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Artful had been talking for the past ten minutes.
Not talking — rambling. Spiraling. Words spilling out in frantic loops as he paced the workshop floor. Hands waving, coat fluttering behind him like a frustrated cape.
“It’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous— They expect me to fix this? Me? With this?” He held up the mechanical prop, shaking it like it had personally wronged him. “It’s impossible! The wiring is all wrong! Whoever built this must have been—”
You stepped closer.
He didn’t notice.
“—a complete, utter fool, because no one with an ounce of sense would put the copper here of all—”
“Artful.”
He didn’t stop. “—places, and don’t even get me started on the enchantment layering because whoever did that—”
You reached forward.
He kept talking. Louder.
“—clearly didn’t know the first thing about—”
And then you hooked two fingers into the front of his waistcoat, right beneath the buttons, and pulled.
Firm. Controlled. No force wasted.
Artful jolted like you had yanked him out of another dimension.
His breath hitched audibly.
His words died instantly.
His body stilled as if you had cast a spell stronger than anything he’d ever mastered.
The half-finished rant dissolved on his tongue.
“P—” His voice cracked. “Pardon?”
You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t push him or yank harder. You just kept your grip on the center of his waistcoat, guiding him a half-step closer until he was standing directly in front of you.
Close enough for him to feel the steadiness in your posture, the grounding calm radiating off you.
You held his gaze.
“Artful,” you said softly. “Pay attention.”
If you had shouted, he would have shouted back.
If you had argued, he would have doubled down.
If you had pleaded, he would have dismissed it with theatrics.
But this—
calm, quiet dominance—
this went straight through him.
His face flushed all the way to his hairline.
“I— I was paying attention,” he lied weakly, voice trembling.
You tilted your head, unconvinced.
“You were spiraling,” you said.
He tried to scoff, but it came out as a faint, strangled sound. “I was… elaborating.”
“Artful.”
His chest rose and fell sharply.
Your fingers were still curled into the fabric of his waistcoat, gentle but unmoving. He could have stepped back. He didn’t.
“…Fine,” he whispered. “I was spiraling.”
A beat.
“But in my defense—”
“Artful.”
He snapped shut again.
You pulled him a little closer. Barely an inch. Just enough that he felt it.
His breath caught.
He looked everywhere except at you — the floor, the wall, the broken prop in his hand — anywhere that wasn’t the intensity of your gaze.
“You need to breathe,” you said softly.
“I am breathing,” he hissed.
You raised an eyebrow.
He wilted.
“…Not well,” he admitted.
You loosened your grip just slightly, letting your fingers rest against the fabric without releasing him entirely.
“Then breathe,” you murmured.
He inhaled.
Shaky. Uneven. Trying too hard.
You didn’t move until the next breath came steadier.
And the next.
Only then did you let your hand slide away from his waistcoat.
Artful stared at the spot where your fingers had been like he could still feel the imprint.
“I…” He swallowed, unable to meet your eyes. “…didn’t expect you to do that.”
“That’s why it worked,” you said simply.
He blinked at you, some mixture of disbelief and something softer flickering across his face.
“You can’t just— just grab someone like that,” he stammered. “You can’t just pull people around—”
“You were overwhelmed,” you said. “I acted.”
“Yes, but— I mean— I’m perfectly capable of— Why would you even—”
“Because you needed grounding.”
He shut up again.
For once, he didn’t look insulted.
He looked exposed.
And oddly… relieved.
“…Grounding,” he repeated under his breath.
You nodded.
He stared at you for a long, uncomfortable moment — uncomfortable for him, not for you — as though he were searching for something he couldn’t name.
Finally, he cleared his throat, tugging sharply at his coat as if trying to restore some dignity.
“That was… bold of you,” he muttered.
You stepped closer again, not touching him this time, just close enough to watch him flinch in anticipation.
“I’ll do it again,” you said quietly, “if you need it.”
He froze.
His face went bright red.
“…You can’t say things like that,” he whispered, horrified at how breathy it sounded.
“I can,” you said. “And I will.”
Artful let out a shaky breath, pulling his coat around himself as if it could hide the way he was blushing.
“…Right,” he muttered. “Fine. I suppose. If it’s… necessary.”
You gave him the faintest smile.
“It usually is.”
He nearly fumbled the prop in his hands.