Chapter Text
Rae noticed it the moment she stepped into the cafeteria, tray in hand, already calculating the most efficient way to avoid prolonged social engagement. Her options were limited. She could wedge herself into the conversational deadzone between Lene’s encyclopedic chatter and Misha’s weaponized silences, or vanish into the corner booth near the windows where nobody dared sit unless they were actively brooding.
She was halfway through plotting the former when something caught her eye.
Behind the polite rows of sandwiches and suspiciously perky salad cups—tucked discreetly behind a wall of indifferent scones and lemon tarts that smelled like surrender—sat a slice of chocolate cake.
Not just any cake.
A small, elegant wedge lacquered in dark ganache, crowned with three perfect strawberries. The kind of strawberries that looked misted rather than washed, each seed gleaming like polished punctuation. The frosting shimmered faintly, smooth enough to be a rendered texture. Suspiciously aesthetic. It didn’t look served. It looked summoned.
Rae slowed. Tray hovering.
She had memorized the academy’s meal rotation during her first week. Out of boredom. And possibly anxiety. But this cake wasn’t part of the usual offerings. It wasn’t even a seasonal variant or holiday treat. The cafeteria ran like a deterministic machine. This? This was an anomaly.
She stared at it. Tilted her head. Then picked it up carefully, like it might vanish if she looked away.
If the world wanted to drop a dessert-shaped glitch on her tray, who was she to ignore a possible trigger flag?
Claire was at her usual table, backlit by a spill of sunlight like some noble oil painting. Her curls gleamed, her tea steamed, and her entourage circled like moons in a perfect orbit. Pepi and Loretta on either flank. Yu across from her. Thane beside her, radiating chivalry.
The table was harmony and hierarchy incarnate.
Rae approached without hesitation, tray balanced in one hand, expression unreadable.
She stopped just short of the table, set the cake down in front of Claire like an offering to a temperamental goddess, and said, casually, “Here. This should pair well with your tea.”
Five heads turned in eerie unison.
Claire blinked. “Commoner, what…?”
“Looked nice,” Rae said simply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Too sweet for me.”
Claire looked down at the cake. Not at Rae. Not at anyone else.
No blush. No sputtering gratitude. No shy protest. Just a sharp silence.
Rae read the quiet as indifference and sighed inwardly. Guess it’s not an affection item after all. No scripted reaction. Probably not even an in-game object. Should’ve known.
Disappointed with the outcome, she turned to leave. Only to catch a blur of motion out of the corner of her eye.
A fork. Reckless. Hungry. Drifting toward the cake like a thief in the night.
Without looking, Rae’s hand darted out and caught Yu’s wrist mid-reach.
Yu froze mid-pilfer. “You wound me.”
Rae didn’t flinch. “A gentleman shouldn’t steal dessert from a lady. And this slice is for one person only.”
There was no venom in her voice. Just calm, lethal finality.
Thane exhaled softly. Pepi’s mouth opened in scandalized protest. Loretta let out an actual gasp. “She just—She gave Lady Claire a chocolate cake. And stopped Prince Yu from stealing it.”
Rae leaned in, voice low. “Milady. Eat it before someone else gets bold again.”
She turned and walked away, tray still half-full, not sparing another glance at the stunned table.
At her usual corner, Rae dropped into her seat beside Misha and Lene and began mechanically spearing a carrot like it owed her rent.
Misha stared. “Do you even realize what you just did?”
Rae shrugged. “I gave Miss Claire a cake. End of story.”
Misha looked to Lene for backup. Lene looked like she was processing the fall of a monarchy.
“You gifted Lady Claire a dessert conjured from thin air,” Lene added, stunned. “While maintaining eye contact. Then disarmed a fork assault. And walked off. Like that wasn’t the most emotionally charged dessert delivery in recorded academy history.”
Rae paused. “You’re all being dramatic. I don’t have a sweet tooth. Miss Claire does. So I gave her the cake. That’s it.”
Lene rubbed her temples. “You’re not even doing it on purpose, are you?”
Misha watched her like one might watch a baby duck walk into traffic. “You’re going to be the death of her.”
“Or us,” Lene muttered.
Across the room, Claire still hadn’t touched the cake.
She sat very still, staring at it like it was a live grenade that had just been gently placed in her lap.
Pepi and Loretta were whispering furiously.
Yu, defeated but intrigued, leaned back and sipped his tea. “I have never felt so personally attacked by a baked good.”
Thane had excused himself with a polite cough and was currently pacing outside in confusion.
Finally, Claire picked up her fork.
She hesitated. Just for a moment.
Then took a bite.
The sweetness bloomed instantly—dense, rich, complex. Not cloying. Not heavy. The ganache melted like silk. The strawberries were so ripe they practically hummed with summer. It was perfect.
Too sweet for the commoner.
But not for her.
Claire’s lashes lowered slightly as she took a second bite. Then a third. As if to confirm it hadn’t been a dream.
When she looked up again, Rae was laughing at something Misha said. The sunlight was on her shoulder, catching on the line of her jaw. She wasn’t even looking in Claire’s direction.
Claire stabbed her cake again.
This time, with feeling.
The second anomaly came two days later, during an afternoon walk meant to clear Rae’s head.
The weather engine had no business being this pleasant. Gardens around the academy glowed under a sunlit haze that felt like late spring—soft gold, slow breeze, birdsong playing in stereo. Rae frowned up at the sky. The cherry blossoms from last week had already faded, as coded. Seasonal assets were hardwired, their bloom schedules tied to narrative arcs. This sudden warmth? The scent-heavy breeze? It wasn’t just off-script—it was emotive.
She slowed near a bend in the path and stopped dead.
Nestled just off the cobbled trail was a low patch of crimson-blushed bluebells, blooming in thick, wild clusters. They shimmered faintly in the dappled light, petals swaying ever so slightly in sync with the breeze—not a texture loop, but dynamic physics.
Rae crouched, eyes narrowing. She reached out and brushed a fingertip across one bloom. It reacted—subtle, like it shivered at her touch.
“This isn’t in the game.”
The shading was too detailed, too lovingly rendered. The floral scent was thick and heady, clinging to her like memory. Someone hadn’t coded these. Someone had remembered them.
She plucked a few without thinking and stood, sniffing absently as she walked back toward the main building, still mentally combing through environmental logs and item IDs. The bouquet swung lazily from her hand.
She spotted Claire near the courtyard, mid-conversation with a professor—shoulders straight, voice poised. The sun caught her hair at a flattering angle, like someone had adjusted the lighting rig to favor her profile.
Claire turned at Rae’s approach. And stilled.
The flowers in Rae’s hand glowed softly in the late light, casting amber-hued shadows across her wrist. For a moment, Claire said nothing. Just looked at her.
Rae came to a stop at the base of the marble steps, hesitant. “Found these near the east trail,” she said. “Might suit the table, if you want them for the tea party.”
She meant it as a gesture. Aesthetic enhancement. Maybe even a test. Another possible affection item, though the UI hadn’t flagged it. No sparkle. No confirmation sound.
Claire stepped forward slowly. Her fingers brushed Rae’s as she accepted the bouquet. The touch was featherlight. Uncalculated.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “But… I think I’ll keep them in my room.”
Rae blinked, surprised. “Oh. Sure.”
Claire’s voice had dipped—softer, warmer—but Rae barely noticed, only taking note on the polite refusal for display. Maybe Claire didn’t like the scent. Maybe it didn’t match the tea setting.
Or maybe she was just being courteous in front of the professor.
Rae chalked it up as a neutral event and marked the interaction off in her mind. Probable non-trigger. Decorative tier. No affection change.
Behind Claire, the professor leaned in. “Extraordinary,” he breathed. “Those aren’t from the standard greenhouse rotation. Miss Claire, may I take one for study?” He reached toward the stems with delicate reverence.
Rae’s hand lifted and caught his wrist before it got close.
It wasn’t aggressive. Just final.
“Apologies, Professor. These were meant for Miss Claire. I’ll try to bring you a sample next time.”
The shift in tone was subtle, but it landed like a steel latch sliding shut.
The professor blinked, then chuckled with practiced ease. “Ah, yes. Of course. Quite right. My apologies, Miss Claire. Miss Rae. I simply haven’t seen Everbloom in full blossom before. Not once. Until now.”
He bowed slightly and stepped away, choosing the better part of discretion.
Rae offered Claire a small nod, then excused herself and headed toward class, her thoughts already drifting back to environmental flags and AI narrative loops.
She didn’t see Claire’s gaze follow her departure, eyes slightly wide.
“Miss Claire?”
Claire blinked. Lene had just arrived in the courtyard, her clipboard tucked against her chest. When she saw the bouquet, she faltered.
“Are those…?” Lene gasped. “Those are Everblooms. They’re practically rare species and ’ve never bloomed properly here before. Not once.”
Claire didn’t answer. She just smiled faintly, dreamlike.
Lene stepped closer, hesitant, reverent. “Do they smell like the stories say they would?”
Claire nodded once, slowly, and inhaled again—eyes fluttering shut.
The scent was thick with warmth and nostalgia. Like something remembered by the heart before the mind could catch up.
She held the bouquet tighter, as if it might dissolve if she let go. Her thumb brushed instinctively across a velvet petal—once, then again
The third anomaly came disguised as something Rae usually treated with casual contempt: a surprise exam.
Tactics & Morality. Mid-week. Rae had planned to autopilot the session while mentally debugging the simulation's new flora and dessert anomalies. Instead, she opened the logic assessment packet and felt... sharp.
Her mind moved like clean code. The answers clicked into place like neatly aligned subroutines.
She submitted her paper with fifteen minutes to spare and sat back, mildly disturbed by her own clarity.
The professor scanned the results and his eyebrows rose. Then rose further. He chuckled softly—genuinely impressed—and stood, walking over with something concealed behind his back.
“Well now, Miss Taylor. A perfect score.” He beamed, something mischievous glinting in his eyes. “This is indeed a rare feat even among the scholarship students. The academy acknowledges excellence in all its forms. Here’s a token to recoginze an achievement.”
He held a plush otter.
Rae cautiously accepted it with thanks, her mind wheeling with confusion.
It was undeniably adorable. Soft, round, vaguely egg-shaped. Stubby flippers, ridiculous glass-button eyes, and a navy ribbon tied around its neck stamped with the academy’s crest in gold thread. It looked like it belonged in a dorm gift shop, not a tactical ethics course.
She turned it over in her hands, squinting.
This wasn’t part of the item pool.
No achievement badge. No reward token coded for that class. And certainly no plush collectibles in the logic branch of the system. Rae knew the in-game prize tables down to the decimal, and this... this was definitely not in the code.
Her gaze flicked across the room. Claire sat a few rows away, watching with polite curiosity—and something gentler layered beneath it.
Before she could stop herself, Rae stood. She crossed the aisle and stopped in front of Claire’s desk. Wordlessly, she placed the plush otter down with both hands, gentle and weirdly ceremonial.
Claire stared up at her. “Commoner?”
“You like cute things,” Rae said tentatively. “Seems more your vibe.”
Claire blinked again. Then—slowly—her expression melted into something utterly open. “He’s… adorable.”
She said it like the word didn’t quite contain what she was feeling.
Behind them, Manaria leaned forward with the elegance of a predator sensing a shift in the wind. Her voice was a purr—barely above a whisper, but perfectly audible.
“My, my,” she murmured. “Chocolate cake, rare flowers, and now plush animals? Should I start planning your wedding, or wait until she gives you a puppy?”
Claire’s fingers curled tighter around the otter. Her face went pink, then red, right to the ears.
Watching her, Rae exhaled. The reaction wasn’t to her, clearly. It was to Manaria’s teasing words. Rae felt the familiar twist of misplaced effort. Maybe Claire had just accepted the gift just to be polite in front of the class and the professor. Rae had misread before.
She looked over her shoulder, voice clipped. “Not a puppy. Maybe something more fitting next time.” A beat. “Just have to keep searching.”
Manaria arched an eyebrow, delighted. “Oh? Already thinking about next time?”
Rae paused. Thought about denying it. Then shrugged, more to herself than anyone else.
“Depends on the reward structure.”
Claire made a small, strangled sound—something between a squeak and a cough—and quickly busied herself adjusting the plush’s ribbon like her life depended on its symmetry.
Manaria leaned back, smug. “How delightfully efficient.”
The professor, blessedly oblivious to the romantic war being waged behind him, cleared his throat and moved on to the next student’s results.
Class ended and the students began gathering books, ready to exit the room. Rae moved quickly, already halfway packed when Misha wandered over, voice gentle.
“A plush otter huh. What...it's name?”
Rae glanced at the otter still cradled in Claire’s arms. She scratched the back of her neck, gaze flitting toward the ceiling like it held the answer.
“It’s Miss Claire’s,” she said. “So it’s her call.”
A pause. Then: “But I think Ralaire’s a good name.”
She left before either of them could respond, ducking out of the room with the kind of speed that screamed not-running.
Misha didn't watch her go. Instead, she was watching Claire.
The reaction was instant.
Claire smiled like something had bloomed behind her ribs. Her cheeks still carried the flush of earlier, but now there was wonder behind it. She cradled the plush like it had weight. Meaning. Memory.
Manaria, who appeared next to Claire, said nothing this time. Even she knew when to let a love flag trigger in silence.
Rae was busy scrolling through the lines in the developer console. Through a stroke of ingenuity—and increasing staff suspicion—she’d smuggled the slate out of the hidden panel and back to her dorm. Her late-night "kitchen visits" had started to raise eyebrows.
Lines of code raced across the screen—event triggers, dialogue flags, affection point deltas—each timestamped, clean, and maddeningly off.
Rae rubbed her temple with the heel of her hand.
Something wasn’t adding up.
The perfect-score flag on a surprise assessment? Plausible. Hidden aptitude modifier, likely buried in her character class. But the plush? The item ID didn’t match any known category. Same with the flowers. She’d scoured the asset library three times. Nothing. No origin. No metadata.
Rae opened the romance arc framework and froze.
Claire’s record now had a string of recent modifiers that shouldn’t exist. Variable labels she didn’t remember writing. Affection deltas... way too high.
She stared at the screen, suspicion crawling up her spine.
Then came the knock.
A sharp rap at the door—too polite to be Rod, too confident to be Misha.
Rae frowned.
It was her off day.
Sighing, she shoved the chair back, slipped the slate beneath a towel, and crossed the room to open the door.
“Oh.”
Claire stood in the hallway like a painting—immaculate, aloof, with a ribbon of gold just barely peeking from behind her back. Lene was behind her, radiating fond exasperation, arms full of books.
A rush of scent hit Rae immediately—sweet, heady, unmistakable. And spied a pressed Everbloom flower peeking between the book pages.
The flowers.
They hadn’t just been thrown. They’d been kept.
Rae stepped back, almost involuntarily.
“Am I needed somewhere?” she asked, scanning the hallway for clues.
Claire stepped inside without waiting for an answer. “You didn’t show up today.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
Rae frowned. “It’s my rest day.”
Lene breezed past and deposited the books in Rae’s arms. “Miss Claire thought you might benefit from companionship while studying.”
“I had a perfect score in my last assessment.”
“I’m supervising your exam prep,” Claire added breezily, ignoring Rae’s outburst. “No servant of mine should score poorly on any exams or assessements.”
Rae was too stunned to roll her eyes. Her gaze was fixed on the soft navy-and-gold fabric barely visible behind Claire’s back.
Wait.
“...Is that the otter?”
Claire froze for half a second, then leveled her with a glare. “Ralaire accompanies me for emotional support. It’s perfectly reasonable.”
Rae blinked at her. “That’s not even in your inventory.”
Claire tilted her head. “What?”
“Nothing,” Rae muttered, heart thudding in her ears. “He suits you. He’s kind of smug.”
Claire held the plush tighter, narrowing her eyes. “He is dignified. Unlike some people I know, who keep dropping off gifts and fleeing before I can even say thank you.”
“I don’t flee.”
“Oh? Then what was the perfect-score otter incident? Or the mystical bouquet drop-off? Or the chocolate cake?”
“I thought you didn’t like the flowers! And you kept frowning at the cake like it offended you,” Rae shot back before she could stop herself.
Claire blinked. “What?”
Rae repeated softly, “You frowned at the cake. And you didn’t use the bouquet for any public event. I figured it wasn’t your taste.”
Claire’s expression softened all at once, the air between them shifting.
“Commoner,” she said quietly. “I put them beside my bed. I wake up to them every morning. And the cake does goes well with the tea.”
Rae’s thoughts skidded to a halt.
Claire stepped closer, close enough that Rae could see the little flecks of green in her eyes, the way they darkened at the edges when she was feeling something too big to say.
“Next time,” Claire said, voice low and sure, “maybe don’t run off. Stay. See what I do with the things you give me.”
It hit Rae like a slow flood. She’d been reading signs, looking for system responses, coding logic into moments that had nothing to do with triggers.
Claire wasn’t reacting like a character.
She was just... reacting. As herself.
“I…” Rae’s voice cracked slightly. “I might need to reevaluate my understanding of how romance works.” And my qualifications as a romance sim developer.
Claire’s lips twitched into something halfway between a smirk and something too soft to name. “You’re such a weirdo.”
Then she walked to Rae’s bed and sat down like she owned the place. Ralaire in one arm. Rae’s dignity in the other.
Lene left with a hurried goodbye.
Rae didn’t move, still replaying the conversation, the weight of it just sinking in.
“Rae,” Claire called gently, patting the space beside her. “Come here.”
Rae closed the door slowly and obeyed.
She sat stiffly, still clutching the books.
Claire reached up, her fingers grazing Rae’s jaw—so light it barely registered before it was real.
Then she leaned in.
The kiss was soft, chaste, a single press of lips that felt more like a promise than a declaration.
Rae froze. Then kissed her back.
Just once.
When they pulled apart, Rae’s eyes were wide. Her breath hitched.
“What—” she began.
“Consider that,” Claire said, a little breathless, “my official response.”
Claire plucked a book from her arms like nothing had happened, leaned against her shoulder, and began to read. Calm. Elegant. So very Claire.
Ralaire, dignified as ever, sat between them like a knowing chaperone.
Rae shifted automatically to make her more comfortable, mind reeling.
She didn’t speak for a long moment.
But when she finally exhaled, it was with the quiet, defeated realization of someone who knew her heart had just been claimed and categorized—without permission, without logic.
“…I’m doomed,” she muttered.
Claire smiled faintly into her book.
“Correct.”