The Villainess Wants to Resign From Love

Morning sunlight spilled across my desk, catching on the glass vials like it was mocking me. Everything sparkled — except my dignity.

I'd slept maybe four minutes. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed last night like a cursed theater performance: me, Ronan, one accidental almost-confession, and a witness named Millie who would probably sell the story for profit.

"Good morning, Lady Viera!" Millie chirped, carrying a tray of tea and exactly zero shame. "You look... alive?"

"That's generous," I muttered. "I feel like a melted candle."

"Guilt or chemistry hangover?"

"Millie."

She grinned. "So—how's our dear Duke after drinking your potion of emotional chaos?"

"I wouldn't know," I said stiffly. "We haven't spoken since."

"Tragic." She poured tea with exaggerated grace. "Two people, bound by accidental feelings, separated by denial."

"Millie."

"I'm just saying," she continued, undeterred, "if a man looks at me like that after a love potion—"

"It wasn't a love potion!"

"Sure. And I only mop floors for the thrill."

I sighed and took the tea. "We agreed to forget it happened."

"Uh-huh. How's that going for you?"

I stared at my reflection in the cup. "Terribly."

A knock on the door.

Millie's eyes lit up like a gossip columnist spotting fresh scandal.

"Speak of the emotionally repressed devil," she whispered, darting behind a shelf.

I glared. "You're not subtle."

The door opened anyway. Ronan stepped in, looking perfectly composed — which was frankly insulting, given my current state of emotional debris.

"Good morning," he said, polite and steady. "I came to check on your progress."

Progress. Not on you, not on us, just... progress. Good. Professional. Torture.

"Yes, the formula," I said, too quickly. "I'm recalibrating the dilution ratios."

He nodded, stepping closer to inspect my notes. "Good. We should avoid last night's... variables."

"Definitely," I said, pretending my pulse wasn't malfunctioning.

Silence.

The kind that hums.

He was close enough that I could see the faint line of exhaustion under his eyes. The rational part of me wanted to comment on his sleep schedule. The irrational part wanted to stare longer.

"You didn't sleep much," I said finally.

"Neither did you," he replied.

I hesitated. "You're blaming me for your insomnia?"

His mouth curved, just barely. "You have a tendency to cause chaos. Even in my head."

"Occupational hazard."

Another silence — softer this time, almost comfortable.

He looked at the table, then back at me. "For what it's worth... I don't regret helping."

Something in my chest tightened. "You should. You turned into a walking heart metaphor."

That earned a quiet laugh. "I've been called worse."

From behind a shelf came the faint scribble scribble of Millie writing in her little notebook.

"Millie," I said without turning, "if you're documenting this, I'll feed that notebook to the furnace."

"Science must be recorded," she stage-whispered.

Ronan's lips twitched. "You have loyal staff."

"I have emotional spies," I corrected.

He chuckled — and the sound made my heart trip over itself again.

We worked in near silence after that. I measured herbs; he read my reports. Occasionally, our hands brushed when passing tools. Every time, my thoughts short-circuited.

Once, he reached over to steady a vial I almost dropped. His hand covered mine — warm, steady, deliberate.

Our eyes met.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped.

No banter, no sarcasm. Just the echo of last night and the weight of everything we weren't saying.

He didn't move. Neither did I.

Then Millie coughed loudly from the corner. "Fascinating reaction time. Should I log that as romantic paralysis?"

I pulled my hand back so fast I nearly threw the vial. "No logs!"

Ronan stepped back too, clearing his throat. "We're... fine."

Millie hummed. "Denial: day two confirmed."

Eventually, he gathered his papers. "I'll review these later," he said, voice careful, neutral.

I nodded. "Good. Yes. Excellent idea."

He paused at the door. "Viera."

I looked up.

He hesitated — just long enough to make my chest ache — then said softly, "If the potion's effects linger... let me know."

"They won't," I said quickly. "I triple-checked the formula."

He smiled faintly. "Still. Just in case."

Then he left.

As soon as the door shut, I collapsed onto my desk.

Millie appeared behind me, holding her notebook like a holy relic. "Observation: patient and subject continue mutual avoidance dance. Prognosis: doomed."

"Millie," I groaned. "Please. I'm fragile."

She grinned. "Admit it—you like him."

"I like silence."

"You blush every time he talks."

"Correlation doesn't equal causation!"

She gasped. "You're quoting science to hide your feelings."

"I am science!"

Millie patted my shoulder sympathetically. "Then I hope you enjoy being your own failed experiment."

That night, as I cleaned the lab alone, I found the cup Ronan had used during the test still sitting on the shelf.

I picked it up, meaning to toss it—then noticed something etched faintly on the glass:

"Still trust you."

My breath caught.

I set it down carefully, heart hammering like an overactive spell.

No potion in the world could fix this.