The shift doesn't announce itself.
It never does.
Alaric notices it the way you notice a change in temperature subtle at first, almost dismissible. The way people start glancing a second longer when he enters a room. The way conversations dip when he passes, then resume with an edge of interest.
Visibility has consequences.
The research initiative meets in one of Ravenshade's private seminar rooms glass walls, minimalist furniture, and the kind of controlled quiet that makes every sound feel intentional. Alaric arrives early, as usual, setting his bag beneath the table and opening his notebook.
He doesn't look up when the door opens.
He knows who it is anyway.
Isaac Blackwell's presence doesn't overwhelm a space. It narrows it.
"You're punctual," Isaac says calmly.
Alaric glances up. "You expected otherwise?"
Isaac's gaze lingers. "No."
He takes the seat beside Alaric.
Not across.
Beside.
Close enough that Alaric becomes aware of heat. Of the clean scent of soap and something sharper beneath it. Isaac doesn't crowd him but the distance between them feels… deliberate.
The others filter in slowly. Discussion begins. Data points are exchanged, questions raised, arguments sharpened.
Isaac speaks rarely.
When he does, he leans in.
Not aggressively. Not obviously.
Just enough that his shoulder brushes Alaric's.
Alaric stiffens instinctively.
He doesn't move away.
Isaac notices.
"Your numbers," Isaac murmurs, low enough that only Alaric can hear, "are solid. But you're understating the impact."
Alaric swallows. "I prefer precision."
Isaac's hand comes to rest on the table too close to Alaric's for comfort. Their fingers don't touch.
Yet.
"Precision," Isaac says softly, "isn't the same as restraint."
Alaric turns his head slightly, just enough to meet Isaac's gaze. "Neither is intimidation."
For a fraction of a second, something sparks.
Then Isaac's fingers close around Alaric's wrist.
Not hard.
Not gentle either.
Just firm enough to stop him from pulling back.
The room goes quiet not because anyone notices, but because the discussion naturally pauses. Someone laughs nervously at a joke that lands too late.
Isaac leans closer, his voice dropping further. "I'm not intimidating you."
His breath brushes Alaric's ear.
"I'm showing you range."
A few people nearby glance over, eyes widening slightly. There's a ripple of barely contained giggles quickly stifled, half-scandalized, half-curious.
Alaric's pulse stutters.
He doesn't pull his hand free.
Instead, he tilts his head just enough that Isaac's words ghost closer to his ear than they should.
"Then let go," Alaric says quietly.
Isaac holds his wrist a beat longer.
Then releases him.
The contact ends as if it never happened.
Conversation resumes.
But something has changed.
When the meeting breaks, the room empties in low murmurs. Alaric gathers his things slowly, aware of eyes tracking him. He stands and immediately feels Isaac's presence behind him.
"Walk with me," Isaac says.
It isn't a question.
They move into the corridor together. The glass walls reflect them back in fragments two figures too close, matching strides.
"You don't flinch," Isaac says after a moment.
"I do," Alaric replies. "I just don't retreat."
Isaac's mouth curves slightly. "That's a dangerous habit."
They stop near the stairwell.
Isaac steps in front of him not blocking the path, just occupying it. His hand comes up, fingers brushing the back of Alaric's neck in a gesture that looks almost casual.
It isn't.
He leans in not to kiss, not to touch lips but close enough that his mouth hovers near Alaric's ear again.
"You let people see too much," Isaac murmurs.
Alaric's breath hitches. "And you don't?"
Isaac smiles slow, knowing. "I let them see exactly what I intend."
Down the hall, footsteps echo.
Someone rounds the corner and stops short.
"Oh," a girl says, eyes flicking between them. "Sorry."
Isaac doesn't move.
Alaric doesn't step away.
The girl giggles under her breath and hurries off.
Isaac finally straightens, hand dropping.
"You'll get used to this," he says calmly. "Attention. Proximity."
"And if I don't want to?" Alaric asks.
Isaac's gaze sharpens. "Then you shouldn't stand your ground so well."
He turns and leaves, unhurried.
Silveren sees it from across the quad.
He's mid-conversation with a faculty advisor when laughter catches his attention soft, restrained, unmistakably amused. His gaze lifts instinctively.
Isaac and Alaric stand near the stairwell.
Too close.
Isaac's hand is on Alaric's wrist.
Alaric isn't pulling away.
Someone whispers. Someone else giggles. The moment hangs just long enough to be seen.
Silveren's jaw tightens.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Irritation sharp, unfamiliar, crawling beneath his skin.
Asher Crowe appears at his side like a ghost.
"Well," Asher says lightly, eyes fixed on the scene, "that's one way to make a point."
Silveren doesn't respond.
Isaac releases Alaric and steps back but the damage is done.
Silveren can still see the echo of the contact. The way Alaric's shoulders remain squared. The way he doesn't look shaken.
He looks… chosen.
Asher glances at Silveren, interest bright in his eyes. "You see it, don't you?"
Silveren's fingers curl slowly at his side.
"Yes," he says coldly.
He sees it clearly.
And the irritation tightening in his chest isn't fading.
It's growing.