The Ducati tore through the night.
Wind howled past them, folding the city into streaks of light and shadow. At 300 km/h, even time felt slower, stretched thin over the sound of the roaring engine.
Toji leaned into the curve, body moving like he and the machine were one thing. The road blurred beneath them—clean, endless, merciless.
Behind him, Wednesday held tight.
At first, it was necessity. The kind of grip one uses to keep from being thrown off by gravity itself. But as the speed climbed, her fingers found their place against his chest, instinct tightening them before thought could interfere.
The world outside was chaos—air, motion, danger—yet inside that narrow space between them, everything was silent. She could feel the rhythm of his breath through the fabric, the faint rise and fall that betrayed calm even when everything else screamed velocity.
She told herself she was only analyzing it.
The steadiness. The control. The deliberate precision of a man who treated death like a bored conversation partner.
But the thought didn't settle.
> It wasn't control she felt. It was gravity.
Every turn pulled her closer. Every acceleration left her balance in his hands. She didn't like dependence. She hated trust. But her pulse didn't agree with either of those truths.
The wind clawed at her coat, her hair snapping like black ribbon in the slipstream. Toji didn't slow. He moved through the empty highway like it existed for him alone, headlights cutting through fog like blades of white fire.
For a moment—one unguarded second—she let her head rest against his back.
Warmth through the leather. Cold air against her skin. Silence inside the storm.
Then she caught herself. Straightened. Rebuilt her composure molecule by molecule.
> "Pathetic," she thought. "To feel safe in anyone's gravity."
The Ducati eased off the highway, gliding into the forest road that wound toward Nevermore. The castle-like silhouette rose ahead—dark spires piercing the fog, moonlight gleaming off wet stone.
Toji slowed the bike, tires whispering against gravel until they came to a stop beneath the iron gates.
The engine cut out. The sudden silence felt louder than the ride itself.
Wednesday stepped off first, coat settling around her like falling ink. She looked up at the mansion—then at him.
He removed his helmet, hair slightly disheveled, eyes untouched by wind or motion. Calm. Always calm.
Neither spoke.
The night didn't need words.
He gave her a short, polite nod before glancing toward the dorm lights.
"Try not to dissect anything before morning," he said.
Her reply came cold, clipped, precise.
> "No promises."
And with that, she turned, walking toward Nevermore's gates as Toji watched her vanish into shadow—expression unreadable, the ghost of a smile caught between detachment and something he refused to name.
--------
Toji had just settled into the quiet. The water from his shower still clung to his skin, tracing lines down muscles that barely remembered softness. His nightshirt hung loose, his breath steady as he lay on the bed staring into the dark. The faint hum of the night outside Nevermore filled the silence—crickets, wind, the steady tick of the wall clock.
He was almost asleep when a knock came.
Once. Twice.
Soft, hesitant.
His eyes opened, calm as ever. But behind them, something flickered—an irritation, or maybe a memory. He sat up, silent, feet touching the cold floor before walking to the door.
When he opened it, he expected Wednesday—her voice, her questions, her cold persistence. But it wasn't her.
It was Enid.
She hesitated, then stepped inside. The air between them felt different—fragile, uncertain. She glanced around his room, then back at him. "I… I haven't seen you all day," she said, voice breaking, "so I thought I should say hello."
He said nothing. Only sat back on the bed, motioning wordlessly for her to sit. She did, careful, timid. But when their arms brushed, neither pulled away. The warmth between them felt alive, almost intrusive in the quiet of the room.
Toji waited, giving her time to speak. When she didn't, he spoke first—his tone lower, softer than anyone at Nevermore had ever heard.
"What happened?"
The question shattered her restraint. She froze, blinking fast, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. Then her lip trembled. A small, broken sound escaped her. And then she cried.
Not quiet tears. The kind that came from somewhere buried too deep. The kind that hurt to breathe through.
Toji stayed still for a moment, watching her shoulders shake. Then, slowly, he lifted a hand and placed it on her head. His touch was steady, deliberate—more like grounding than comfort. She didn't flinch. If anything, she leaned closer, her sobs softening against the weight of his quiet presence.
Between ragged breaths, she forced the words out. "A-Ajax… he didn't just reject me," she stammered. "He humiliated me. In front of everyone. His friends. Mine. The whole damn school."
Her voice cracked and broke apart completely. She covered her face, trembling, as if trying to hide the shame bleeding through her fingers.
Toji's hand stayed on her head, unmoving. His face remained calm, but his eyes shifted—darkening, sharpening. Beneath that stillness was something colder. Not pity. Not anger for her. Anger for the weakness of whoever had done this.
He could almost see the moment in his mind—the noise, the laughter, her tears—and it lit something inside him that he quickly buried again.
After a while, her sobs faded into quiet hiccups. The silence returned, heavy but no longer sharp. She looked up, eyes glistening.
"Why…" her voice was small, almost childlike. "Why are you being so kind to me?"
Toji's gaze softened—not his face, just his eyes. He looked straight ahead, voice steady, almost tired.
"Because you needed it."
He paused. His next words carried something quieter, something she almost missed.
"And because no one else would."
Enid blinked, tears catching light from the moon. Toji didn't move, didn't look at her. He simply sat there—calm, unshaken, and yet somehow warmer than anyone she'd ever known.
And as the silence stretched, she realized that he wasn't comforting her the way others did. He wasn't trying to fix her pain. He was simply there.
For Enid Sinclair, that was enough.