As much as Ducaleon wants to stay away from Tempest, he simply cannot—to him, she's become alluring in every way imaginable. Her nature and character, so beguiling. Her actions and behavior, so adorable. Her appearance, he knew she was pretty, but recently, he has come to regard her as an exceedingly appealing female.

His existing fondness for her came in stages...

As he put the needled tip of the buzzing tattoo machine to the skin of his umpteenth customer of the day, all of Ducaleon's thoughts drift to his foremost encounter with Temp. He was in Mayhem to buy the new release by Opeth. Apparently, she'd started her first day there and was being given instructions on what to do and how to do them—repeatedly being told the Dos and Don'ts of her job as a salesgirl. He hadn't paid much attention to her—pertaining to his lack of interest and his hurry for a pending errand. Then came his second encounter with her—well, it wasn't much of an encounter, given how he'd only woven around the store and watched her go about her work, simply because it was entertaining to watch her get so deeply engrossed in arranging the new stock of records that she kept running into moving people and static shelves alike.

After that one very stalker-ish move, every time Ducaleon visited Mayhem, his attention kept getting drawn to her, as if she were telepathically pulling the line of his sight to herself. She was always engaged in doing her job to the ultimate perfection, never giving him a second thought, until that fateful day.

The day she came in as his new roommate.

"Ow! Calm it, man!" Ducaleon is snapped out of his thoughts by the wimp on his tattooing recliner, wincing and trying to pull his forearm away from the needle. His whining resumes, "dude, that hurts. C'mon—"

"Suck it up," Ducaleon cuts him off, annoyed. "Tattoos are supposed to hurt."

"Sorry." The youngster finally stops struggling. "It's my first time."

"You don't say."

The Guns 'n' Roses lyrical tattoo takes another hour to finish, after which Ducaleon sprays the antiseptic ink-retainer on it and rattles off the 'new tattoo care instructions' to the guy. He is glad when the boy leaves without another complaint of 'is it normal for this to sting so much?', it was beginning to trip off a loose nerve. Now free for the moment, his cerebrations go back to the day Tempest had decided to live in The Phoenix Rising.

That day, passing the way it did, had occurred either for the betterment or for the worsening of his already miserable life, Ducaleon still cannot grasp which. The former assumption seemingly almost overpowers the latter, however, there has been and will always be his current situation, the reality of which lurks in the shadows—silent and calculative—and quick as a snake, it strikes just when positivity appears to be winning. Constant remembrance of his state of affairs—the dark, nefarious side of his life—about which only Raidho knows, compels him to keep from forming any bonds with people. Should he succumb to the need of harboring emotional attachment with anyone, he'll not only be endangering the lives of concerned individuals, but also revealing his vulnerability—his strong will to protect and save those he loves, by any means necessary.

It's been nearly two months since Tempest Richards moved in with him, Ducaleon retains that day in his mind as clear as a cloudless, blue sky. Curtis had told him that he'd be having another one in his apartment soon; someone to share the burden of the rent with him and to occupy the half empty condominium. Nevertheless, Ducaleon hadn't expected that someone to be the lively little salesgirl (whom he occasionally stalked, purely for his mental recreation and nothing more) at his frequented record store. She'd come with a friend of hers, someone he'd made out as another regular customer of Mayhem—the eighteen-year-old Rhys Morgan. Ducaleon had done a double take upon catching sight of the familiar redhead standing frozen beside Rhys.

He'd deciphered the look on her face just as instantly as he'd recognized her—desire. He was extremely acquainted with that, having to deal with licentious females throughout the day, both in Inked Stories and in Havoc Wreaked. He's always known that he's attractive as per the matters of opinion of the opposite sex.

Ducaleon had shown the two around the house, all the while keeping a mindful eye on Tempest. His observation of her bore fruitful and pleasing results. While most women he'd come across in his life acted sexually depraved - incessantly flirting, and dropping obvious 'hints' - Tempest had quickly suppressed her covetousness and afterwards withdrawn herself behind a childlike timidity. She would sneak what were supposedly discreet glances, but he was easily sentient about them. He kept expecting her to make a move, seeing how bold and amicable she was with people in Mayhem, yet she didn't so much as release a squeak—not until he'd offered them coffee and Rhys had to elbow her. And even then, all that escaped her was a meek 'thank you'.

Ducaleon had seen her eyes linger over his scarred right shoulder, at the sight of which her entire demeanor had taken on a timorous aura. And for some oddly unfathomable reason, he'd felt this short burst of protectiveness towards that physically and emotionally fragile-looking creature. At once, he'd resolved that he had to maintain distance from her. He'd acted upon it by handing Rhys the spare keys and left the house, crashing at Raidho's for the next two days.

Ducaleon scoffs, remembering how he'd executed that great of an escapade from his own house just because he feared how his conscience had reacted in Temp's presence. Surprised by the way she occupies him to such an extent, he opts to lock her in the corner of his mind for the time being—because, eventually, he is bound to bring her up without even meaning to—and settles down to clean his counter.

"Heya, Duke. You okay?"

Looking up to see that Monique had come in, he says, "yeah, why?"

"You just look... I don't know? Lost?" The woman occupies herself with arranging the bottles of newly bought inks on the shelves, briefly sparing him a concerned glance. "Something on your mind?"

"Nah, nothing," Ducaleon answers. For assurance, he adds, "I didn't get much sleep last night."

Monique is silent for a moment, then she turns around to face him. "You know what, go home, alright? You do look like you could use some rest..."

"Thanks, but—"

"Stop right there!" commands Monique. "Get your ass home and into bed."

Knowing that there's no way he'll win an argument with the knightess-like-but-motherly Monique, he huffs in indignation and leaves his counter. He grabs his jacket on the way out while calling over his shoulder, "thanks, Monique."

"Anytime, darling!" He hears her revert before the door shuts behind him.

During his subway ride back, his reflections are once again refocused on Tempest as Mastodon's riffs from his earphones fade to the back of his subconsciousness. Given how much he keeps thinking about her, he's reasonably certain that she's become his infatuation. He might very well be falling for her no matter how much he keeps struggling not to, and advantageously enough for himself, he's knee-deep within the knowledge that Tempest detains her affection for him too. He's seen her corporal longing for him change into something profoundly solicitous and more meaningful over the course of time.

Nowadays, she looks at him in a way that shows her explicit concern, she genuinely cares for him. The troubled expression on her face every time he goes home banged-up, her worry for him so intense that she virtually exudes anxiety, her gentle, careful hands patching up his bleeding wounds and purpling bruises—all remind Ducaleon of the way his grandma had been whilst taking care of his grandpa's sicknesses that came with age. At first, Temp would ask what had happened, but now, she doesn't even do that; unquestioningly treating him as if all she wants is for him to heal fast and be well. He determines this entirely from the way she looks after him—the sincere, unambiguous compassion he sees in his eyes. She's an open book which he's come to appreciate reading, not only because it is well-written, but also because it is true and candid.

The subway slows slightly before coming to a jerking halt, simultaneously returning Ducaleon's cognizance from Temp to reality. Theatre District is the last station on this train; everyone lines up for the exit, and so does he. The Phoenix Rising from the metro station is just a ten minutes' walk, which Ducaleon appreciates—because he gets the time to clear his thoughts, straighten his priorities, and make sure that he doesn't trigger anything fervent in the relationship he has maintained with Tempest.

So what if he is intensely fanciful about the girl? To keep his friendship within boundaries or to make it grow further into something else fully depends on his capacity to stay within the self-prescribed limitations—and this is exactly what he will do.

Climbing up the four flights of stairs, he ultimately makes it to the top floor of The Phoenix Rising. He pauses on the front door to check his watch, which reads eight of evening; Tempest must already be home. However, he is reluctant to knock, so he enters the apartment with his own set of keys. Stopping once in the spacious living room, he beholds his roommate's redecoration for a moment, before proceeding forward to the kitchen-cum-dining, where he finds her bustling around with plates and spoons. He goes to stand beside the dining table, alarming her in the process. She near about jumps out of her skin, stumbling a little before finding support upon the kitchen island. Leaning her weight on it, she takes a moment to catch her breath.

"You are home!" she proclaims, trying to guise her surprise behind a pleasant voice. "You're so quiet, I didn't hear you come in."

"Yeah, well..." he responds nonchalantly. "Sorry if I startled you."

"On, no. It's fine." She brushes it off. "I'm just a big fraidy-cat." Ducaleon says nothing to that, simply waits, so she continues, "I didn't feel like cooking, so I ordered pizza from Papa John's... Should be here any minute."

"What's in the oven?" asks Ducaleon, catching the aroma of a cakey-spicy-fruitiness in the air.

Tempest's face lights up with a big smile. "Glad you asked! A friend taught me how to make cinnamon rolls with crisp-apple filling..."

Just to make her testy, Ducaleon comments, "I thought you didn't want to cook..."

"I didn't want to cook," she ripostes crossly. "This is baking."

"Which is a type of cooking."

"Whatever! Quit it or you won't get any." Now, she's been successfully made testy.

"Right, my apologies, chef." Ducaleon offers her a half-grin. "Looking forward to the cinnamon rolls. Let me just freshen-up."

"Great!" She claps her hands together in discernible excitement, her crabbiness vanishing within seconds, an act that comes off as awfully endearing to Ducaleon.

He leaves her to set the table, going into the sanctuary of his room to change into a clean shirt and track-pants. Following that, he goes to the washroom to scour off the city's grime and pollution from his skin. By the time he makes back to the dining room, the pizza has come and Temp's already served a slice each on two plates. Once they've settled down, she starts up a polite conversation.

"So... how was work today?"

Swallowing his first bite, Ducaleon says, "same old, same old. What about you?"

"Pretty good." She nods. "You know, new stock's come in. Want me to set aside some albums for you?"

"Sure..."

From there, the two-sided exchange transfigures into a soliloquy with Tempest going on about the new trend of artists wanting minimalistic covers for their labels. She carries on the discussion with herself, something regarding how the minimalist graphics are more enigmatic and customer-pulling than the super-detailed ones. Ducaleon keeps silently surveilling her—studying her has become sort of a hobby for him, one which he adores abiding his time at home in. Her features have a recherché grace to them—not what society classifies as stunning and model-esque, yet lovely nonetheless. Ovoid visage, a petite nose, small but enticing moue, and those large, innocent eyes inset with cerulean irises that are more expressive than a pantomime, true windows to her very soul.

Being with Tempest makes him temporarily forget about the toil and troubles he goes through every single day. The faith-quelling weight on his shoulders—heavier than the world, graver than any misery—lifted off him for the interim by Temp's presence, helps him breathe more easily. Ducaleon's attention is drawn to the clock as it dings, announcing it to be ten in the night. From here on, it's only a matter of few hours before he must welcome the uninvited and embrace his criminal night-life again.

"Umm, Duke?"

Ducaleon feels a light tap on his arm. Tempest must've noticed the dejection he feels; he hasn't done good in concealing it. Shifting his eyes from his food to her, he asks, "yeah?"

"Are you okay?" She questions, disquiet lacing her sweet voice.

He nods slowly. Of an unwitting accord, he takes the hand she'd laid on his arm by the wrist, proceeding to rub his thumb on the back of her palm in small circles. "I'm fine."

As if abruptly realizing that her wrist is in his grasp, she pulls it to her lap under the table-top. Snapped out of his moony trance by her sharp recoil, he's about to apologize for the unwanted touch, but she beats him to it and says, "for what it's worth, everything's gonna work out... Everything always does, in the grand scheme of things. I have this devout belief in every cloud having a silver lining." She lets out a short, cynical laugh. "I'll be a hypocrite if I say I've never been depressed. I have, and there's been so many times when I almost gave up on myself and considered going back to my dad. But, nothing is as hopeless as it seems, y'know? Trust me on this."

"Thank you," is all he can muster. Ducaleon is still being crushed under crippling debt, still despondent for having to committing terrible crimes to clear his unending dues. Then, there's Tempest Richards, persistently ensnaring him to herself, promising him that life will get better, no matter how much the circumstances say otherwise.

"Tell you what," she says happily, "it's time to see how my rolls have turned out. Do feel free to vomit it out, it's my first attempt after all."

Ducaleon cannot help but chuckle as she leaves her seat to return with the glassware; the baked delicacy arranged in a neat row in it, transparent food wrap stretched across its top.

Ducaleon's inner demons that haunt him every night, they also refuse to let him get close to anyone, promising only pain and agony. Yet, with Tempest, he feels hopeful that he's hit rock-bottom and she is here to uplift him, things just can't get any worse. So, here he is with her, munching on cinnamon rolls with apple filling.

Temp's congenital instinct to play doctor/caregiver every time that he brings home even the most minor of injuries, makes him feel that perhaps he's not as devoid of caring people in his life as he feels. Everything about her has begun to invoke unprecedented emotions for her; at times, he likes them, otherwise he decrees that he just cannot have such feelings, and if he does, he must eradicate them at all costs. Nonetheless, no matter how hard Ducaleon tries, his emotions towards his roommate only keep getting stronger, almost verging on 'love', no matter however much he asks himself, how do you fall in love someone you've known less than two months?

His late grandparents were a true and exceptional example of 'love at first sight'. Grandpa kept telling Ducaleon how he'd been bewitched the very first time he'd laid eyes upon 'that one exotic beauty, standing amongst her band of Greek immigrants to Sioux Falls'. Afterwards, how they'd first met in the clearing within the privacy of the redwood forests that outlined the town and subsequently continued to meet there, how they finally decided to commit and marry each other, going against the severe protests from both their Greek and Iroquois families...

Ducaleon's paradox of 'to love or not to love Temp' is painful, torturous, and exquisitely frustrating. It is also vexing him with the knowledge that his paradox is unasked for, since he's already in love with her—so it says in the verbiage of his new ardor for her, waging a bloody war with his previous soullessness, arising from the murky depths of his stony heart.