze flicks past him.
To her.
Standing there.
Still calm.
Still composed.
Even now.
Even with the tension cutting through the air.
My eyes narrow, every one of them locking onto her as I take in the full picture—the closeness, the contact, the familiarity that should not exist.
"…You," I murmur, quieter now.
Not to him.
To her.
Because she is the variable.
She is the unknown.
She is the one who has inserted herself into something that is not hers.
My attention snaps back to Harlequin, my expression hardening as I take a step forward—not aggressive, not yet—but enough to press.
"…Explain," I say.
One word.
Flat.
Unyielding.
Because I am done observing.
And I will not tolerate being kept in the dark any longer.