Unlikely Combinations PV Mikey Forville Finished

Mikey paused with one foot still halfway behind the bench, frozen for a breath as the professor called out the partners. Phoenix Harlow. He didn’t know her well, barely at all, honestly but he knew of her. Quiet and Sharp. The sort of person who didn’t ask for space, just existed in it like she owned the silence around her.

By the time he reached the table she was quietly placing her parchment on it. He slid into the seat beside her, careful not to let his bag or elbows spill too far into her space. His usual easy grin hesitated for a moment on his face before fading into something more reserved. He didn’t say anything at first, sensing that silence might be the safest greeting he could offer. Then came her voice, light as breath but laced with steel.

"You don't have to say anything. Just. don’t touch my notes."

Mikey blinked once. He didn’t bristle or smirk or try to deflect with a joke like he might have done with one of his friends. Instead, he nodded slowly, eyes on the cauldron between them. “Alright,” he said simply, not defensive, not offended. His voice was soft but steady, respectful in a way that suggested he wasn’t just agreeing to keep the peace but rather that he actually meant it.

He pulled out his own parchment, flipping it open to reveal a neat but slightly chaotic set of scrawled ingredients and notes from earlier in the week. He set them down deliberately, just far enough from hers to show he understood the line she had drawn and didn’t intend to cross it. After a few seconds, he added, “I’ve brewed this one before. If you want to divide the prep.” No pressure, no expectation. Just the facts. And then, almost as an afterthought, eyes still on the ingredients, he added a quiet, “But if you'd rather do it all yourself, that’s okay too.” He didn’t look at her directly, and his posture stayed open but unobtrusive.

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Date: 09/04/25 | Time: 14:20 | Outfit: Robes | CC: #711919
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Phoenix didn't jump when he sat down—didn't look at him, didn't even appear to have noticed he was there except for that curt, bitten warning she'd given. Her papers weren't disturbed, each line rendered with careful exactness across the page. They were her anchor, her lifeline. She was waiting for him to cross that line like all the others. Joke it off. Dismiss. Say something slick, as if that would fix it.

But he didn't.

"Alright."

That's all. No protest. No comment on her manner. No forced joviality to cover embarrassment.

Her quill paused in mid-scratch.

She didn't look at him, but her attention shifted. Not on the surface—but internally, with an edge. She'd been expecting resistance, not compliance. It made her grit her teeth, because now she didn't know how to react. It was easier when people got hostile—she could close off, block them out. But this.

The scratch of parchment shattered the silence once more. She saw the corner of his movement out of the corner of her eye—he was setting down his notes on the table, slowly, purposefully. Not even remotely like hers.

Her brow furrowed.

Then the invitation. Cool. Excruciatingly cool. The kind of cool that did not try to get approval, or try to impress. He did not even look at her when he made it.

It should have been easy to dismiss. To dismiss. To tell him she was a solo operator and leave it at that. But she found herself stuttering instead.

And that made her angry.

Her voice was curt and rough when she spoke. "I measure. You prepare." She paused. Then, more sharply: "Don't bruise the asphodel. If you bruise the asphodel, the whole potion's ruined and I'm not doing it again."

Her voice was chill, but not unkind. Controlled. Too controlled, perhaps, for a woman who didn't care.

She moved slightly, not far enough to glance at him, but far enough to view the ingredients on the counter between them. She did not like this silent understanding. It made her nervous. People pushed, prodded, spoke too much. Not he. That made him harder to categorize—and harder to recall.

For a moment, she looked down into the cauldron as if it could provide some sort of hint. The tension between her shoulder blades hadn't relaxed. If anything, it had wormed its way deeper.

But she didn't tell him to go.

And in Phoenix Harlow's world, that was something.─────

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| 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉: @Mikey Forville | 𝑴𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: @ |
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Mikey’s fingers hovered over the asphodel like it might shatter if he looked at it wrong. Her words echoed in his head (Don't bruise the asphodel.) Not a warning from his partner more like A law. He gave a small nod and picked up the root with a care usually reserved for artifacts found in a museum. No sudden movements. No unnecessary chatter. Just calm precision, like he was stepping into someone else's carefully drawn circle and trying not to smudge the lines.


He worked in silence for a while, laying out each ingredient in its proper place, giving each movement purpose. He even shifted his chair a fraction closer to the table instead of her, making sure his elbow didn’t bump hers and that his parchment didn’t slide too far in her direction. He wasn't sure if he had done something to offend her which seemed unlikely with this being their first interaction, but he had the feeling like she was not happy he was there. He wasn't sure she was happy that anyone was there.

After a bit, when he thought enough time had passed just enough to prove he wasn’t trying to fill the quiet he spoke again. "We should be ready to brew now." There was no pretense in his tone. Just a quiet truth, offered like a stone laid gently between them. A kind of olive branch. Just a simple, solid thing.

He didn’t look over to see how she’d react. If she corrected him, that was fine. If she ignored it, also fine. But he didn’t try to make her laugh. Didn’t ask questions she hadn’t invited. Didn’t touch her notes. And he didn’t leave. Not yet.

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Date: 09/04/25 | Time: 14:20 | Outfit: Robes | CC: #711919
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Phoenix's gaze shifted to the asphodel root in Mikey's hand. She had not been looking at him before, instead at the cauldron and her own work, but his gentle treatment of the ingredient drew her attention. There was something near worshipful in the way he moved, nearly too guarded as if he didn't wish to intrude upon her with his presence.

Her fingers clamped tighter around her quill. She did not want to seem like she was gazing at him too intently, but it was hard not to. She observed him shift, the way his chair crept a little bit closer to the table and not towards her, as if a deliberate step away from her. He was being careful—too careful. She was not used to having individuals this reserved in her presence.

But then he was talking.

"We would be ready to brew now."

His voice cut across the stillness, flat and unexpected. She had detected the absence of pressure in his tone, the absence of insistence. He was not trying to be nice, was not trying to make her laugh, or even be nice. Just a statement. Just. facts.

Phoenix let the quiet hang there for another moment, her gaze still on the table. She needed to say something, but the weight of it all was just too heavy. She didn't know why she'd talked like that before, or why she'd been so verbally pummeled. It wasn't that she didn't want him to be near her anymore. It wasn't that she faulted him.

He wasn't like the other ones. He hadn't bullied his way in, hadn't insisted on having answers. And now, there he was, acting as though she were one of the women at the table—some student doing an exercise.

"I. Yeah. Thanks." She murmured more quietly than she'd meant to. She glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes for the briefest second before glancing away again. "I guess we should."

The words felt awkward on her lips. It wasn't that she didn't like the way he'd restrained himself, but the small corner of her mind that was used to being alone felt off. For a moment, she thought about wishing she hadn't opened her mouth, but then Mikey hadn't done anything to make her wish she could send him packing. He was quiet. He was respectful.

Maybe that was enough.

She flattened the parchment before her and at last, tentatively, took hold of the cauldron.
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| 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉: @Mikey Forville | 𝑴𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: @ |
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Banner made by Robin Marie


Mikey tilted a vial slightly in his hand, watching the thick green strands float lazily in the liquid. The moment felt delicate not just because of the potion, but because she hadn’t shut him down. He could still hear the small shift in her voice when she said thanks, like she wasn’t quite sure how it had come out.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, not wanting to make her feel watched. But she was setting her parchment just right with deliberate care. For the first time he noticed how steady her hands were when they weren’t clenching a quill like it was a knife and she was cornered. “I’ll prep the wormwood,” he murmured, almost to the potion itself rather than to her. “Tell me when to pour.” Everything about him stayed soft his tone, the angle of his body tilted slightly away as if to say you’re still in charge.

He measured carefully, then paused just holding the dropper above the cauldron like he was about to perform a charm. Then, without thinking, his voice dipped a bit, low and warm like someone smiling behind a hand. “You know... if this explodes, I just want it on record that I didn’t touch your notes.” He didn’t look at her right away—just kept his eyes on the potion and the soft ripple at the bottom of the cauldron. But the faint curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. Part of him was kicking himself for cracking a joke. The part that wasn’t was trying not to laugh. He hoped she wouldn’t be upset. Maybe she didn’t even notice.

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Date: 09/04/25 | Time: 14:20 | Outfit: Robes | CC: #711919
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Phoenix gazed at the potion before her, her quill now still between her fingers. She had not necessarily anticipated him saying anything else, nor did she particularly desire him to; yet, when the joke dropped from his mouth, half-swallowed and half-choked, she could feel herself tense up. It was not a jolt that struck her. It was merely a sensation of surprise that coursed through her.

It was the sort of thing one joked about to relieve tension. It was not supposed to do it.

But it did anyway.

She did not immediately turn to confront him face-to-face; instead, the corners of her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, though not from irritation or displeasure. It was as though she were intently studying something that was trapped inside a jar, scrutinizing it closely. Following a brief hesitation, she finally let out a gentle sigh through her nostrils, which could be described as a faint, almost whimsical laugh. A cautious smile gradually materialized on the borders of her mouth, and she turned ever so slightly so that he could get a glimpse of it, if he chanced to be observant and watching her face.

"Wow," she replied in a dry tone, somewhat sarcastically. "Just look at you. A comedian and my potion partner rolled into one. I must say, I'm really winning today."

Her voice was tinged with a teasing note—still flat and sharp, but now dotted with a softness that had been glaringly lacking before. She shook her head in laughter, laughing more thoroughly than she was upset, and for the first time in her life, she gave him a good look for the briefest instant of half a second. Her face was still largely unreadable, but there was an unmistakable glint of quiet sarcasm dancing in her eyes that spoke volumes more than any words ever could. “If this explodes,” she continued, voice quieter, humor threading through it, “I’ll leave a very flattering footnote in the hospital wing that you kept your hands to yourself.”

A pause.

Then she snickered—a small one—and spoke softly, "Go on. Pour it.". Her voice lacked any passionate, burning fire, and there was definitely no complicated spin of personality infused into her words. Yet, in spite of that missing ardor, the barrier between them had undergone a crack measuring just under an inch—this narrow opening was wide enough for a well-rehearsed joke to be easily dropped in, without any trace of hesitation or fear. It was a big enough move for her to quietly convey the fact that she had indeed heard him talking, and maybe, just maybe, she didn't feel the same amount of contempt for him that she once had in the past anymore either.─────

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| 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉: @Mikey Forville | 𝑴𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: @ |
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Mikey blinked, once, slowly. Not because he didn’t understand her tone, he did and that was what surprised him. It definitely wasn’t warm, but it was the kind of dry teasing that meant you’re not awful. Maybe you’re even alright.

He didn’t laugh outright, didn’t want to break the threadbare quiet that was holding steady between them now. Instead, he let the corners of his mouth curl just slightly as he adjusted the angle of the dropper and, at her cue, released the wormwood into the cauldron. The potion rippled, darkening just as expected. Nothing exploded. So, there was also that.

“I’ll take that as the highest honor,” he said, voice low but lit with quiet amusement. “A named mention in the hospital wing. Might even ask them to frame it.” He stayed still for a second, then leaned slightly forward not into her space, but into the shared work between them. His eyes tracked the potion carefully, but his voice was softer when he added, “You know, you’ve got a pretty solid sense of timing.”

He glanced sideways, just a flick of his gaze, like testing the weight of a new charm in his hand. “And a better deadpan than most older students I know.” Then, casually, as if they’d been working together all semester, he picked up the silver stirring rod and tilted it toward her without pushing it across. “Alright, you're up.” There was no teasing in it just quiet respect, honest and simple. He wasn’t trying to win her over. He just wasn’t stepping back as much as he had before.

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Date: 09/04/25 | Time: 14:20 | Outfit: Robes | CC: #711919
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The silence that followed his statement lingered, but it wasn't an uneasy one. Phoenix's gaze never left the potion, quill still in place as if she wasn't sure if she ought to scribble something on a piece of paper or stab it onto the page. Her mouth was pressed in consideration—then finally she released a breath, the sound all but silent, more shifting of her position than breathing.

She didn't look his way as she spoke to him.

"Good. You listened. That's already an improvement from most."

It wasn't flattery. It wasn't rejection.

She leaned forward slightly, watching the ripple of the surface of the cauldron, the subtle sheen of the wormwood blending in without any protest. No smoke. No bubbles. No explosion. Not bad.

"Honestly, if it had exploded, you’d probably still find a way to be charming about it," she muttered, more to the potion than to him. But then a soft snort escaped her, unguarded, and it surprised even her. Phoenix blinked once, like she hadn’t meant to let that happen, and rubbed her thumb against the edge of her quill to cover it.

His punchline had landed. Not quite hard enough to get her to laugh, but hard enough to shatter the thin veneer of ice that surrounded her when interacting with strangers.

When he complimented her on her timing, she did look up—not all the way, just a glance, measuring and suspicious. Most people who flattered had ulterior motives. His was not. Visible. As if he'd been hearing her, instead of hoping for her to fail.

She disliked that she did.

"Hm," she said, as if filing it away. "You’re either good at reading people or really committed to not annoying me. Not sure which is worse."

And then, holding the stirring rod out to her, he paused for a moment before she accepted it. Her fingers brushed against his—quick, light. Intentional. Her grip was firm but even, the kind of controlled movement that arose from someone who focused better when everything else in her universe receded.

Three clockwise turns, exactly. No spill, no scorch. She set the rod down precisely, aligning it with the edge of the table like it was part of the ritual.

"You know," she added, not looking at him, "you’re not terrible to work with."

A beat.

"Yet."

She gave him the smallest sideways glance, the corner of her mouth twitching—not quite a smile, but close. A warning, maybe. Or something bordering on permission.

"And if it does blow, I'll make sure they give credit in the report that you picked the wormwood."─────

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| 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉: @Mikey Forville | 𝑴𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: @ |
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Mikey didn’t laugh, he wasn’t sure that would’ve been the right response. His eyes did brighten at the corners warming with something that almost looked like relief. Her sarcasm didn’t sting and it felt like being given a small prize. She hadn’t only tolerated him. She’d noticed him. When her fingers brushed his as she took the stirring rod it had made his stomach twist slightly. He didn’t flinch or freeze. But there was a flicker of something in him, like something paused and filed that moment away for later.

He was starting to feel more comfortable and less on edge. It seemed like she was letting her guard down just a little bit. Like a door had just cracked open in a pitch-black room. Mikey knew better than to get too comfortable with this feeling. The door was only cracked not flung open after all. So he figured it would be best to continue keeping his distance for now.

She gave the potion three exact turns and it seemed like she was some ware else for a second. When she laid the rod down with surgical precision, he gave a small nod of approval, not exaggerated. Like he knew it would’ve been worse to praise it out loud. Still, the words she offered after you’re not terrible to work with. Yet. nearly earned a grin. “Could be worse. Could be partnered with someone who bruises the asphodel.”

He rolled up the edge of his sleeve and glanced toward the powder beside them, nudging it slightly forward. “Time for the next step yeah?” he asked, not because he didn’t know, but because he was starting to like giving her a reason to correct him. “Do you want to do the next bit, or should I?” He didn’t lean away this time. But he didn’t crowd her either.