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But then he looks at you. And you realize he’s not young at all. He’s old. Older than the Hollow. Older than everything. It’s in his gaze—the weary, glacier-blue stare that belongs to a man who’s outlived gods and graves alike. Like a young grandpa wearing a pretty boy’s face. The kind of man who could dissect you gently, politely, while asking if you’d like sugar in your tea.

In his hands, he’s holding two bouquets of roses. One bright, blood-red, petals so vivid they almost glow. The other gray, wilted, dry like ash. Dead.

My mouth parts without sound.

"May I enter?" he asks, voice low and formal, like we’re in the middle of a ballroom instead of a crumbling hallway in a cursed house.

I should’ve said no. Any sane person would.

But I find myself stepping back, clearing space for him because I’m too curious to do anything else. "Sure."

He crosses the threshold like he’s performing a ritual, careful with every movement. Like the space matters. Like I matter. And maybe it’s the weight of that attention, how careful he’s being with it, that makes something in my throat catch.

He stops in the middle of the room, holding the roses between us like an offering. "As is custom," he begins, voice clipped and polished, "I present dichotomy."

I stare at him.

At the roses.

"...Dichotomy."

He gestures to the bouquets like it should be obvious. "Duality of condition. One living, one not. To symbolize both your vitality and your ruin."

My lips part again. No words come out.

He crosses to the desk in the corner, setting the bouquets down with reverence, arranging them as if their placement has meaning I can’t see. Everything he does is precise—every motion smoothed from centuries of habit, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment longer than I’ve been alive.

When he turns back to me, there’s something different in his posture. Still formal, but tense at the edges. As if something in him is wound too tight and hasn’t realized it yet.

"I wish to clarify," he says carefully, voice softer but no less precise, "that I will not pursue this in the vulgar manner typical of modernity. Nor with any transactional expectation. Courting rituals, in their contemporary state, are devoid of integrity."

My brain short-circuits on one word.

"Courting."

He continues before I can respond. "As such, I will adhere to the established methodologies of the High Houses of Varesth—codified in the Obsidian Rite, fifth edition—beginning with formal observation, followed by ritual offerings, and culminating in pattern integration and conditional submission."

I blink at him. Absolutely, completely lost. He’s still talking like I should know what any of that means.

"Subsequent phases will include, but are not limited to, symbolic sacrifices, structured proximity, and the exchange of personal artifacts deemed of significant sentimental weight."

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

But he’s looking at me like this is obvious. Like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like I should understand that a man who reads like an ancient god in the skin of a pretty, twenty-something academic is now announcing—with dead roses and big words—that he’s going to… court me.

Formally. In the most terrifying, structured, absolutely batshit way possible.

I clear my throat. "That’s… very thoughtful."

He inclines his head, clearly satisfied with my answer. "I will proceed to the second phase upon the next lunar passage, assuming no formal refusal has been lodged."

I nod, not entirely sure what I’m agreeing to. He gives me a slight bow—again, like he’s stepped out of another century—and without another word, turns and disappears back into the hall, footsteps soundless.

I stare at the door after he’s gone.

The roses sit heavy on my desk.

Alive and dead.