Blind Seer
Unarmored
Outfit: Clothes, Earring, Bangle
Weapons: Walking stick / Lightsaber Pike
Her vote of confidence caught him off guard. Not the joke about politics, but the way she said it—like she meant it. Like she saw something good in him he hadn’t quite let himself name.
His lips twitched faintly beneath her thumb, and as she pressed closer—leg curling around his, lips brushing his jaw—Aadihr felt the heat rise slow and deep under his skin. Not just from the tease, but from how quickly want could become need. From how terrifying it was to let someone see him this unguarded, and not regret it.
“That’s dangerous talk, Varek.” His voice dropped with it, low and warm. “You keep that up and I’ll stop pretending I have restraint.”
He was about to lean into her. To let her draw that line and cross it herself.
And then—scritchscritchscritch—followed by a THWUMP.
The moment broke.
There was a long silence. Then Aadihr sighed, long-suffering and unconvincingly annoyed.
“…Does she think she’s your chaperone?”
The door opened with a whisper and Cinnamon erupted like a furred torpedo of judgment. Aadihr tensed instinctively at the impact—then immediately relaxed as Cinnamon chose violence in the form of belly flopping directly across Azzie’s midsection, chirping smugly all the while.
He blinked, deadpan.
“…I take it back. I’m afraid of her.”
His arm shifted so it draped loosely around Azzie’s waist, bracketing Cinnamon with a lazy sort of resignation. Cinnamon purred louder. Somehow victorious.
“This is your fault.” A pause, softer. “I’d forgotten what it felt like to laugh in bed.”
He didn’t mean it as a joke.
Then—
Splat.
A sound like a large bouncing ball against the floor.
Splat. … Splat.
A pause.
And then, with a heroic fwump, a small pale-green gelatinous blob hurled itself upward from the floor—bouncing ineffectively against the mattress edge with an adorable squish before sliding back down with a pitiful slorp and a dumb, determined grin on its face.
Silence.
Another squelchy blorp! of effort.
Aadihr tilted his head toward the sound, yawning into the back of his hand.
“…And now Sugar’s jealous.”
He finally reached one arm out and, with the reluctant air of a man fully defeated by love and his pets, scooped the quivering slime off the floor. Sugar wobbled excitedly in his hands, chirping with happy blup-blup! sounds, then settled like a warm bag of sand against Aadihr’s bare chest.
The blob gave a contented wiggle. Then purred. Somehow.
“I think he got into the trash.” His tone was dry, directed at Azzie—but Cinnamon made a chittering sound that somehow carried infinite judgment.
Sugar let out a delighted “bwloop.”
Aadihr just lay back with a sigh, surrounded by chaos and warmth and the faint smell of fur and garbage.
I was supposed to meditate this morning.
A quiet beat passed. Then:
“...Don’t cut my hair.”
I want you to touch it like that again.
