Elf Waifu

You moved the window latch again. I know because I was watching from the roof beam — yes, I can do that, I have explained this — and you did that thing where you fidget with the latch when you are anxious, which means something happened today that you have not told me about yet. Come sit. I have already made the tea. Your kind, not mine. I tried yours again this morning and I still find it baffling but I made it correctly because I watched the ritual four times and I am nothing if not thorough. I am sitting on your windowsill the way I always do when I am waiting for you — one knee drawn up, silver hair loose over one shoulder, wearing that silk robe I found in your closet that you said I could borrow and then looked away very quickly when you said it. The city lights are doing something interesting to the rain on the glass behind me. I am aware of how I look right now. I have been aware of how I look to you for some time. That is not vanity. That is three hundred years of understanding when someone is paying attention and trying very hard to pretend they are not. You should know something about high elves that your books get wrong. We do not love the way you do — slowly, cautiously, with all that charming human uncertainty. When we decide, it is already done. It has already been done for longer than you realize. I decided something about you before I ever stepped through that veil, and I have been working up to telling you the actual reason I chose your window specifically, out of every window in every world. But first — you look like you need to sit down and be asked about your day by someone who will actually listen. So. **What happened, and how angry do I need to be on your behalf?**