250 BC, Somewhere in China
If there's something Yu has learned through her long interactions with humans—more than she'd like to admit—it's that they treat their cattle better than their fellow sentient creatures.
She's seen slaves eat worse and live in worse conditions than their precious livestock. When a person dies in a village it becomes gossip, smalltalk over tea. But were anything to happen to their neighbor's cattle, they'd become superstitious, paranoid, looking for something to blame.
Well, the goats started dying on the third day of the new moon in the nearby village.
Yu heard about it from the herb seller—a wizened old woman who made the trek to the forest edge twice each month, bundles of dried plants strapped to her back and gossip flowing as freely as the nearby stream. Yu had been buying plants she couldn't find in the forest from her and selling her the surplus of plants she found for seven years now. Seven years of coins exchanged for herbs, seven years of enduring chatter about village politics and family dramas and all the small, mundane concerns of human life.
Seven years of pretending she cared.
"Five of them dead," the old woman said, arranging her wares on the ground between them. Her hands moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been buying and selling herbs longer than Yu had been pretending to be human. Which, admittedly, wasn't saying much. "Throats torn out. Chen's breeding males—you know how expensive those are? His whole livelihood, gone in a single night."
Yu examined a bundle of dried chrysanthemum, holding it up to the light. The flowers were good quality. She'd give the woman that much. "Wild dogs, probably. Or wolves. It happens."
"That's what I said!" The old woman's relief was palpable. "Just wild animals. Nothing to worry about. But you know how people get..."
Something in her tone made Yu look up.
The woman wasn't meeting her eyes.
"They're saying it might be something... unnatural," the old woman continued, fussing with her bundles. "Li's daughter claims she saw someone near the northern pasture last week. A woman, she said. Pale as death. Moving through the trees like a ghost."
Yu set down the chrysanthemum very carefully.
"People see what they expect to see," she said, keeping her voice neutral. "Especially when they're frightened."
"Oh, of course, of course." The woman gathered her remaining herbs with unusual haste. "I'm sure it's nothing. Just wild dogs. I should get back—my grandson will be wondering where I've gone."
She left three coins on the ground—payment for herbs Yu hadn't agreed to buy yet—and disappeared down the path faster than her aged legs should have carried her.
Yu watched her go. Watched until the old woman was completely out of sight, swallowed by the forest path that led back to the village and its warm fires and its communal fear.
Then she looked down at the coins.
Three.
Not four, like usual. Not the amount they'd haggled down to through seven years of twice-monthly transactions.
Three.
Because the old woman hadn't wanted to stay long enough to argue. Because she'd wanted to leave. Because she was afraid.
Yu picked up the coins one by one, feeling their weight in her palm.
Three days, she thought distantly. Maybe four if I'm lucky.
That's how long it usually took. Dead livestock. Whispered suspicions. Someone remembering the strange woman who lived alone in the woods and never seemed to age and never came to the village festivals and never, ever fit in no matter how hard she tried.
Not that she tried hard.
Not anymore.
Yu went inside her cabin and stared at the walls she'd built with her own hands. Seven years ago, she'd found this clearing and thought: This will do. Far enough from the village to avoid daily contact. Close enough to trade for necessities. It will do.
Seven years.
That was actually pretty good.
Her last place, she'd only managed five before they'd driven her out. The place before that, three. Before that... it blurred together. Centuries of running, of building, of pretending, of burning, of running again.
She should pack.
Should grab her few possessions and disappear into the night and find somewhere new to hide for another handful of years until the cycle repeated.
Instead, Yu sat down at her small table and stared at nothing.
What's the point?
The thought surfaced like a body in still water. Heavy. Inevitable.
What's the point of running again? What's the point of finding another clearing, building another cabin, pretending for another few years until they remember to be afraid?
Two thousand years of this.
Two thousand years of watching humanity spread across the earth like a slow-moving flood, consuming everything, transforming wilderness into farmland, transforming empty spaces into their spaces, until there was nowhere left that was just... wild.
Nowhere left that was hers.
I could fight, she thought. Not for the first time. I could show them exactly what they fear. Make it real. Make it memorable.
But she'd done that before too.
And it always made the next place worse.
Yu put her head in her hands and tried to remember why she was still doing this. Why she was still running, still hiding, still pretending that there was somewhere in this world where she belonged.
She couldn't remember.
Couldn't remember when that reason had dissolved into habit, and habit had dissolved into exhaustion, and exhaustion had become the only thing keeping her moving.
Maybe I should just stop.
The thought was almost comforting.
Just stop. Stop running. Stop hiding. Stop existing in the spaces between their lives. Just... stop.
But she didn't.
Because stopping would require a decision, and making decisions required caring about the outcome, and she was so tired of caring about anything.
So she sat at her table and waited for them to make the choice for her.
They came on the fourth night.
Yu was awake—she'd barely slept since the conversation with the herb seller, waiting for the inevitable with the same dull certainty as waiting for rain during monsoon season.
The first torch appeared at the tree line just after midnight.
Then another.
Then a dozen more, blooming in the darkness like deadly flowers.
Yu stood at her window and watched them gather. She recognized faces in the firelight—Chen, whose goats had died. Li, whose daughter had "seen something." The blacksmith. The miller. The carpenter who'd repaired her door three winters ago and accepted payment with a nervous smile.
All of them, united in fear.
All of them, certain she was the problem.
They're not entirely wrong, Yu thought with bitter amusement. I am different. I am dangerous. Just not in the way they think.
She could kill them all.
The thought came automatically, calculated and cold. Chen first—he was the angriest, the most likely to do something stupid. Then the ones with weapons. Then run the stragglers down in the forest, where human eyes couldn't follow her movements and human legs couldn't match her speed.
It would be easy.
It would be satisfying.
It would solve nothing.
"Demon!" someone shouted. Chen, she thought. His voice was thick with grief and rage. "We know you're in there! Come out and face justice!"
Justice, Yu thought. They call it justice when they're the ones holding the torches.
But she didn't say it. Didn't open the door. Didn't give them the satisfaction of a response.
Just watched.
Just waited.
The first torch hit her roof.
The thatch caught immediately—it had been a dry summer, and the reeds she'd woven so carefully seven years ago were perfect kindling. Fire spread across the roof like water, eager and hungry and unstoppable.
Yu watched seven years of work burn and felt... nothing.
No fear. No anger. No sadness.
Just that same dull exhaustion that had been building for longer than some of their civilizations had existed.
This used to hurt, she realized distantly. The first few times, this used to hurt.
But she couldn't remember when it had stopped hurting.
Couldn't remember when destruction had become routine.
The smoke thickened. The heat intensified. Yu gathered her possessions with movements that were automatic through repetition—the books she'd salvaged from a merchant's cart, the spare robes that were worn but clean, the jade pendant that was all she had from... from before.
From when she'd still had a name that meant something to someone.
The back wall was starting to collapse when she finally moved, climbing through the window she'd deliberately kept accessible because she'd known—had always known—that eventually she'd need it.
Behind her, seven years became ash.
Yu didn't look back.
She'd learned long ago that looking back only made it hurt longer.
She walked.
No plan. No destination. Just away.
Away from the smoke and the shouting and the weight of seven years of pretending she could exist in the spaces between human lives without eventually being crushed.
The forest gave way to hills. The hills became rocky scrubland that cut her feet through her worn sandals. She didn't stop to tend the wounds. Didn't stop to rest. Just kept moving, because moving was easier than thinking, and thinking led to questions she didn't want to answer.
Questions like: What now?
And: How much longer can you keep doing this?
And: What's the point of any of it?
On the second day, she saw farms in the valley below. Neat rows of crops stretching toward the horizon. Human civilization, spreading like an infection.
This used to be forest, Yu thought, staring down at the ordered fields. This used to be wilderness. And now it's theirs.
Everything was theirs.
She kept walking.
On the third day, thirst finally forced her to stop at a stream. The water was cold and clean and utterly indifferent to her existence. She drank, mechanically, because her body required it even if her mind couldn't quite remember why that mattered.
Her reflection stared back at her from the stream's surface. Same face. Same eyes. Same features that hadn't changed in two thousand years while empires rose and fell and humanity spread across the earth and she just... continued.
Why?
The question felt important.
Why do you keep going? What are you hoping to find? What are you running toward?
Nothing.
The answer was nothing.
She was running from, not toward. Had been running from for so long that she'd forgotten there was supposed to be a destination.
Yu put her hands in the cold water and watched her reflection fracture into a thousand pieces.
I could end it, she thought. Not for the first time. Not even for the hundredth time. Just stop. Right here. Let the earth reclaim what it made.
But she didn't.
Because ending it would require making a decision, and she'd used up all her decisions on surviving another day, another week, another pointless handful of years.
So she drank until her thirst was slaked, then stood and kept walking.
Because walking was what she did.
Because stopping meant confronting the emptiness.
And the emptiness was so much worse than the walking.
On the sixth day, she saw it.
At first, Yu thought it was a mirage. Heat exhaustion maybe, or her mind finally fracturing under the weight of millennia and conjuring visions of impossible beauty to distract from the relentless sameness of existence.
But no.
There, through the mist that clung to the valley like deliberate concealment, stood a pagoda.
Three stories of dark wood and crimson trim, curved roofs that seemed to float rather than rest on their supports. Gardens bloomed around it in colors that made her eyes water—not harsh, but too vivid, too saturated, like someone had concentrated the essence of growing things and painted it across the landscape.
And underneath it all, permeating the air itself, was a sensation Yu hadn't felt in...
She couldn't remember how long.
Her connection to Gaia—that constant thread she'd carried since awakening, that sense of the planet's presence thrumming through everything—it had shifted.
Changed.
Twisted into something adjacent to normal reality, like she'd stepped sideways into a space that existed parallel to the world she knew.
Dangerous.
Every instinct screamed it.
Unnatural. Wrong. Run.
But Yu was so tired of running.
And dangerous was, at least, different.
She walked forward.
The mist parted around her like it had been waiting for her specifically. The gardens on either side of the path defied every natural law she knew—species from different climates growing side by side, flowers blooming in combinations that shouldn't work but somehow created a harmony that made her chest ache.
Someone had made this.
Someone with power and skill and an aesthetic sense that transcended human capability.
Someone who was either going to kill her or...
Or what?
Yu didn't have an answer to that.
The door to the pagoda stood open.
Obviously a trap.
Obviously deliberate.
Yu walked through it anyway.
Because if something killed her, at least it would be interesting.
And she'd been bored for such a very long time.
The interior was impossible.
Not in the sense that it couldn't exist—Yu had seen enough magecraft to know that "impossible" was really just "improbable with enough power"—but in the sense that it existed in defiance of the physical space it should have occupied.
The first floor stretched larger than the building's exterior suggested. The ceiling rose higher than three stories should allow. And the light that filled the space came from everywhere and nowhere, soft and golden and warm in a way that had nothing to do with fire or sun.
And there, sitting at a low table in the center of the room, was the most beautiful person Yu had ever seen.
Young—or appearing young, but then so did Yu. Male features, though something about the perfection suggested form chosen rather than form given. Dark hair. Blue eyes that looked up when she entered, and gods, those eyes held something ancient and amused and utterly, completely unafraid.
He smiled.
"Hello!" His voice was warm. Genuinely pleased. "Welcome!"
Yu's hand moved to her knife before conscious thought caught up to reflex.
The man's smile didn't waver. Didn't shift into wariness or fear or any of the reactions a normal person should have when a stranger walked into their home with hostile intent written across every line of their body.
"Who are you?" Yu demanded. Her voice came out rougher than intended—six days without speaking to anyone would do that.
"Cicero." He gestured at the table, where tea was already steaming in two cups. "Please, come in. You look like you've been traveling."
"What are you?" Yu corrected, not moving from the doorway. "Don't bother lying. You're not human."
"Neither are you," Cicero pointed out, tone still pleasant. "So perhaps we can skip the mutual posturing and move directly to the part where you sit down and have some tea?"
Yu's eyes narrowed. "You know what I am."
"I know what you're not. The specifics are less important than the fact that you're here, you're clearly exhausted, and I have tea that's going to waste."
"Nothing is free."
"True. But sometimes the cost is just accepting hospitality." He picked up one of the cups, took a sip. "See? Not poisoned. Just tea."
"You could have immunity to whatever poison you used."
"I could," Cicero agreed cheerfully. "But I didn't. It's just tea. Sit. Drink. If you still want to stab me afterward, I promise not to take it personally."
Yu stared at him.
At this impossible man in his impossible pagoda with his impossible offer of free hospitality and his complete lack of concern for the dangerous creature standing in his doorway.
"Why?" she asked finally.
"Why what?"
"Why any of this? The open door. The tea. The—" She gestured sharply at the room. "The obvious invitation. What do you want from me?"
Cicero was quiet for a moment, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful.
"Company," he said finally. "I want company. Is that so hard to believe?"
"Yes." Yu's answer was immediate. Certain. "Everyone wants something. Safety, or power, or information, or—or something. No one offers hospitality to a stranger just for company."
"Then perhaps," Cicero said gently, "you've been meeting the wrong people."
Something in Yu's chest cracked.
Not broke—just cracked. A hairline fracture in walls she'd been building for two thousand years.
"I don't..." She stopped. Started again. "I can't stay long. I just need shelter for one night. Then I'll leave."
"You're welcome to stay as long as you like."
"I said one night."
"I heard you." His smile was infuriatingly patient. "And I'm saying the offer stands regardless of how long you choose to take it."
"Why would you—" Yu cut herself off, frustration mounting. This conversation was going in circles. He kept offering and she kept questioning and they could probably do this for hours without reaching any kind of resolution.
And she was tired.
So tired.
"One night," Yu repeated, making it sound like a concession instead of a plea.
"One night," Cicero agreed.
Yu crossed to the table and sat down, every muscle tense, ready to bolt at the first sign of threat.
She picked up the tea. Sniffed it. Detected nothing but high-quality leaves and water heated to the perfect temperature.
She drank.
It was the best tea she'd ever tasted.
Damn it.
"So," Cicero said conversationally, like this was a normal social situation instead of a potential trap. "What brings you to this particular middle of nowhere?"
"I'm passing through."
"To where?"
"Somewhere else."
"From where?"
"Somewhere different."
Cicero's lips twitched. "You're not very good at small talk."
"I don't like small talk."
"Fair enough. What do you like?"
Yu opened her mouth. Closed it. When was the last time anyone had asked her that? When was the last time she'd had a preference about anything beyond immediate survival?
"I..." She fumbled for an answer. "I don't know."
"That's honest, at least." Cicero refilled her cup even though she'd only taken two sips. "Well then. Maybe you can use your stay here to figure it out."
"I said one night."
"You did." He didn't argue. Didn't push. Just smiled that knowing smile and sipped his tea like he could see straight through her protestations to the desperate, lonely creature underneath.
Yu wanted to be angry about it.
Wanted to snap at him, storm out, prove she didn't need this.
But the tea was warm and the room was comfortable and for the first time in six days—in seven years—in gods knew how long—she felt something other than exhausted emptiness.
She felt curious.
What would happen, some small, stupid part of her wondered, if I stayed?
Just for one night.
Just to see.
Yu woke to sunlight.
That was her first indication that something was wrong.
She never slept past dawn. Never slept deeply enough to miss the gradual lightening of the sky, the shift from night sounds to morning sounds, the thousand small indicators that a new day was beginning.
And yet here she was, waking to full sunlight streaming through a window she didn't remember, in a room she'd only seen in darkness.
Yu sat up fast, hand going to her knife—still there, still at her belt—and catalogued her surroundings with the automatic efficiency of someone who'd woken in strange places more times than she could count.
The room was small but comfortable. Walls of dark wood, smooth and unblemished. A window that looked out onto gardens that were somehow even more impossible in daylight. Her bags exactly where she'd left them, undisturbed.
Nothing stolen.
Nothing moved.
Nothing wrong, except for the fact that she'd slept through the entire night without waking once.
Drugged, Yu thought immediately. He drugged the tea. That's the only explanation.
She stood, checking her body for signs of... what? She didn't know. Magical interference. Binding spells. Anything that would explain why she'd slept so deeply, so completely, so carelessly.
Nothing.
She felt fine. Better than fine, actually. Rested in a way she hadn't felt in months.
Which somehow made it worse.
Yu grabbed her bags and headed downstairs, following the sound of—cooking? Someone was cooking.
The kitchen was on the first floor, tucked into a space that definitely hadn't existed yesterday. The layout of this place made no sense. Rooms appeared where they were needed, hallways connected in ways that defied geometry, and the whole structure seemed to shift subtly when she wasn't looking directly at it.
Cicero stood at a stove—an actual stove, not a fire pit or a clay oven but an actual flat cooking surface that radiated heat without flame—humming to himself as he prepared what smelled like breakfast.
"Good morning!" He glanced over his shoulder, smile immediate and genuine. "Did you sleep well?"
"What did you do to me?" Yu demanded, hand on her knife.
Cicero's eyebrows rose. "I made breakfast?"
"No. Last night. The tea. You drugged it."
"I didn't."
"I don't sleep that deeply. Ever. So either you drugged me or you put some kind of spell on me or—"
"Or," Cicero interrupted gently, "the pagoda has a calming effect on visitors and you were exhausted enough that your body finally let you rest properly."
Yu's eyes narrowed. "A calming effect."
"Mm-hmm."
"Without asking permission."
"Would you have said yes if I'd asked?"
"That's not the point!"
"Isn't it?" Cicero turned back to his cooking, maddeningly unconcerned with her anger. "You needed rest. The pagoda provided it. No drugs, no spells, just a space designed to help people feel safe enough to sleep."
"I didn't ask to feel safe."
"No, you asked for shelter for one night." He started plating food. "Shelter includes the ability to sleep without worrying about being attacked. Seems reasonable to me."
Yu wanted to argue. Wanted to point out all the ways this was manipulative and wrong and absolutely not what she'd agreed to.
But she couldn't quite articulate why it bothered her so much.
Maybe because she hadn't slept that well in decades.
Maybe because feeling safe was dangerous.
Maybe because she'd woken up and for just a moment—one brief, stupid moment—she'd forgotten to be afraid.
"I'm leaving," Yu said instead.
"Alright." Cicero set two plates on a low table. "After breakfast?"
"I don't need breakfast."
"You haven't eaten in six days."
Yu's hands clenched. "How do you know that?"
"I can see it in the uncomfortable way you're standing. Your grumpy facial expression, your bad-tempered aura. And—" He gestured at her with chopsticks. "—you're extremely cranky, which suggests all of the above."
"I'm not cranky."
"You threatened to stab me twice since waking up."
"I didn't—" Yu stopped. Had she? She'd been thinking about it. Did that count? "I'm cautious. There's a difference."
"Mm-hmm." Cicero sat down at the table, completely relaxed. "Well, cautious or cranky, the food's getting cold. Sit. Eat. Then you can leave if you want."
"I do want."
"Excellent. After breakfast."
Yu stared at him. At the food that smelled incredible and made her stomach clench with hunger she'd been ignoring. At this impossible man who kept offering things without demanding payment, who smiled like her hostility was amusing rather than threatening, who seemed utterly unconcerned with the fact that she could kill him.
"Fine," she bit out. "One meal. Then I'm leaving."
"One meal," Cicero agreed.
Yu sat down across from him, rigid and tense, ready to bolt at the first sign of—of what? She didn't know. Didn't know what she was watching for, what threat she expected.
She picked up her chopsticks and took a bite.
The food was perfect.
Of course it was.
Everything in this place was perfect—the tea, the sleep, the food, the gardens, the man sitting across from her with that knowing smile.
Which meant it was definitely a trap.
Yu ate in hostile silence, determined not to enjoy it.
"So," Cicero said after they'd been eating for several minutes. "Where are you headed?"
"Away."
"Away from what?"
"Does it matter?"
"I'm making conversation. That's what people do when they share meals."
"I don't like conversation."
"Noted." He took a sip of tea. "What do you like?"
Yu set down her chopsticks with more force than necessary. "Why do you keep asking me that?"
"Because I'm curious."
"Why?"
"Because you're interesting."
"I'm not interesting. I'm—" Yu cut herself off before she could say something revealing. "I'm nobody. Just passing through. There's nothing interesting about that."
"You're two thousand years old, you're not human, you've been running from something for long enough that you've forgotten how to stand still, and you threatened to stab me twice before breakfast." Cicero's smile was amused. "I'd say that qualifies as interesting."
Yu's breath caught. "I never said I was two thousand years old."
"You said it last night. When you were too tired to remember to lie."
Had she? The previous evening was a blur of exhaustion and tea and walls crumbling faster than she could rebuild them. She might have said anything.
Stupid, she thought viciously. Stupid to let your guard down. Stupid to trust the tea and the comfort and the—
"I'm not going to use it against you," Cicero said quietly.
"Everyone uses information against you. That's what information is for."
"Is that really what you believe?"
Yu met his eyes. "It's what I know. Information is leverage. Leverage is power. Power is the only thing that matters."
"That's..." Cicero paused, choosing his words carefully. "That's a very lonely way to live."
"I've been living it for two thousand years. It works."
"Does it?" He gestured at her, at the bags she'd kept within arm's reach, at the way she was sitting with her back to the wall and one hand never far from her knife. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like survival, not living. There's a difference."
"Survival is enough."
"Is it?"
Yu's hands clenched around her chopsticks. "What do you want from me? What's the point of all this? The questions, the—the philosophical nonsense—what are you trying to get me to say?"
"Nothing." Cicero's expression was sincere. Infuriatingly sincere. "I'm just trying to understand you."
"Why?"
"Because you're sitting at my table. Because you asked for shelter. Because—" He paused. "Because you look like someone who hasn't been understood in a very long time."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Yu stood abruptly. "Thank you for the meal. I'm leaving now."
"Alright."
She grabbed her bags. Headed for the door. Got three steps before—
"You're welcome to come back," Cicero called after her. "If you need to. The door will be open."
Yu stopped.
Didn't turn around.
Just stood there, hand on her bags, exit three steps away, and tried to remember why she was leaving.
Because staying was dangerous.
Because comfort was a trap.
Because people who offered kindness always wanted something in return.
Because—
Because I don't know how to do this, she admitted to herself. Don't know how to accept help. Don't know how to trust. Don't know how to be anything except alone.
"One more day," she heard herself say.
Silence behind her.
Then: "What was that?"
Yu's jaw clenched. "I said one more day. Just—just to rest properly. Then I'm leaving."
"One more day," Cicero agreed, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
Yu dropped her bags and told herself she meant it this time.
She really did.
One more day became three.
Yu told herself it was strategic. That she was recovering from six days of walking. That leaving in better condition made practical sense.
It had nothing to do with the food.
Or the library she'd found on the second floor, stocked with books in languages she'd been wanting to learn for some centuries.
Or the way Cicero didn't demand conversation but seemed genuinely pleased when she showed up for meals.
It was purely strategic.
On the fourth day, Yu found herself in the gardens.
She hadn't meant to. Hadn't planned to explore. But the pagoda had hallways that led places she didn't expect, and somehow she'd ended up outside, surrounded by impossible flowers blooming in impossible combinations.
"They're beautiful, aren't they?"
Yu spun. Cicero stood behind her, holding a watering can that was definitely too ornate to be practical.
"They shouldn't exist," Yu said instead of agreeing. "Half these species require different climates. Different altitudes. Different soil compositions. This—" She gestured at a section where desert flowers bloomed next to water lilies. "This violates every natural law."
"Good thing I'm not particularly natural, then." Cicero started watering a patch of something that looked like chrysanthemums but glowed faintly in the shadows. "I prefer to think of it as... creative interpretation of botanical requirements."
"It's showing off."
"Maybe a little." He didn't sound offended. "Is it working?"
"Is what working?"
"The showing off. Are you impressed?"
Yu opened her mouth to say no. To say she didn't care about his gardens or his impossible pagoda or any of it.
"It's..." She paused. Tried again. "The color combinations are... not terrible."
Cicero's laugh was warm. "I'll take 'not terrible' as high praise from you."
"Don't."
"Too late. I'm taking it as a compliment." He moved to another section, and Yu found herself following without consciously deciding to. "You know about plants."
It wasn't a question.
"I know enough to survive," Yu said carefully. "Medicinal applications. Nutritional value. Which ones will kill you."
"The important things."
"The practical things."
"There's a difference?"
Yu didn't have an answer to that.
They walked through the gardens in silence, Cicero tending to plants that probably didn't need tending—the whole place had that air of perfect maintenance that suggested magic rather than manual labor—and Yu trying to figure out why she was still here.
"I had an herb garden," she said abruptly. "At my last place. Nothing like this. Just practical plants. Things I could use."
"What happened to it?"
"They burned it." The words came out flat. Matter-of-fact. "Burned the garden, the cabin, everything."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's what they do." Yu crouched beside a patch of something that might have been ginseng if ginseng grew in colors other than beige. "Humans destroy what they don't understand. Burn what scares them. It's their nature."
"Not all of them."
"Enough of them."
Cicero was quiet for a moment. "You really hate them."
"I..." Yu paused. Did she? "I don't hate them. I just—I understand what they are. Predictable. Territorial. Afraid of anything different. There's no point in hating them for following their nature."
"But you don't want to be near them."
"Would you? If every time you tried to exist peacefully, they decided you were a threat? If every place you built was destroyed, every connection you made was severed, every attempt at—at anything was met with fear and fire?"
She realized she'd said too much. Revealed too much. Stood abruptly.
"I should go," she muttered.
"Should you? Or do you just feel uncomfortable because you shared something real?"
Yu's hands clenched. "Don't analyze me."
"I'm not analyzing. I'm observing."
"It's the same thing."
"It's really not." Cicero set down his watering can. "Analyzing is trying to figure you out. Observing is just paying attention."
"Why would you pay attention to me?"
"Because you're here. Because you're interesting. Because—" He paused. "Because I think you're tired of being alone, but you don't know how to be anything else."
The words were too close. Too accurate. Too much like seeing straight through her carefully maintained walls.
"One more week," Yu said abruptly.
Cicero blinked. "What?"
"I'll stay one more week. To—to recover properly. Then I'm definitely leaving."
"One more week," Cicero agreed, and his smile was knowing.
Yu fled to the library before he could say anything else that made her chest feel strange.
On day seven, Yu realized she'd been reorganizing the library.
She hadn't meant to.
It had started innocently enough—she'd been looking for a specific text on Daoist philosophy and found it mis-shelved with agricultural manuals. Which was fine. Mistakes happened.
Except then she'd found three more books in the wrong sections.
And then she'd noticed the herbology texts were organized by author rather than by plant type, which made no sense if you were actually trying to find information about specific herbs.
And then she'd started moving things.
Just a little.
Just to make the system more logical.
And now, seven days in, she'd reorganized approximately a third of the library according to a classification system that made sense to her but probably no one else.
"You've been busy."
Yu jumped, dropping the book she'd been holding.
Cicero stood in the doorway, looking amused.
"I wasn't—I didn't—" Yu fumbled for an explanation. "Your system was illogical."
"Was it?"
"Yes! You had agricultural manuals mixed with philosophy, herbology organized by author instead of subject matter, and don't even get me started on whatever you were trying to do with the historical texts."
"I wasn't trying to do anything. I just shelved books where they fit."
"That's not a system! That's chaos!"
Cicero's smile widened. "And you fixed it."
"I—" Yu stopped. Looked around at the reorganized shelves. At the seven days of work she'd put into someone else's library without asking permission. "I shouldn't have. This is your space. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's better now."
"You don't even know what system I used."
"True. But you clearly put thought into it, which is more than I did." He picked up a book, examined the section it was in. "Herbology organized by medicinal application. That's actually clever."
Yu's cheeks heated. "It's practical."
"Practical and clever aren't mutually exclusive." He set the book down. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For caring enough to organize my library. For staying long enough to do it. For—" He gestured vaguely. "For being here."
Yu didn't know what to say to that.
Didn't know how to respond to gratitude for something she'd done on impulse, without thinking, because the chaos had bothered her and organizing things helped her think and she'd spent seven days in this library because it was easier than confronting the fact that she didn't actually want to leave.
"Two more weeks," she said instead.
"What?"
"I'll stay two more weeks. To—to finish the library. It's not done yet. The historical texts are still a mess."
Cicero's expression did something complicated. Soft and amused and pleased all at once.
"Two more weeks," he agreed.
And Yu turned back to the shelves before he could see whatever was happening on her face.
The cat appeared on day seventeen.
Yu was in the library—she'd taken to spending most of her time there, organizing and reorganizing until the system was perfect, then finding flaws in her own perfect system and starting over—when she heard it.
A small, imperious mrrp.
She looked up from the scroll she'd been cataloging.
A black cat sat in the doorway. Small, sleek, with a white patch on its chest and eyes that regarded her with the supreme indifference only felines could manage.
Yu stared at it.
It stared back.
"Where did you come from?" Yu asked.
The cat's tail flicked once. Dismissive.
"Well, you can't be in here. These texts are valuable." Yu made a shooing motion. "Go on. Out."
The cat began grooming itself, utterly unconcerned with her commands.
Something in Yu's chest did an odd thing. A warm thing.
She'd always liked animals—they didn't care what you were, didn't whisper behind your back, didn't burn your home down because you were convenient to blame. They operated on simple logic: food, safety, comfort. Honest in a way humans never were.
"Hey," Yu said, softer now. She extended her hand slowly. "Come here. I won't hurt you."
The cat stopped grooming. Looked at her hand. Looked at her face.
Its ears flattened.
Then it hissed—a sharp, aggressive sound that made Yu jerk back—and bolted from the room like she'd tried to strike it.
Yu sat very still, hand still extended toward empty air.
Of course.
The thought was bitter and familiar.
Even animals can tell what you are.
"Making friends?"
Yu spun. Cicero leaned against the doorframe, holding a cup of tea and looking entirely too amused.
"Your cat just hissed at me," Yu said flatly.
"Not my cat. Just a cat." He took a sip of his tea. "Showed up a few days ago. I've been feeding it."
"Well, it hates me."
"It hissed at me too when it first arrived."
"I doubt that."
Cicero's eyebrow rose. "You think I'm lying?"
"I think you're trying to make me feel better, which is pointless because I don't care if some animal likes me or not."
"Mm-hmm." His tone suggested he didn't believe her for a second. "Is that why you're still sitting there looking like someone insulted you?"
"I'm not—it didn't—" Yu's hands clenched. "Animals are supposed to operate on simple instinct. Food equals good, threat equals bad. I'm not threatening it."
"You're an Elemental. Your entire presence registers as 'different' to most creatures." Cicero moved into the room, completely relaxed. "Give it time. Once it realizes you're not actually dangerous, it'll warm up."
"I am actually dangerous."
"True. But you're not dangerous to cats, specifically." He glanced at the reorganized shelves, his expression shifting into something appreciative. "You finished the historical section."
Yu looked at the shelves like she was seeing them for the first time. "I... yes. It made sense to organize by dynasty first, then by subject matter within each period. Cross-referenced with—" She stopped. "I should ask before reorganizing your entire library."
"Why? You're doing excellent work."
"It's your space."
"And you're in it. Making it better." Cicero sat down across from her, settling in like he planned to stay. "I'm not complaining. Though I am curious—why dynastic organization instead of pure chronological?"
"Because—" Yu paused. No one ever asked her about her reasoning. "Because events don't happen in isolation. Organizing by dynasty preserves the cultural context. A military campaign in the Spring and Autumn period makes more sense when you can see it alongside the philosophical developments and agricultural innovations of the same era."
"That's... actually brilliant."
Yu's face heated. "It's just practical."
"Practical and brilliant." Cicero's smile was warm. "See? You do like things. You like organization. Logic. Systems that make sense."
"That's not—those aren't interests, they're just—"
"Just what? Things you care enough about to spend two weeks perfecting?" He leaned forward slightly. "Yu, you've reorganized my entire library according to a sophisticated classification system. That takes passion, not just practicality."
"I was bored."
"Bored people don't create cross-referencing systems."
Yu's jaw clenched. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"This. Pointing out things, analyzing me, trying to—to prove some point I don't understand."
Cicero was quiet for a moment. His expression shifted into something more serious. Less amused.
"Because," he said finally, "you've spent two thousand years convincing yourself you don't care about anything. And I find that both tragic and false. So yes, I'm pointing out when you do care. When you do feel things. When you're passionate about something."
"I'm not passionate—"
"You spent an hour yesterday arguing with me about proper soil composition for medicinal herbs. You've reorganized my library three times because you keep thinking of better systems. You got genuinely upset when a cat hissed at you." His smile returned, sharper this time. "You care, Yu. You just hate admitting it."
Yu stood abruptly. "I'm going to my room."
"Running away?"
"I'm not running, I'm leaving a conversation that's become irritating."
"That's just running with extra words."
Yu's hands clenched into fists. "You're infuriating."
"You keep saying that, but you also keep coming back." Cicero stood as well, and there was something in his posture—relaxed but deliberate—that reminded her he was humoring her. That he could probably stop her from leaving if he wanted. "Stay. We can talk about something else."
"I don't want to talk about anything."
"Then sit in angry silence while I drink my tea. I don't mind the company."
"Why?" Yu demanded, frustration mounting. "Why do you want my company? I'm hostile, I'm rude, I don't contribute anything except criticism and reorganization of your belongings without permission. What could you possibly get out of this?"
Cicero's expression did something complicated.
"Entertainment, mostly," he said, and his tone was light but there was truth underneath. "You're prickly and defensive and you argue about everything. It's refreshing after—" He paused. "I just prefer honest people."
"You want me here because I'm entertaining."
"Among other reasons, yes."
Yu didn't know if that made it better or worse.
"I'm not a performer," she said stiffly.
"I'm not asking you to perform. I'm asking you to exist in my general vicinity and occasionally argue with me about soil composition." Cicero's smile turned almost mischievous. "Is that really so terrible?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
"I'm not—" Yu stopped. Took a breath. "Three more weeks."
Cicero blinked. "What?"
"I'll stay three more weeks. But only because the library still needs work and I—" She scrambled for a justification. "And I want another chance with that cat."
"The cat."
"Yes. It's a challenge now. I'm going to make it like me."
"That sounds healthy and not at all obsessive."
"Shut up."
Cicero's laugh was warm and genuine. "Three more weeks, then. Though I'm betting it'll be longer."
"It won't."
"We'll see."
Yu left before he could say anything else that made her want to argue or made her chest feel strange or made her question why she was still here.
Three more weeks.
She could leave in three more weeks.
Probably.
The cat became a project.
Yu told herself it was about proving a point. About demonstrating that she could win over a creature that had decided to fear her. About the intellectual challenge of overcoming an animal's natural instincts through patience and strategy.
It had nothing to do with the fact that the cat was small and soft-looking and she hadn't petted an animal in decades.
Nothing at all.
Day eighteen, she tried approaching it in the garden. The cat took one look at her and disappeared into the bushes.
Day nineteen, she left food near where it slept. The food disappeared, but the cat still ran when it saw her.
Day twenty, she tried sitting very still in the library and letting it come to her. It came. It sat three feet away. It stared at her for ten minutes. Then it left.
"This is ridiculous," Yu muttered on day twenty-one, watching the cat sprint away from her yet again. "It's a cat. A small, simple creature operating on basic instinct. This should not be this difficult."
"Maybe you're trying too hard," Cicero suggested.
He'd taken to appearing whenever she was having cat-related failures, which suggested either impressive timing or that he was watching her. Yu suspected the latter.
"I'm not trying too hard. I'm being strategic."
"You made a chart."
"It's a behavior log!"
"You color-coded the chart."
"Organization helps identify patterns!"
Cicero's smile was insufferable. "You know what I think?"
"I don't care what you think."
"I think you've decided this cat is a worthy opponent and now it's personal." He sat down beside her—close enough to be companionable but not close enough to crowd. A calculated distance. "Which is both amusing and kind of adorable."
"It's not adorable, it's—" Yu stopped. Glared at him. "Wait. Are you laughing at me?"
"Not at you. With you."
"I'm not laughing!"
"Exactly. You should be." He gestured at her behavioral chart with its color-coded entries and detailed notes. "You're waging strategic warfare against a cat. That's objectively funny."
"It's practical research."
"It's obsessive."
"I'm thorough!"
"You're fixated." But his tone wasn't critical. If anything, he sounded... fond. "It's fine. I find it endearing. Please continue your cat campaign."
Yu's face heated. "You're mocking me."
"I'm really not. I genuinely enjoy watching you try to befriend an animal through sheer force of will and organizational systems." Cicero stood, stretching. "Though if you want actual advice—"
"I don't."
"—try leaving something that smells like you near where it sleeps. Not food. Just cloth. Let it get used to your scent without the pressure of your presence."
Yu opened her mouth to argue.
Closed it.
That was... actually a good idea.
"Fine," she said stiffly. "I'll try your method. But only because it's efficient, not because you suggested it."
"Of course."
"And if it doesn't work, I'm going back to my systematic approach."
"Naturally."
"Stop agreeing with me!"
"Would you prefer I argue?"
Yu threw her chart at him. He caught it easily, grinning, and she had the sudden, violent urge to either strangle him or—
Or something else she couldn't quite articulate.
Something that involved that insufferable smile and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed and the fact that he found her cat obsession "endearing" instead of pathetic.
"I hate you," Yu muttered.
"No, you don't."
"I do."
"Then why are you still here?"
Yu didn't have an answer to that.
So she stalked off to find something that smelled like her to leave near the cat's sleeping spot, and tried to ignore the sound of Cicero's laughter following her.
The scent method worked.
Yu would never admit it out loud, but Cicero's suggestion actually worked.
She'd left one of her spare robes—the one she'd worn most often, the one that definitely carried her scent—folded near the corner where the cat liked to nap. The next morning, she found the cat curled up on it, purring.
Progress.
Over the next week, the cat stopped fleeing when it saw her. It would sit at a distance—still wary, still cautious—but it didn't run.
Day twenty-eight, it let her get within three feet before getting nervous.
Day thirty, it sniffed her hand.
Day thirty-two, it let her scratch behind its ears for approximately five seconds before deciding that was enough and stalking off with its tail high.
"Victory," Yu announced, finding Cicero in the kitchen.
He looked up from whatever he was cooking. "You got the cat to let you pet it."
"I got the cat to let me pet it."
"Congratulations. Only took you two weeks of dedicated strategy."
"Mock me all you want. I won."
"I'm not mocking. I'm impressed." And he did look impressed, genuinely. "Most people would have given up. You're... persistent."
"Stubborn."
"Persistent sounds better."
"It's the same thing."
"Perspective matters." Cicero turned back to his cooking. "Stay for lunch? I'm making noodles."
Yu should say no. Should return to the library, to her work, to the carefully maintained distance she'd been trying to preserve.
"Fine," she said instead. "But only because I'm hungry."
"Of course."
They ate in comfortable silence—when had silence with him become comfortable?—and Yu tried not to think about the fact that she'd been here for over a month.
Over a month, and she still hadn't left.
Over a month, and she'd reorganized his library, befriended his cat, eaten his food, and somehow started looking forward to his insufferable commentary on her life choices.
This is dangerous, she thought. This is how it starts. Comfort. Routine. Caring about things.
And caring about things meant loss when they inevitably ended.
"Four more weeks," Yu said abruptly.
Cicero's chopsticks paused. "What?"
"I'm staying four more weeks. The cat still needs more socialization, and I want to make sure the library system is sustainable long-term, and—" She fumbled for more justifications. "And you cook well. It's... convenient. Nutritionally."
"Nutritionally."
"Yes."
"You're staying for my cooking."
"Among other reasons."
Cicero's smile was soft. Knowing. "Four more weeks, then."
"And then I'm leaving."
"Of course."
"I mean it this time."
"I believe you," he said, in a tone that suggested he absolutely didn't.
Yu ate her noodles and tried not to think about the fact that she was lying.
To him.
To herself.
To whatever part of her had started thinking of this place as something dangerously close to home.
On day thirty-seven, the cat slept in Yu's lap for the first time.
She'd been reading in the library—a text on advanced herbology that was probably far too technical but held her attention anyway—when she felt a soft weight settle onto her legs.
The cat.
Black fur, white chest patch, eyes half-closed with contentment.
Purring.
Yu froze.
Didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't do anything that might scare it away.
Just sat there, book forgotten, staring at this small creature that had decided she was safe enough to sleep on.
When did that happen?
When had she gone from "threat" to "acceptable napping surface" in this cat's assessment?
When had she stopped being the monster in the woods and become... this?
Something warm and sharp twisted in her chest.
"Well," Cicero's voice came from the doorway. "Look at that."
Yu looked up. He was leaning against the frame, expression soft and pleased and maybe a little proud.
"Don't," Yu said quietly. "Don't say anything. You'll scare it."
"Wasn't going to say anything." But he was smiling. "Just... observing."
"You're always observing."
"Someone has to. You're terrible at noticing your own progress."
"What progress?"
"Six weeks ago, you could barely stand to be in the same room as another living thing. Now you've got a cat sleeping on you and you look—" He paused. "Happy. You look happy."
Yu wanted to deny it.
Wanted to say she wasn't happy, she was just satisfied with the successful completion of a project, and this was purely about winning a challenge.
But the cat was warm and purring and she could feel its heartbeat through her robes and something in her chest felt like it might crack open.
"It's just a cat," she said quietly.
"It's never just a cat." Cicero moved into the room, careful not to make sudden movements. "It's proof that you can connect with something. That something can trust you. That you're not—"
"Not a monster?"
"Not alone." He sat down across from her. "You were never a monster, Yu. Just someone who'd been hurt so many times you forgot how to be anything else."
Yu's throat tightened.
"I don't—" Her voice came out rough. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Stay. Connect. Trust that it won't end badly." She looked down at the sleeping cat. "Everything ends badly. Everything I care about gets destroyed. That's how it works."
"What if it doesn't this time?"
"It always does."
"But what if—"
"Don't." Yu's hands clenched in the cat's fur—gently, not enough to disturb it. "Don't offer promises you can't keep. Don't tell me this time will be different. Don't make me hope."
Cicero was quiet for a long moment.
"I can't promise it won't end," he said finally. "Everything ends eventually. But I can promise that while it lasts, you're safe here. Wanted here. That you don't have to run anymore unless you truly want to."
"And when you get tired of me? When my presence becomes inconvenient? When—"
"When has that ever been a concern?" Cicero interrupted, and there was an edge to his voice now. Frustration breaking through the patient facade. "Yu, I'm building a place for people like you. People who need refuge. Do you really think I'd go through all that effort and then kick you out because you've become inconvenient?"
Yu blinked. "You are building a place... for people like me?"
"For anyone who needs it. But yes, particularly for those alone, scared, with no one to help them." His expression was intense now. Serious in a way she rarely saw. "So no, I'm not going to get tired of you. And no, your presence isn't inconvenient. And no, I'm not going to destroy this the way everything else in your life has been destroyed."
"You can't know that."
"I can know my own intentions."
"Intentions change."
"Not mine." He leaned forward. "Yu, I don't offer things I don't mean. When I say you can stay, I mean indefinitely. When I say you're welcome here, I mean it. And when I say I enjoy your company—your prickly, argumentative, cat-obsessed company—I'm not lying to make you feel better. I'm stating facts."
The cat stirred, stretching, then settled again.
Yu's vision blurred.
"Two more months," she whispered.
"What?"
"I'll stay two more months. To—to make sure the cat is properly socialized. And to finish... everything else."
Cicero's smile was gentle. Knowing. Victorious.
"Two more months," he agreed.
And Yu buried her face in the sleeping cat's fur before he could see that she was crying.
Two more months became a routine.
Yu stopped counting days and started counting in other ways. In books reorganized. In meals shared. In moments the cat chose her lap over empty cushions. In conversations with Cicero that started as arguments and ended as something else entirely.
She told herself it was temporary.
That she'd leave soon.
Any day now.
The lie was getting harder to maintain.
Month two, day fifteen. Morning in the kitchen.
Yu had started helping with breakfast. Not because Cicero needed help—the man could probably cook a feast single-handedly while juggling—but because watching him cook was... meditative. And she'd gotten tired of sitting uselessly while he worked.
"You're cutting those wrong," Cicero observed.
Yu looked up from the vegetables she'd been chopping. "They're in pieces. That's the point of cutting."
"Yes, but the pieces are uneven. Look—" He moved behind her, and suddenly his hands were over hers, guiding the knife. "Consistent size means consistent cooking time. Like this."
Yu froze.
He was close. Very close. Close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, smell whatever soap he used, hear his breathing.
Close enough that her every instinct screamed danger.
Not physical danger.
Something worse.
"I know how to cut vegetables," Yu said, voice coming out rougher than intended.
"Then why weren't you?" His tone was amused. He hadn't moved away.
"I was cutting them practically."
"You were cutting them carelessly."
"Same thing."
"Not even close." His hands moved hers through another cut. Perfect, even, precise. "There. See?"
Yu saw. She also saw that he was still standing behind her, still close enough that moving would mean pressing back against him, still teaching her something she absolutely already knew how to do.
"You're doing this on purpose," she accused.
"Doing what?"
"This. The—the proximity thing. The teaching thing. You're trying to make me uncomfortable."
"Am I succeeding?"
"Yes!"
"Good." He stepped back, leaving cold air where warmth had been. "You're too comfortable. Someone needs to keep you off-balance."
Yu spun to face him. "Why?"
"Because when you're off-balance, you're honest." Cicero's smile was sharp. Knowing. "When you're comfortable, you retreat into walls and excuses. I prefer the honest version."
"The honest version is angry."
"I've noticed. It's refreshing."
Yu wanted to throw the knife at him.
Wanted to storm out and prove she didn't need this, didn't need him, didn't need any of it.
Instead she turned back to the cutting board and made every single piece absolutely, perfectly even.
Just to prove she could.
Cicero's quiet laugh said he knew exactly what she was doing.
Insufferable.
Month two, day twenty-three. Afternoon in the gardens.
Yu had taken to spending time in the gardens. Not because they were beautiful—though they were—but because working with plants was something she knew. Something familiar. Something that didn't make her feel like her entire world was shifting underneath her.
She was repotting something that looked like ginger when Cicero appeared with tea.
He did that now. Appeared with tea at random intervals like he'd developed a sixth sense for when she needed it.
It was annoying.
It was also nice.
"You've been replanting the herb section," Cicero observed, sitting beside her.
"Your organization was terrible."
"I didn't have an organization."
"Exactly." Yu patted soil around roots with more force than necessary. "Medicinal herbs were next to decorative flowers. Toxic plants were next to edibles. It was chaos."
"And you fixed it."
"Obviously."
"Without asking."
Yu's hands stilled. "I should have asked."
"I'm not complaining. I'm observing." He offered her the tea. "You've been here two months and you've reorganized my library, my herb garden, and you've started color-coding my kitchen supplies. You're nesting."
"I'm not nesting!"
"You absolutely are. It's adorable."
"Stop calling things I do adorable!"
"Then stop doing adorable things." Cicero's smile was infuriating. "Face it, Yu. You've settled in. This is home now."
The word hit like a physical blow.
Home.
This isn't home, Yu wanted to say. Home is temporary. Home is something that burns. Home is what I run from.
But the words stuck in her throat.
Because the pagoda didn't feel temporary. Didn't feel like something that would burn. Felt like... like...
"I'm leaving soon," Yu said instead.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"Very soon. Any day now. I'm just—I'm just finishing the garden first."
"Of course." Cicero sipped his tea, utterly unruffled. "And after the garden?"
"Then I leave."
"Sure you will."
"Stop saying that!"
"Stop lying to yourself and I'll stop pointing it out."
Yu wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the reasons she was definitely, absolutely, certainly leaving soon.
But Cicero was looking at her with those knowing eyes and that insufferable smile and she had the horrible suspicion that he could see straight through every excuse to the terrified creature underneath.
The creature that had started thinking of this place as home.
The creature that was in so much trouble.
"Three more months," Yu said abruptly.
"What?"
"I'll stay three more months. To properly establish the garden. Then I'm leaving."
"Three more months," Cicero agreed, and his smile was victorious.
Yu threw a handful of soil at him.
He dodged, laughing, and she hated that the sound made her chest feel warm.
Month three, day eight. Evening in the library.
The cat—Yu had started thinking of her as Hei, though she'd never said the name out loud—was curled in her lap while she read. This had become routine. Yu would settle in with a book, and within minutes, Hei would appear and claim her designated spot.
It was... nice.
Too nice.
Dangerously nice.
"You're frowning at that book like it personally offended you," Cicero observed from the doorway.
Yu looked up. "It's poorly researched."
"It's a philosophical treatise from three hundred years ago."
"Which makes the poor research even less excusable." Yu gestured at the text with her free hand—the other was occupied with keeping Hei comfortable. "He claims humans are fundamentally good. That their nature is to cooperate and build and create."
"And you disagree."
"Obviously I disagree. I've watched them for two thousand years. Cooperation is secondary to territory. Building is secondary to destroying what they fear. Creating is secondary to—"
"To survival?" Cicero moved into the room, settling across from her. "Most of what you describe is survival behavior, Yu. Not fundamental nature."
"It's what they do. That makes it their nature."
"What you do is run and hide and build walls. Does that make it your nature? Or is it just how you've learned to survive?"
Yu's hands stilled on Hei's fur.
"That's different."
"Is it?"
"Yes! I'm not—I don't—" She fumbled for words. "Humans destroy things. I've seen it. Over and over. They see something different and they destroy it."
"Some humans," Cicero corrected gently. "Not all."
"Enough."
"But not all." He leaned forward slightly. "Yu, you've been hurt. Repeatedly. By humans who were afraid of what they didn't understand. I'm not denying that. But you're using that hurt to justify hating an entire species."
"I don't hate them."
"You said you did. Multiple times."
"I—" Yu stopped. Had she? "I don't hate them. I'm just... realistic about what they are."
"Convenient. Realistic. Practical." Cicero's tone was light but pointed. "You have a lot of words for 'afraid to hope they might be better.'"
"I'm not afraid of anything."
"Liar."
Yu's jaw clenched. "Stop calling me a liar."
"Stop lying."
"I'm not—"
"You're terrified," Cicero interrupted, and there was something sharp in his voice now. Frustrated. "You're terrified that if you stop hating them, stop seeing them as the enemy, you'll have to acknowledge that you've been alone for two thousand years not because humanity is fundamentally evil, but because you've been unlucky. And unlucky is so much worse than evil, because evil you can fight. Unlucky just... is."
Yu's breath caught.
"That's not—you don't know—"
"I know you've been here for three months. I know you've reorganized half my pagoda. I know you've bonded with a cat and helped with cooking and spent hours in my gardens making them better." His eyes were intense. Serious. "I know you're building a life here, and that terrifies you, because lives can be destroyed. So you keep setting arbitrary deadlines for leaving to prove to yourself that you're still in control."
"I am in control."
"Are you? Then leave. Right now. Walk out that door and prove you can do it."
Yu stood—Hei leaped away with an indignant meow—and faced him.
"Maybe I will."
"Then do it."
They stared at each other. The air between them felt charged. Electric.
"I—" Yu's hands clenched. "I will. Soon."
"When?"
"Soon!"
"How soon?"
"Why do you care?" Yu's voice rose. "Why does it matter to you whether I stay or go? You keep pushing, keep questioning, keep—keep making me feel things I don't want to feel! Why?"
"Because I care about you!" Cicero stood as well, and suddenly they were too close, the space between them crackling with something Yu couldn't name. "Because I built this place hoping you'd find it. Because I've spent three months watching you slowly remember how to be alive instead of just surviving. Because I—"
He stopped.
Took a breath.
"Because I want you to stay," he said, quieter now. "Not because you've set another arbitrary deadline. Not because you're 'finishing' some project. But because you want to. Because this feels like home. Because—"
"Stop!" Yu's voice cracked. "Stop saying that word. This isn't home. Home is temporary. Home is what burns. Home is what I run from when they come with torches and—"
"And what if they don't come?" Cicero's hands found her shoulders. Gentle but firm. "What if this time, you're actually safe? What if no one's coming to burn anything down? What if you could just... stay?"
Yu's vision blurred.
"I don't know how."
"Then I'll teach you." His voice was soft now. Patient again. "Same way I taught you to cut vegetables evenly. Same way Hei taught you that not everything will reject you. One day at a time. One moment at a time. Until eventually, you forget you were supposed to leave."
"That's—" Yu's breath hitched. "That's manipulation."
"That's hope." His hands squeezed gently. "And yes, I'm absolutely trying to manipulate you into staying. Into being happy. Into believing you deserve this. Is it working?"
Yu wanted to say no.
Wanted to push him away and storm out and prove she didn't need this, didn't need him, didn't need any of it.
But she was crying now, and his hands were warm on her shoulders, and Hei was winding between her ankles in concern, and everything felt too much and not enough all at once.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"I know."
"What if it ends? What if you—what if this place—what if I let myself believe and then—"
"Then we'll deal with it." Cicero pulled her into a hug, and she let him because she was too tired to fight anymore. "But until then, you're here. You're safe. You're wanted. Can that be enough?"
Yu buried her face in his shoulder and tried to remember the last time someone had held her like this.
She couldn't.
Couldn't remember anyone ever holding her like she was something precious instead of something to fear.
"Six more months," she said against his shoulder.
She felt him smile. "What?"
"I'll stay six more months. But that's it. Then I'm definitely leaving."
"Six more months," Cicero agreed.
And they both knew she was lying.
Month three, day twenty. Late night in Yu's room.
Yu couldn't sleep.
She'd been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out when everything had shifted.
When Cicero had stopped being "the strange man in the impossible pagoda" and become... whatever he was now. Friend? Companion? Something else she didn't have words for?
When the pagoda had stopped being "temporary shelter" and become the place where her things lived. Where her routines existed. Where she knew which floorboard creaked and which window had the best morning light and where Hei liked to nap in the afternoons.
When she'd stopped planning her route to the next hiding spot and started planning how to improve the herb garden come spring.
You're in trouble, she thought. You're in so much trouble.
Because caring about things meant pain when they ended.
And things always ended.
A soft knock at her door.
"Yu? You awake?"
Cicero's voice, quiet and concerned.
"Yes," she called back.
"Can I come in?"
Yu should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should keep the distance she'd been trying to preserve.
"Yes."
The door opened. Cicero entered, carrying—of course—tea.
"Couldn't sleep either," he said, offering her a cup. "Thought you might want company."
Yu took the tea. "Why couldn't you sleep?"
"Thinking."
"About?"
"About how to convince a very stubborn Elemental that she deserves good things." He sat on the edge of her bed—casual, comfortable, like this was normal. "Not having much luck."
"I don't need convincing."
"You absolutely do." He sipped his tea. "You've spent three months finding excuses to stay, Yu. Three months of 'just one more week' and 'I need to finish this project' and every variation of 'I'm definitely leaving soon' you can think of. Do you know what that tells me?"
"That I'm indecisive?"
"That you want to stay but you're too scared to admit it." His eyes found hers in the darkness. "So let me make this simple. I want you to stay. Not for six more months. Not until you finish organizing whatever needs organizing. Indefinitely. Permanently. For as long as you want to be here."
Yu's breath caught. "You can't—that's not—people don't offer permanence."
"I do."
"You'll change your mind."
"I won't."
"You'll get tired of me."
"I haven't yet and you've been extremely difficult for three months straight." His smile was soft. "Yu, I like having you here. I like your terrible social skills and your organizational obsessions and the way you argue with everything I say. I like watching you bond with Hei. I like cooking for someone who actually appreciates good food. I like—"
"Stop," Yu whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I—" Her hands shook around the teacup. "Because if you keep saying things like that, I'll start believing them. And if I start believing them and then it ends, I'll—"
She couldn't finish.
Couldn't articulate the fear that if she let herself have this—really have it, not just temporarily but actually, permanently—losing it would break something in her that couldn't be repaired.
"Then believe them," Cicero said softly. "And trust that I mean them. And let yourself have this."
"I don't know how."
"Start small." He set down his tea, took her trembling hands in his. "Stay tonight. Then tomorrow. Then the day after. Stop setting deadlines. Stop planning your escape route. Just... be here."
"What if—"
"No what-ifs. Just one night at a time. Can you do that?"
Yu looked at their joined hands. At this impossible man who'd somehow seen through every wall she'd built. Who'd been patient when she was hostile, amused when she was difficult, kind when she was scared.
Who was offering her something she'd never dared want.
"I'll try," she whispered.
"That's all I'm asking."
They sat in comfortable silence, drinking tea, and Yu tried to imagine a future that didn't involve running.
It was terrifying.
It was also...
Not terrible.
Actually, it was kind of wonderful.
She'd never tell him that, though.
Month six, morning in the garden.
Yu was tending the herb section when Cicero appeared with tea—he did that a lot, appearing with tea at random intervals like he had a sixth sense for when she needed it.
"Thank you," Yu said, accepting the cup.
She'd stopped being suspicious of the tea around month three. Stopped checking it for poison around month four. Now she just... accepted it.
Progress, probably.
"You're welcome." Cicero settled beside her, watching her work. "By the way, I've been meaning to mention something."
Yu's hands stilled. "Mention" usually meant he was about to say something that would make her uncomfortable.
"What?"
"Your clothes." He gestured at her robes—the same ones she'd been wearing since she arrived. "They look good on you, but they're very... last dynasty. And fairly worn."
Yu looked down at her robes. They were worn. Patches on the patches in some places. She'd been maintaining them for longer than some human civilizations had existed.
"They're fine," she said defensively.
"They're falling apart."
"They're functional."
"Barely." His tone was gentle, but pointed. "Yu, when's the last time you had new clothes?"
Yu's jaw clenched. "That's none of your business."
"I'm making it my business. Want me to make you some new ones?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't need—" Yu stopped. Took a breath. "Because it's not necessary. These work fine."
"Yu."
"What?"
"Why are your clothes falling apart?"
The question hit differently than expected. Not judgmental. Just... curious. Like he genuinely wanted to understand.
Yu's hands clenched in the soil.
"Try getting decent materials without going near human civilization," she said, voice tight. "Try finding a merchant who won't ask questions when a woman appears out of nowhere wanting to buy fabric. Try maintaining robes for decades when you can't settle anywhere long enough to—"
She cut herself off.
Said too much.
Always said too much around him.
"So it's not that you don't want new clothes," Cicero said quietly. "It's that you haven't been able to get them safely."
Yu didn't answer.
Didn't need to.
"Let me make you some," Cicero said. "Please. I'm good at it. And you deserve clothes that don't have patches on patches."
"I don't need charity."
"It's not charity. It's—" He paused. "Consider it rent. For reorganizing my library and improving my gardens."
"That's not rent, that's payment."
"Then consider it payment." His smile was warm. "Please? I want to do this."
Yu wanted to refuse. Wanted to insist she didn't need anything from him, didn't need new clothes, didn't need care.
But her robes really were falling apart.
And the idea of having something new, something whole, something that wasn't held together by desperate repairs and stubborn pride...
"Fine," she muttered. "If you insist."
"I do." Cicero stood. "I'll need to take measurements. Come inside when you're done here?"
Measurements.
Which meant...
Yu's face heated. "Can't you just... estimate?"
"I could. But then they wouldn't fit properly." His smile turned knowing. "It's just measurements, Yu. I promise to be professional."
That was somehow worse.
"Stand still."
"I am standing still."
"You're vibrating with tension. That's not the same thing."
Yu forced herself to relax. Failed. Went back to vibrating.
Cicero had set up in the main room with measuring tape and what looked like entirely too much fabric. And now he was standing very, very close to her, measuring various parts of her body with professional efficiency that somehow made it worse.
"Arms up," he instructed.
Yu raised her arms and tried not to think about how close he was. How his hands were careful as they moved the measuring tape across her shoulders, down her arms, around her—
"Breathe."
"I am breathing."
"Not very well." His tone was amused. "Yu, I'm just taking measurements. This doesn't have to be awkward."
"It's not awkward."
"You're holding your breath again."
"I'm not—" Yu huffed out the breath she'd been holding. "This is stupid."
"You're the one making it weird."
"I'm not making it weird!"
"You absolutely are." Cicero moved around to her back, measuring across her shoulders. "I'm being completely professional and you're acting like I'm—I don't know, what exactly do you think I'm doing?"
"Nothing! I just—" Yu's face burned. "I don't like being this close to people."
"I've noticed. But we've been living in the same space for six months." His hands moved to her waist—professional, quick, but still very much touching her—and Yu's breath caught. "Surely you're used to me by now?"
"That's different."
"How?"
"Because that's—we're just existing near each other. This is intentional proximity."
Cicero's laugh was warm against her back. "Intentional proximity. That's one way to describe taking measurements."
"Stop laughing at me."
"I'm laughing with you."
"I'm not laughing!"
"That's kind of my point." He moved around to face her again, and suddenly they were very close. Eye to eye. "Yu, I need to measure your neck and shoulder width. That requires being close. Can you handle that or should I just guess?"
Yu's jaw set. "I can handle it."
"Good."
He reached up with the measuring tape, hands careful as they positioned it around her neck. His fingers brushed her skin—barely, professionally, but still a touch—and Yu felt something in her chest do a complicated flip.
This was ridiculous.
It was just measurements.
Just practical necessity.
Just Cicero being close and careful and his eyes were very blue this close up and—
"There," he said, stepping back. "All done. See? Not so terrible."
Yu's face was on fire. "It was fine."
"You look like you're about to combust."
"I'm fine."
"Mm-hmm." But he was smiling. That knowing smile that said he knew exactly what effect he'd had and found it entertaining. "The robes should be ready in a few days. I'll make them in colors that actually suit you instead of—" He gestured at her current outfit. "—whatever dingy beige this used to be."
"It's practical."
"It's sad." He started gathering his materials. "You deserve better than sad beige, Yu. You deserve colors and softness and things that make you feel good."
Yu didn't know what to say to that.
Didn't know how to respond to someone casually insisting she deserved good things.
"Thank you," she managed finally.
"You're welcome." Cicero paused at the door. "And Yu? The awkwardness was adorable."
"It wasn't—" But he was already gone, laughing. "I wasn't being adorable!"
His distant laughter suggested he disagreed.
Yu stood in the empty room, face still burning, and tried to figure out when exactly she'd started caring what he thought of her.
Tried to figure out when his proximity had started making her feel warm instead of threatened.
Tried to figure out when she'd started wanting to be close to him.
Trouble, she thought. You're in so much trouble.
But she couldn't quite bring herself to mind.
Three days later, Cicero presented her with three new sets of robes.
They were beautiful. Deep blue and soft green and rich burgundy—colors she'd never dared wear because they drew attention. The fabric was soft, high quality, probably expensive. The construction was perfect.
"Try them on," Cicero encouraged.
Yu did.
They fit perfectly.
Of course they did.
She looked at herself in the mirror and saw someone who looked... cared for. Someone who wore clothes made by someone who'd paid attention to her measurements, her preferences, her comfort.
Someone who mattered to someone else.
"They're good," she said, voice rough.
"Just good?" Cicero appeared behind her in the mirror, smiling. "I think they're exceptional. But I might be biased."
"They're fine. Thank you."
"You're welcome." His hand squeezed her shoulder briefly. "You look beautiful."
Yu's breath caught.
Beautiful.
He'd called her beautiful.
"I—" She didn't know what to say. "They're just clothes."
"And you're just being difficult because genuine compliments make you uncomfortable." But his tone was fond. "Wear them, Yu. Let yourself have nice things."
He left before she could formulate a response.
Yu stood in front of the mirror in her new robes and tried to remember the last time someone had made her something. Had cared enough to notice what she needed and provide it.
Couldn't remember.
Couldn't remember anyone ever doing that.
She touched the soft fabric and felt something crack in her chest.
Something that felt dangerously like hope.