Chapter Text
The intercom crackled overhead. “Riddle Rosehearts, please report to the principal’s office at your earliest convenience.”
Riddle frowned, glancing up from his study guide. He didn’t recall scheduling a meeting with the principal.
Across the table, Trey raised a brow. “Were you expecting that?”
“No. I don’t remember having any appointments today,” Riddle said, already gathering his things.
“Maybe it’s for career selection? They’ve started calling students in,” Trey offered.
Riddle shook his head. “Unlikely. That would be the counselor’s office, not the principal’s. And they usually send a student runner, not an intercom announcement.” He sighed, zipping his bag shut.
“Maybe Deuce and Ace got into trouble again,” Trey said with a shrug, standing to pack up as well.
Riddle’s frown deepened. “If this is because of those two, it will be Off With Their Heads.”
Trey laughed. “Guess you’d better go find out. I’ll see you back at the dorms.”
Riddle hummed in acknowledgment as Trey walked off. He slung his bag over his shoulder, mind still turning. Whatever prompted the summons, he’d deal with it soon enough.
Riddle didn’t know which of the Seven he’d offended to end up in the principal’s office with his mother already seated, waiting like some quiet omen.
He had to physically stop himself from spiraling into a full-blown panic. As far as he knew, everything was fine—his grades were flawless, he ranked in the top one percent of the school, the dorm was running smoothly, and he hadn’t done anything to warrant disciplinary action.
At least… nothing came to mind.
He swallowed hard and stepped fully inside. “Good afternoon, Mother,” he said, trying not to betray the sheer terror clenching in his chest.
She smiled at him—pleasant, composed. Riddle had to fight the urge to flinch. That smile only ever appeared when he was in serious trouble.
Principal Crowley cleared his throat. “Ah, Mr. Riddle! So glad you could join us on this fine afternoon, yes?” he said with forced cheer. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
Riddle nodded and quickly sat, murmuring a quiet thank-you.
“Now, Mrs. Rosehearts,” the principal continued, folding his hands with deliberate civility, “I understand your concern regarding your son’s relationship—but I must remind you, this is not a matter typically handled during the school term. It lies outside the bounds of school jurisdiction.”
Riddle felt his heart drop at the word relationship.
No.
How did she find out?
He had taken every possible precaution to make sure his relationship with Floyd never reached her ears. How could she have known?
A voice in his head whispered, cruel and certain, of course she knows. Mother always knows.
He shoved the thought away. Now was not the time to spiral.
“While I do understand, Principal Crowley,” his mother said smoothly, her tone razor-sharp beneath the veneer of concern, “I truly believe this… fling my son is having with that boy will ruin his academic life.”
Fling?
Riddle bristled. He and Floyd had been together for almost a year. Their anniversary was just two days away.
“And how does Mr. Riddle feel about this?” Crowley asked, turning his gaze to Riddle.
He could feel his mother’s stare, sharp as blades, drilling into the side of his face.
“I’ve made sure my relationship hasn’t interfered with my academics,” Riddle said carefully, eyes fixed forward. “My grades haven’t dropped. My ranking hasn’t changed.”
“It hasn’t improved either,” his mother snapped, voice like a slap. “I thought I raised you to strive higher. But ever since you began seeing that boy, you’ve done nothing but lie.”
“I haven’t lied about anything—” he began, only to be cut off.
“You lie constantly about studying. Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your little escapades off-campus? Dressing like a cheap slut, whoring yourself out to that boy?”
Riddle’s face went hot—half humiliation, half fury.
“Whoring myself out!?” he snapped, finally whipping toward her—and immediately regretted it.
She looked seconds away from striking him.
“You see what I mean?” she hissed, eyes blazing. “You would never have raised your voice to me, never spoken back like this, if it weren’t for that boy and his disgusting influence!”
The room fell into a heavy silence, the tension clinging to the air like smoke—until Principal Crowley spoke, his voice clipped but polite.
“Ah, Mrs. Rosehearts,” he said, smile taut with annoyance, “you’re being rather cruel. I don’t appreciate my students being spoken to like that in front of me.”
“Apologies, Principal Crowley,” she replied calmly, hands folded in her lap. “But I fear my son must hear these harsh truths if he’s to come to his senses.”
She rarely scolded him in front of others—too conscious of appearances to risk losing face. But now she wore her reprimand like it was a civic duty.
“I truly only want what’s best for him,” she continued, her tone soft, composed—deceptively reasonable. “He’s still too young to understand that these are the most formative years of his life. Squandering them on… some boy… would be a terrible waste.”
That tone always sounded so gentle, so measured, it could fool anyone into thinking Riddle was the misguided one, and she, the dutiful mother, was simply correcting her child.
Principal Crowley didn’t blink. “Isn’t Mr. Riddle eighteen now?” he asked, folding his hands. “By all accounts, he’s an adult—and from everything I’ve seen, quite a capable one. He’s proven time and time again that he can manage himself just fine.”
His mother’s face tightened. “Yes, well—a mother’s work is never done,” she said, voice clipped with restrained frustration.
Principal Crowley let out a slow sigh. “Truly, Mrs. Rosehearts, what exactly would you have me do? Mr. Riddle is, by law, an adult. He has full autonomy over his personal life. There’s no school policy that forbids student relationships.”
He leaned back slightly, his expression firm but courteous.
“This entire conversation is, quite frankly, moot. The only person with any authority over Mr. Riddle’s choices in this matter…is Mr. Riddle himself.”
Riddle was honestly surprised the conversation had gone on this long. He had never seen Principal Crowley so serious before, the man was usually far too casual, almost flippant about most things. To see him actually take a stand for once was… a pleasant surprise.
Not that Riddle said any of this out loud, of course.
The room had fallen silent again, his mother visibly processing the principal’s words.
“I apologize, Principal Crowley,” she said tightly, her voice carefully controlled. “You’re right. I should have spoken to my son first.”
She turned to him, and Riddle felt his entire body tense.
“Riddle,” she said gently, reaching out to take his hand in hers, “you know I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”
“Of course I do, Mother,” Riddle said evenly.
He already knew this tactic. She'd feign warmth, speak as though everything she did was out of love, and guilt him into believing he was selfish—ungrateful—for wanting basic autonomy. And the worst part? It almost always worked.
It would’ve worked last year, before he had over-bloated, back when he still believed her words were law, and anyone who defied them must have been wrong.
But not anymore.
He knew that if he didn’t speak now—while she still believed she had full control over him—then everything he’d worked so hard to build over the past year would unravel.
“But, I truly believe Floyd is right for me,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “We’ve been together for almost a year, and… he makes me want to be a better person.”
He met her gaze, willing her to hear him.
But the moment her expression turned cold, he knew she hadn’t.
“A year?” she repeated, her voice ice.
That reaction confirmed it—she had only recently discovered his relationship with Floyd. How she found out was still a mystery, and the thought of it made his skin crawl.
Her fingers tightened around his hand, the grip bordering on painful.
“Do you have no care for everything I’ve done for you?” she hissed. “Eighteen years of raising you, training you, molding you into something exceptional—and you're willing to throw it all away for a boy?”
“I haven’t thrown anything away,” Riddle said, trying to keep his voice calm, firm—but it wasn’t getting through.
“Listen to me, Riddle.” Her eyes were sharp, her tone absolute. “I know you better than anyone in this world. That boy is filling your head with nonsense.”
Her grip turned to iron.
“Next you’ll tell me you no longer want to be a doctor.”
The silence that followed was damning.
Her eyes scanned his face—and when he didn’t deny it, her expression darkened, lips tightening as rage overtook her composure.
“Riddle!”
She shot to her feet, hand dropping from his, eyes blazing as she loomed over him.
But Riddle didn’t flinch.
“Mother!” he shouted, rising from his seat as well, voice cracking with something raw and long-suppressed.
That stopped her.
The shock flickered across her face, brief but visible.
“Why can’t you just accept my choices?” he demanded, breath trembling. “Why is it always your way or nothing?”
Silence fell like a weight.
Riddle’s pulse pounded in his ears, loud and ragged. The air between them buzzed with everything that hadn’t been said before now.
“Or nothing?” she echoed, her voice low—dangerously soft. “I’ll show you nothing,” She loomed over him. “If you don’t end things with that boy, I’ll disown you.”
Riddle stared at her, stunned. Horror hollowed out his chest.
“Now, Mrs. Rosehearts, let’s not take things to such extremes,” Principal Crowley interjected, his tone tight with urgency, trying to cut through the rising heat.
But she didn’t even look at him.
“No,” she said coldly. “You were right earlier, Principal Crowley. This is a matter between me and my son. It has nothing to do with the school.”
Her gaze never wavered from Riddle’s face.
He barely registered Crowley’s reply—his words sounded far away, muffled, as though spoken underwater.
Riddle just stood frozen, staring at the woman who was supposed to be his mother. Who was supposed to love him.
The words echoed like a curse in his skull: I’ll disown you.
He’d heard her threaten, guilt, manipulate—but this... this was something else. This wasn’t disappointment. It wasn’t even rage. It was a line drawn in the sand, dared to be crossed—and the promise that if he did, she’d burn everything behind him without hesitation.
Disown him. Like he was disposable. Like he hadn’t spent his life breaking himself into pieces to meet her every expectation. Like the perfect son she’d demanded had never even existed.
All of it—everything—swept aside. For what?
Because he loved someone?
Because—for the first time—he wanted something that wasn’t hers to control?
He felt it then. Slow and cold, like frost creeping across glass. A numbness spreading in his chest, swallowing the panic, silencing the desperate urge to make her understand. It hollowed him out. Made room for something quieter. Heavier.
It wasn’t anger. Not yet.
It was grief.
Not for what she said—but for what it proved, that no matter how hard he tried, how perfectly he performed, the second he stepped out of line, she would discard him.
Maybe she always would have. Even if he had become everything she wanted.
His eyes burned, but he didn’t look away.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Steady.
“Then do it.”
His mother—no, Edith Rosehearts—stood there, stunned. Speechless. Like she hadn’t expected him to fight back.
Principal Crowley cleared his throat, his tone light but firm. “How about we take a recess? Some fresh air. Let’s reconvene in fifteen minutes.”
It was phrased as a suggestion, but it was anything but optional.
Riddle didn’t feel there was anything left to say. She had drawn her line, and he had drawn his. There was no middle ground now.
Still, he gave a small nod—more to Crowley than to her—then turned away from the woman who used to be his mother.
And without another word, he walked out of the office.
The numbness was fading.
And panic was beginning to set in.
If his mo—Edith—actually followed through, he could end up homeless.
He didn’t have any personal savings. Every coin, every expense, every piece of clothing he wore was tied to her. The dorm fees, the textbooks, even his uniform—it had all been paid for with money she controlled. She could pull it all back. Legally, she had every right. The credit cards were in her name.
Riddle froze mid-step.
No.
That wasn’t true.
The credit cards were in his father’s name.
His father.
He had two parents.
Absent as he was, Riddle’s father still existed—still signed the documents, still made the payments. A distant figure more specter than parent, yes, but a man ruled by logic. Cold. Calculating. Detached—but rational.
And no matter how quiet he’d been all these years, Riddle couldn’t see him agreeing to disown their only child.
They’d had him late in life. Too late to easily try again. Not without potent fertility spells or advanced alchemical intervention—and Edith would never subject herself to that. Too dangerous, too undignified. People would talk. The illusion of perfection might crack.
And she wouldn’t want to raise another child anyway. She hadn’t raised him out of love—she had molded him. Curated him. Sculpted him like a legacy project.
So if she was threatening to throw him away... then she wasn’t the only one with something to lose.
His parents weren’t in love. That much was obvious. He remembered something his father once said, back when Riddle was too young to understand what it really meant:
"She was the smartest woman I knew."
Not the kindest. Not the woman I loved. Just... smart.
Pragmatic. Strategic. A match made for appearances, not affection. And Riddle suspected his father had only agreed to a family because it was expected of someone in his position.
If Edith disowned their only child, it wouldn’t just hurt Riddle.
It would tarnish him. His reputation. The immaculate family portrait they’d spent years constructing would start to fracture—and people would look closer.
They’d ask questions.
Questions neither of them wanted to answer.
Riddle dug through his bag with trembling hands until he found his phone.
He turned it on, the screen flaring to life, and opened the call log.
At the top was Floyd.
He paused, staring at the contact.
Their last call had been just last night—nearly three hours long. He couldn’t even recall most of the conversation now. Bits and pieces floated back, Floyd rambling about something he did to annoy Azul, Riddle complaining about his dorm mates. Nothing important. Nothing urgent.
But he remembered how it ended—Floyd’s voice low and warm.
“Love you. Sleep tight.”
Just hearing those words in his memory grounded him.
This was why he was fighting. Not just for Floyd—but for the right to feel something for someone without shame. For the right to want. To choose. To live.
His relationship had been the catalyst, yes—but it was his freedom, his identity, his future that were really on the line.
He drew in a slow breath, steadied his hand, and left Floyd’s contact behind.
Scrolling through his list, he found the number.
Father
He hadn’t called him in years.
But now… now he had no choice.
With a final exhale, Riddle tapped the screen.
The line began to ring.
It rang once. Twice.
Then came the low, gravel-edged voice, “Hello?”
“Mother wants to disown me,” Riddle blurted out almost immediately.
Silence.
Riddle held his breath.
“…Excuse me?” his father said, the words slow and frigid. The temperature in his voice dropped several degrees, and Riddle nearly winced.
“We got into an argument,” he said quickly. “She said she’d disown me if I didn’t comply with her.”
A pause.
“Riddle,” his father said at last, calm but unmistakably stern, “explain the context of this disagreement.”
There was no room for vagueness. No hiding behind polite phrasing. Riddle drew in a breath and explained. All of it. The relationship with Floyd. The confrontation in Principle Crowley’s office. Edith’s threat. His voice shook toward the end, throat tight with the pressure he’d been holding back all day.
When he finally stopped talking, there was another pause.
“What species is this boy?”
Riddle blinked. “H-he’s a merman.”
He mentally cursed the stammer. The question had caught him completely off-guard.
“Seahorse pregnancies are viable among mermen and their partners, aren’t they?”
Riddle felt his face flame at the implication. “I… yes. I believe so.”
His father sighed, long and tired, like he’d just accepted an unpleasant but necessary truth.
“Let’s make a deal,” he said, voice level. “As long as you have at least one biological child—whether it’s with that boy or someone else—you will not be cut off from the inheritance. And I will not allow your mother to disown you.”
Riddle’s breath caught. He blinked, stunned by the cold efficiency—but also the shield offered beneath it.
“I don’t want to be a doctor,” he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
His father didn’t hesitate.
“Then what do you want to be?”
“A lawyer.”
“That’s acceptable. Any other confessions?” There was the barest hint of dry amusement in his tone—something too subtle to call warmth, but close enough to sting.
“I… no. None.”
“Then we have an agreement?”
“Yes, I accept the terms,” Riddle said, formal and automatic.
“Good. I’ll speak with your mother.”
There was a beat, and just as Riddle started to lower the phone from his ear—
“Oh, and Riddle.”
He tensed. “Yes?”
“I’m proud of you.”
The line clicked dead.
Riddle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
It was just so painfully ironic.
He had spent years tearing himself apart, wringing out every drop of perfection he could muster, all for a sliver of praise from Edith. And now, out of nowhere, his father—the man who had barely been a presence in his life, who had delegated the entire task of raising him to Edith—just handed it over like it cost him nothing.
“I’m proud of you.”
The words rang in his ears. Hollow. Warm. Infuriating.
He sank shakily onto a bench in the corridor, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to process it all—everything that had happened, everything that had been said.
He felt rung dry.
And then, without meaning to, he started to laugh.
Sharp and breathless at first, bubbling up from some cracked, exhausted part of him. But the laughter twisted quickly—too tight, too jagged—and suddenly he was sobbing.
The kind of sobs that came from deep in the ribs, that didn’t wait for permission. They spilled out of him like flood water through a broken dam.
The last time he’d cried like this was after his and Floyd’s first date—that disaster. When everything had gone wrong and he’d thought he’d ruined everything before it could even start. When he’d cried not because it was over, but because he had wanted it so badly.
Just like now.
It was supposed to be a good day.
He was going on his first date with Floyd. His first ever date.
He’d been looking forward to it all week.
Instead though, the day had turned out to be a complete disaster.
It started with a knock at his door—a frazzled first-year ward reporting that all the hedgehogs had gone missing.
Riddle had to help find them. Normally, Trey would have handled it, but Trey had been off-campus that day, leaving Riddle to manage everything alone.
Then, not ten minutes later, another student burst in to tell him a beastman had trampled every last rose in the east garden.
Of course.
The roses were usually Cater’s responsibility, but Cater was—conveniently—‘busy.’ Riddle didn’t have time to ask for details. He was already running late.
He repaired what he could with magic, replanted what was beyond saving, and filed a maintenance report.
As if that weren’t enough, just as he was rushing to finally leave for the café, he witnessed one of his wards fall off the roof—directly in front of him.
He barely managed to save them in time and had to escort the dazed student to the infirmary. Again, normally Trey would’ve handled it—but Trey was still gone.
By the time he broke free, he was already cutting it dangerously close. He reached for his phone to message Floyd… and that was when Ace barreled around the corner and crashed into him.
His phone went flying.
Out the nearest window.
And before he could even react, a bucket of green paint rained down over him—courtesy of two students trying to prank their friend… and somehow mistaking him for said friend.
Dripping, humiliated, and vibrating with restrained rage, he ordered Ace to retrieve the phone, collared the students, then stormed off to change.
When he finally rejoined Ace, it was to learn that the phone was completely destroyed—beyond repair—though mercifully, the SIM card survived.
Still Riddle had nearly snapped.
But Ace, with the air of someone trying very hard not to get hexed, offered up his own phone so Riddle could at least text Floyd.
Floyd hadn’t been upset. In fact, he’d only laughed and told Riddle to come as fast as he could—he had a surprise waiting.
For a brief moment, it felt like the day might finally turn around.
So, gathering the last reserves of energy and dignity he had left, Riddle set out for the café.
And then—because of course it would—it started to rain.
Not a drizzle. Not a sprinkle.
A full-on downpour.
Normally, he would have cast a shielding charm, but his mage stone had darkened, heavy with the added accumulated frustration and stress of the day. One more spell and he risked overblotting.
That… that had been the final straw.
Standing alone in the street, soaked and trembling, Riddle had come dangerously close to crying.
He had turned around and walked home.
Riddle stumbled into his room, clothes clinging to his soaked skin, hair plastered to his face.
He didn’t even bother turning on the light.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed and buried his dripping head into the blanket, pressing his face into the soft fabric as if it could absorb everything he didn’t want to feel.
The cold, the exhaustion, the bitterness clawing at his throat.
He just wanted to calm down. To breathe. To stop himself from breaking into a pathetic, helpless sob.
He had wanted today to go well.
More than that—he had needed it to.
His first date. His first real date. And it had all gone to hell before he even got the chance to see Floyd’s face.
His breath hitched, and he bit back a sniff, squeezing his eyes shut.
He pressed deeper into the blanket, seeking some kind of warmth, some comfort—anything.
He knew he should change, get out of his wet clothes before he made himself sick.
But he couldn’t bring himself to care.
Not right now.
All he wanted was to disappear into the silence and pretend this day had never happened.
When a knock came, Riddle didn’t move.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t lift his head. Didn’t even turn to look.
He just stayed where he was—kneeling, soaked, his face pressed into the blanket—praying whoever it was would go away.
No such luck.
The door creaked open.
He hadn’t locked it.
Footsteps, soft but certain, entered the room. No words. Just the sound of someone crossing the space and settling down beside him.
Riddle squeezed his eyes shut, as if that could somehow make the moment disappear. But he already knew who it was.
He didn’t have to look.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice muffled against the damp fabric.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t cold. It just was.
A space held open, waiting.
“Nah, don’t worry too much ‘bout it,” Floyd eventually says, his voice light, almost lazy, as his fingers threaded gently through Riddle’s soaked hair.
The gesture was so casual, so unbothered, that it chipped away at the knot of shame in Riddle’s chest.
Slowly, he turned his head, finally meeting Floyd’s eyes.
Floyd looked… nice. Really nice. His usual chaotic sense of style had been tempered into something thoughtfully put together. Subtle jewelry, coordinated colors, even a cologne Riddle hadn’t smelled on him before. It wasn’t flashy—it was intentional.
Riddle bit the inside of his cheek, hard.
He had done the same. Spent hours obsessing over what to wear. He’d even asked Cater for help.
Cater, of course, had teased him relentlessly the entire time, but still dragged him out to shop for casual clothes—since, as he’d so bluntly put it, “Your wardrobe screams ‘courtroom,’ not ‘coffee date.’”
And Riddle had let him. Because he wanted this to go well. Because he wanted to look good for Floyd.
And now here they were—date ruined, outfit soaked, hair dripping, pride in shreds.
“I really wanted today to be perfect,” Riddle whispered, voice raw around the edges.
Floyd didn’t respond right away. He just sat with him for a beat, then reached out and gently poked Riddle’s cheeks.
“You know, ya really look like a goldfishie right now.”
Riddle blinked, stunned by the sudden shift in tone—then laughter bubbled up inside him, sharp and unexpected.
Of course Floyd would say something like that.
Even now.
He laughed. And laughed. Until the laughter turned to sobs.
All the weight of the day crashed down on him at once, and he collapsed against Floyd’s chest, the tears spilling freely now.
Floyd wrapped an arm around him and rested his chin on Riddle’s damp hair.
“There there, goldfishie.”
It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t expected. But it was exactly what Riddle needed.
Eventually, the sobs eased into sniffles. He wiped at his eyes, cheeks still blotchy and warm, and looked up at Floyd.
“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Riddle said quietly.
He didn’t know what his face must’ve looked like—red, puffy, pitiful—but Floyd’s expression softened.
“Sure,” he said, grinning slightly, “but I still gotcha a surprise.”
Riddle blinked, confused for a moment—then remembered. Floyd had mentioned it earlier, before the day had taken a turn for the worse.
“What is it?” he asked, sitting up straighter as Floyd reached behind him.
From a bag, Floyd pulled out a small container—and handed it to him.
A parfait.
“I made it for ya,” Floyd said. “You really liked the one I gave you before, so I made this one strawberry.”
Riddle stared at it. Then slowly, carefully, took it from Floyd’s hands like it was made of glass.
“You… made this for me?” His voice came out smaller than he intended.
Floyd snickered and handed him a spoon. “I just said that, didn’t I?”
Riddle opened the container, took a bite—and his shoulders instantly relaxed. He closed his eyes, letting the creamy sweetness melt on his tongue before letting out a soft, pleased sound.
When he opened them again, something felt… different.
His clothes were no longer clinging to him. His hair wasn’t dripping. He looked down—he was dry.
Floyd had cast a charm while he wasn’t looking.
“Now you’re a fish out of water,” Floyd said with a grin, his tone smug and teasing.
Riddle let out a helpless giggle, the sound light and unguarded. “That was terrible,” he murmured.
“You love it,” Floyd replied, leaning in close enough that their shoulders touched.
And he did.
Even after the worst day imaginable—even after falling apart—Riddle found himself smiling.
Because Floyd was there. And that was enough.
Riddle leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Floyd’s cheek. “Thank you,” he said, voice quiet but full of meaning.
Floyd’s grin stretched wide, lazy and pleased, before he leaned forward and kissed Riddle on the lips.
It wasn’t their first kiss—not by a long shot—but it didn’t matter.
Riddle still felt that flutter in his chest, that silly little spark that made him feel like he was weightless. His cheeks flushed, lips tingling, and a giddy warmth spread through him like he was falling all over again.
He pulled back just slightly, eyes meeting Floyd’s with a half-smile. “You always kiss me when I least expect it.”
Floyd shrugged, clearly unbothered. “You always look cute when you’re surprised.”
Riddle scoffed, but he couldn’t help the smile that broke through. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love it,” Floyd said with a wink.
Riddle didn’t argue.
Because it was true.
Once Riddle had calmed down enough to steady his breathing—and his thoughts—he returned to Principal Crowley’s office.
But this time, he didn’t walk in with fear clawing at his chest.
He walked in with purpose.
His father was backing him. He wasn’t alone.
Edith was already seated when he arrived, her expression carved from stone. Composed. Cold. Riddle took the chair beside her without a word, refusing to acknowledge her presence.
Principal Crowley glanced between them with a cautious smile. “Well, I hope everyone has taken a moment to breathe.”
“I apologize, Principal Crowley, for the disruption we’ve caused,” Edith said, voice smooth as polished glass. Then, she turned to Riddle.
“I retract my earlier statement. It was rash and cruel of me,” she said.
A pause.
“You’re an adult now, and you’re free to make your own choices.”
Riddle raised a brow. He waited for it.
“Even if those choices are… less than wise.”
There it was.
Even now, she couldn’t admit she was wrong—only that she had been too forceful in trying to be right.
More carefully chosen words. More hollow apologies wrapped in cold civility. She wasn’t sorry. Not truly.
She was simply cornered.
Her power threatened. Her authority checked.
“Can you ever forgive me?” she asked, voice soft, as if rehearsed.
Riddle stared at her.
Really stared.
He searched for something—anything—in her face. But there was no remorse, no vulnerability, no true reach across the divide between them.
And something inside him shifted. Hardened.
“I accept your apology,” he said evenly.
Edith’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Yes, but… do you forgive me?”
Riddle hesitated.
He didn’t know.
Because despite everything, despite the damage and control and manipulation… he still loved her. Or maybe he loved the idea of her. The mother he used to hope she’d be.
Even now, part of him wanted her to say the right words. To reach for him with something real.
But she didn’t.
And he wasn’t sure she ever would.
“…I don’t know,” he said at last, his voice quiet but firm.
And that, more than anything, was the truth.