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You walked into Hotel Z’s main lounge.
Team MZ was mid-discussion—maps out, Urbain waving his arms, Grisham and Griselle reviewing notes, Ivor doing… Ivor things, with Gwynn quietly standing beside him. And Corbeau lurking like a shadow off to the side with secondhand man, Philippe.
You stepped into the light and towards the group. Today you wore “Bold Berry Blast”. A shade that should honestly come with a warning label. Deep wine-red. High-gloss. Perfect shimmer.
And chaos ensues.
Corbeau nearly loses his composure...
Your gloss caught the light and he visibly reeled. A tiny, involuntary intake of breath. Barely audible. But very real.
His eyes locked onto your mouth like gravity. The muscle in his jaw jumped—a tiny tic—and he had to blink once, slowly, to maintain composure.
He straightened his glasses, fixed his collar, and shifted his weight like he was trying to physically reset his brain.
Then you smiled, gloss glistening.
He froze, like someone unplugged him for a full second.
When he finally does move, he looked away—then back—then away—the way a man does when he’s afraid looking longer might unravel him completely.
He said nothing, but the air around him changed. It was tighter. Sharper.
Hotter.
He was one heartbeat away from losing it entirely.
Grisham falls even more in love.
He was mid-sentence about structural damage in Lumiose when he saw you—and the words died on his tongue.
His eyes widened slightly. Warmth bloomed across his face, subtle but unmistakable. He looked at you with this quiet awe—like your lips alone just reaffirmed his dreams of a beautiful world.
He takes in the color, the shine, the confidence radiating off you.
It hits him—
beautiful.
Not in a surface, superficial way.
But the kind of beauty that tugged at the deepest, most wounded parts of him—that made him believe good things could still exist despite everything he’d been through.
His breath left him. Just a soft, almost reverent exhale. He didn't say anything. And he didn't move.
He just watched you, struck still, heart swelling, eyes clear with quiet devotion.
Griselle looked at his face, and rolled her eyes.
Ivor gets protective.
As you crossed the room, someone—a random trainer who had just entered the hotel—turned his head and whistled at you in open admiration.
You smiled, shyly, at the attention.
Ivor noticed instantly.
His expression went dark. Not angry—but protective. Possessive big-brother-slash-crush mode activated.
Ivor stepped forward—nearly knocking over a chair—and placed himself directly between you and the staring trainer. Like a human wall. He folded his arms. Chest puffed. Stance wide.
Intimidation level: Machamp on steroids.
The trainer jumped, nearly dropping his drink, and scurried away.
Ivor turned back to you, proud—then accidentally stepped backward into a table. The entire table shifted. A stack of books tipped over. A lamp wobbled.
Ivor lunged to catch the lamp—and catches it
But accidentally crushed the lampshade.
He hid the crushed part behind his back like nothing happened.
Urbain’s mouth moves faster than his brain.
“WOW—!”
The word exploded out of him like confetti.
He slapped his hand over his mouth too late. His ears turned bright pink.
He tries to recover.
“Haha, uh—! I mean—! Not wow like wow-wow! Just—you know—like—uh—wow!”
He died inside.
You raised a brow.
He tried again, flustered beyond salvation.
“You look good! I mean—your lip gloss! The lip gloss looks good. On you. Not that you don’t look good without it? Forget I said that. You look great! Like, a respectful, trainer-appropriate, professional, uh—way! Not—not sex—SEXY—OH GOD—UH—”
His whole soul left his body.
Lida and Naveen cackle in the background.
Urbain hid his face behind his folder and slowly sunk into his chair, mumbling into his hands.
“What’s wrong with me?...Oh man…”