He remembered the way her nose crinkled when she laughed; her eyes closed and her eyebrows dipped at the center of her face when she did so. He liked to picture her face like that often, and would try his best to make her laugh each time he saw her just to see it again.

He wasn't supposed to get attached. He wasn't supposed to care, and yet he always found himself thinking of her. He had recorded every detail about her: the way her eyes sparkled when she saw him, as if their centers were made of hundreds of shining jewels, and the way she brushed her once long hair behind her ear as she spoke. When he was away, he would observe things - an Asian fountain, a field of lavender- and tuck them away, remembering them so that he could later describe them to her. He'd wanted to bring her gifts, to write her letters, but there would be no way to hide such things from Panda. She loved his stories though, or at least she pretended to, scrunching up her nose and laughing at his tales of clumsy bakers and cobblestone streets.

He realized soon enough that he was chronicling things, mundane, everyday things that need not be recorded, simply so that he would have some dazzling tale to regale her with on his return. He looked forward to sitting with her in the dining hall, sipping coffee as she sipped tea, being mesmerized by those little wrinkles that covered the bridge of her nose as she laughed.

He knew then that he had a problem.

He remembered the many ways he'd managed to sneak her missions' locale out of the various members of the Order: lies centering around his concern for Allen, or queries on her new Innocence and how it was fairing in the field. He was quite sure he'd even managed to fool Komui, though that man was always too bright for Lavi's taste.

If he could manage, he'd find an excuse to be where she was. Bookmen were meant to record the secret histories; it was only natural that they'd want to follow her singular weapon or the Destroyer of Time. Panda could never argue that, though Lavi knew he wasn't fooling him in the least.

He realized soon that he was always trying to find his way to where she was, and that when he did, he was always trying to get her alone.

He was glad, then, that the old man was always with him.

He remembered the way her toes curled when she came, and the quiet moans she buried in his shoulder. He remembered the way her skin tasted, light and tangy, her sweat perfumed with hints of magnolia, yuzu, and freesia.

He remembered the way she felt around him, tight and wet, soft and yielding. He would never forget the way her inner walls shook, the way her nose crinkled when she cried out, much different than when she laughed. She was warm and inviting, and she felt like home.

He realized quickly that he had made a huge mistake. There was no erasing this, no avoiding it. He had crossed a line a Bookman was never meant to cross.

He knew he would have to leave her.

He observed her one last time, tangled amid the sheets and sleeping soundly, and his heart felt heavy.

He cared too much.