Byleth has known Sylvain for a while, ever since they were both in college, and they have been sort of dating for the better part of a year. It was enough of a time that she could notice some patterns in his behaviour emerge.

So, it should be no surprise when she realizes he never stayed the night.

That on itself would not be terrible. She has heard of men and women that did not like staying over at other people's homes for minor reasons such as not having a toothbrush with them, preferring to sleep with a specific set of pyjamas or sheets that might be unavailable, or even having an uncomfortably shy bladder. She thought it to be rather particular, but hardly an insurmountable problem.

One option would be, naturally, to have their encounters at his home. However, ever since they got together, late the year before, the young woman has never set foot on her boyfriend's apartment again.

Well, he had always been private about his living space. It was a perfectly nice, even if rather ostentatious, open plan apartment on a high-rise in the financial district. Nothing like her humble flat, overstore from her father's gym. Her salary would not allow her splurging on anything else.

Besides, in a way, the woman knows she should count herself as lucky. She knows for a fact most of his past girlfriends had no clue about his address, and even their close-knit group of friends had rare opportunity to check it out. It was unusual for Sylvain to ever have people over, they would visit only twice a year for championship finals, since he had the largest TV.

Alas, this year, he had given a slightly larger set to Felix, on occasion of his birthday, just after they began dating, and so not even that glimpse into his life she had anymore. It was now oddly off-limits to her and everyone she knew.

Byleth understood that lounging at her place might be too much of a downgrade, and so she had tried everything she could think of to solve that elusive problem he may had about her flat and make him feel comfortable. She cleaned a drawer for his clothes, opened up space in her tiny bathroom cabinet for his obnoxious beauty products, she bought new and expensive sheets, she cleaned and scrubbed every square centimetre of her entire apartment. Nothing worked, though.

It was always the same routine: he would strut over the doorstep, they would have sex, he would lay down for exactly fifteen minutes, and then he was off. He would fasten his shirt; taking care with each button as he kisses her again and again. He would laugh against her mouth, but his hands stopped hers decisively from undoing the buttons once again.

He never stayed the night. Never.

It is not a matter of miscommunication, either. She had even tried talking to him directly about it, despite her intense shame in doing so.

She was quite point blank about it all, in her usual laconic and detached manner of speech. "What is your problem with my apartment? Why do you never want to sleep over?"

He claims that he snores, that she would spend the whole night wide awake with the noise, that he was doing it with her best interest in mind, but she cannot help but wonder if it is really the case.

The romantic side of her personality is happy to give Sylvain a pass. She could conclude that he is so innately terrified that the walls he spent years building are so happy to crumble around she, that he just is not ready for that just yet. It was not too difficult to argue towards that point.

Byleth was more of a pragmatic, though. The fact is that it did not matter how many times she pleaded with him. He never stayed the night.

Manuela, a colleague of hers at the high school where she worked as a math teacher, was absolute in her judgement: he was a skipper. Men who did not want any commitment, the busty woman explains, usually prefer having their encounters in the other person's home, since it was easier to flee in the morning.

"It happens to me all the time!" She exclaimed in the occasion. "Men are trash, sweetie. Dump that dead weight."

Byleth took the information with a grain of salt. Gauging from the state of clutter on her locker at the teachers' lounge, Manuela's dates might flee in disgust from her hygiene habits more than anything else. However, as time went by, she gradually began to find wisdom in her words.

Men are trash, and Sylvain is a racoon amongst them all. She knew that when she accepted going out with him, and she had been willing to forego the easy conclusion and give the redhead a fair chance, but there must come a time that this experiment must end, and she is leaning towards declaring it a failure.

Doubts fly around her head, distracting her from her work, pulling her away from his arms when he least expects it.

Sylvain notices. Of course, he does, his entire profession is based around identifying and manipulating desires and emotion, and he is the best in what he does. It would be reasonable to expect that he would notice the little changes in her behaviour. The distance she so obviously tries to put between them, the short answers to texts, the upset sighs on the phone.

Alas, it was easier said than done. It never mattered how many times she told herself this would be the last time; she found herself answering his phone call or his text and unlocking her door for him. Knowing he would let himself in, sweet nothings on the tip of his tongue ready to be whispered lovingly into her willing ear.

Byleth does not know how long she can take this. She might have been able to have it both ways for now, she might have been able to tolerate, but she does not know for how much longer she will be able to keep going. She just hopes Sylvain does nothing to test her resolve.