Rae

Jeff was a complicated person. His emotions ran haywire- he wasn’t the type to soften himself for others. Not even you.

Still, over time, you learned to read him, and he learned to let you. Allow you to dust off the cover, turn the pages and memorize the words. Narrate the story under dim lights and a full moon. Because that’s what lovers did.

After the strain early in your relationship, he had eased into the role. You developed a routine, with him stopping by at least once a week for dates.

Sometimes, he’d bring cheap beer and a whirlwind tale to tell you over dinner. Other times, he came to you quiet, his head too loud, his tongue like lead as he collapsed into your arms.

Though no matter what, he’d always return. Regardless of whether he needed medical help or not.

You were the in-between for proxies. The backup doctor in case Jack was away. Your romance had begun after a fight in which Jeff had been shot in the leg. He’d limped into your cabin, grunting about how much he didn’t need the aid, that he was only here because Masky was bitching at him.

That led to him visiting a couple of weeks later, this time with the request for painkillers. Then there was a bad bruise on his ribs.

Then, it was a papercut he was worried about. The visits grew more frequent, his excuses less believable than the last. And slowly but surely, he’d endeared himself to you.

You looked back on the memories fondly, reminiscing while you trekked back to the cabin. He had stayed the night, murmuring at dawn's break that he’d have to leave by noon.

“Gonna’ head out at twelve. Stick man’s been on our asses lately.” The vivid amber of sunrise lit his dishevelled hair, sheets ruffling when he groaned in your nape.

You laughed under your breath, and your hand found his beneath the covers. “Kay. I’m busy today anyway. I’ll be gone till like midnight- kiss me before I go?” Huffing, he nodded sleepily, his voice warm.

“I always do.”

He did as promised, pecking you on the lips as you stepped out at eight sharp. You were a bit disappointed that he wouldn’t be there to greet you when you got home, but you’d see him next week. Besides, this gave you time to redecorate without him trying to distract you.

Your feet thudded against the porch, and your keys jingled slightly as the door unlocked.

His boots were still here.

You raised a brow, shrugging off your coat. You set your bag down before setting your shoes next to his. Maybe he had gotten a call with good news about work.

It was rare, yet not impossible. Their boss could’ve changed plans around, so you weren’t awfully confused.

The lights were off on the first floor, the house silent. You made your way upstairs, one step after another—

Then you heard it.

The squeak of a mattress, muddled voices in the distance. You passed the last step. Grunts- moans, high-pitched and wanton. Rounding the corner, two paces away from the bedroom. It sounded like he was talking. Your fingers brushed the metal knob, hesitant. Talking the way he would to you.

Bile rose at the back of your throat, and despite your body screaming for you to run, you pushed open the door.

Jeff was in bed, exactly how you’d pictured him. Beautiful, his chest heaving, brows furrowed as his head pitched back.

You glanced at the clock on the wall, the colour of the sheets you had bought earlier that month. The picture frames with you and him in the centre. The sticky notes he’d scribbled on that were taped to the bedside table.

Your room had pieces of him on every surface. Reminders of your shared intimacy attached to every corner.

You looked at the windowsill. There were birds building a nest in the tree outside, huddling together to conserve heat. A family, you think.

From their quick movements and the constant ducking down of their heads, you assume they were keeping the eggs warm. You liked nature. Walks were nice. You haven’t been on a scenic walk in quite a bit.

“What the fuck?”

Her voice snapped your attention back to the bed, followed by Jeff clearing his throat roughly. His eyes were wide, with the woman on top of him scrambling to cover herself.

Linen yanked over her chest as he sputtered. “I- shit- I thought you were coming back at midnight.” You blinked at that, expressionless, before you swivelled on your heel.

Padding down the stairs, you walked into the kitchen, flicking the light switch on the way. The fridge clicked shut after you grabbed a bottle of water, and the fast thump of slippers on hardwood echoed behind you.

“Sweetheart.”

He muttered, and you spun to him. His pyjama pants were loose at his waist, drawstrings undone. A sight you were accustomed to, the scent of sex still clinging to his skin. “What?” The air was stagnant, like the winds had ceased entirely- the crickets silent for the first time in decades.

He shook his head rigidly, eyes searching your face. “I didn’t… I fucked up, okay?” He took a step towards you, gesturing to the side. “I fucked up- but she doesn’t mean anything to me. I’ve never- I’ve never fuckin’ done this before. It was just- fuck.”

His tone was steady, fists balled by his hips. Your gaze flickered to the counter, drifting over the marble pattern. “Okay.” The bottle was cold in your palm. Your sweater felt heavy. You wanted to shower.

He sighed, running a hand down his face. “I, um. I’ll tell her to leave. We’ll talk, alright? I promise she doesn’t mean anything-” He was standing in front of you now, his arm stretching up. “Look at me.” He cupped your cheek, and you met his eyes.

“I don’t give a shit about her. She’s nothin’ like you, babe.” His touch felt off today. Not as comforting as it once was. “She’s not good like you. She doesn’t know me; she doesn’t take care of me like you. You know I’m yours.” You hummed at that, then something clicked.

The leisure he’d show in your presence. The night he’d finally come clean about his past, just to brush it off the next morning. The quick fucks he’d stop by for. The pleasantries he’d shower you with when you’d pack him lunch. Saying all the right things. Acting exactly how you wanted him to if you sucked him off post mission.

The love he’d gift you with, only if you returned it by a million.

“I’m convenient for you.”

Your words made him freeze, remorse fading from his expression. He faltered, opening and closing his mouth- before you stepped back. “Baby-” He tried chasing you, but you dodged his hand. Flinching away as if it’d burn you.

Your vision blurred. “How long have you been…” Trailing off, you shrugged defeatedly. There was a time when you had been so sure that if you’d been wronged, it would end in screaming. With insults bouncing off the walls and your throat scraped raw. Blinding anger and broken plates. Yet currently, everything seemed so far away.

Your arms were weighed down by sandbags, legs cemented to the ground. You didn’t even sound like you. Voice smaller than you were used to, resembling a stranger’s. A bad dream, where the furniture wasn’t the right hue.

The more you stared at Jeff, the more unrecognizable he became. His eyes weren’t familiar; the features you’d come to adore didn’t fit. Bits and pieces of someone else, jumbled together in a puzzle that didn’t belong to you.

He grunted, defensive. “I wasn’t fucking her before this-” The man chuckled hollowly, throwing a palm into the air. “It’s not like that. You’re just- you’re busy a lot. I have needs, yeah?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose before exhaling heavily, hands limp by his sides. “But I’ll cut her off. I’ll never see her again.” His explanation did nothing to soothe you.

“Can you go?”

You mumbled, tunnel-visioned on the wall behind his head. He grit his teeth, coming closer while you walked backwards. “Don’t be like that. C’mon, you know me.” That had you swallowing a sob. You wanted to. You wish you did. Except that the person before you was not your lover, and simply a husk wearing his face.

“Can you please go?”

The beg was violating as it rolled off your tongue. Too vulnerable, achingly desperate, and tasting of vomit. He huffed, sneering. “Seriously? One fuck up and you’re actually fucking crying?” It appeared that the easy life you offered didn’t outweigh his pride, Jeff not deeming you worthy of a convincing apology.

“Fine. If you wanna’ be a whiny fucking cunt, sure. Have fun finding someone else, 'cause I promise you no one’s gonna’ want to put up with this bullshit. Fuckin’ whore.”

He snarled inches away from your face, shoving away after a beat. His footsteps faded when he stomped back up the stairs. He was probably collecting his things, gathering the clothes you’d lovingly bought for him into a bag- the girl who looked nothing like you beside him.

The repetitive tick of the clock hands sounded louder tonight. Constantly ringing in your ears, your feet stone-still.

Jeff had never let down his guard. He’d just given you a story to make you believe he did. Dressing up to slot himself into your dollhouse and acting the part until it veiled him completely.

However, the play had come to a close, the curtains dropping, with the lights shutting off.

And in the darkness of the stage, you had never felt more alone.

— ^ ^ —

The invitation arrived few days afterward.

It didn't come in person; that would have been too normal and expected. No, it arrived concealed behind your dorm door when you just came back from your 8 a.m. class, just a plain sheet of paper from a notebook, folded haphazardly into thirds.

We're having a thing. You should come. Toby drew a map. Don't get lost. —T (but not the T you're thinking)

Below it, in different handwriting—neater, more careful—someone had added: Bring snacks. Red bags only.

And below that, smaller, softer: It's safe. We'll be there.

You'd stood in the parking lot for a long time, staring at those words while other students shuffled past with their coffee and their backpacks and their completely normal lives. The map was chaotic—arrows pointing at trees, a square labeled gas station (u r here), and an X in the middle of nowhere with CAMP written beside it in wobbly capitals. But beneath that X, someone had scratched out another word. You held it to the light, trying to read what had been there before.

Home. They'd written Home first. 

Then crossed it out.

You should've thrown it away. Every instinct honed by true crime podcasts and late-night documentaries screamed at you to crumple it up and forget any of this ever happened.

Instead, you bought a bag of red chips and walked.

The gas station looked different in daylight—smaller, somehow, less menacing, following Toby's chaotic arrows down a dirt road that might have been a road and might have been a suggestion. The trees closed in around you, their branches knitting together overhead until the sky became fragments rather than a whole.

You had assumed they’d be at the cabin—that little run-down place they’d mentioned in passing on the long walk back to campus, their base of operations as they’d passed through this area. But Toby’s arrows continued to sail harmlessly past where the cabin would have been, into the forest, down a path that was so overgrown, you almost hadn’t seen it.

And that’s when you saw them.

Four of them, at the edge of the forest.

Tim, slumped up against a birch tree, bad leg folded beneath him, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the gray air. Brian, motionless as a photograph, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. Toby, bobbing up and down on his heels, spotting you immediately and waving like a madman. Kate, slightly behind the others, headphones hung around her neck, eyes locked on yours.

“Ayy you made it,. Toby bounded toward you as you parked. "Knew you would. Tim owes me five bucks."

"I don't owe you anything," Tim muttered, pushing off the tree. His limp was more pronounced today—the cold, probably. His eyes swept the tree line behind you before settling on your face. "You follow the map alright?"

"Barely. You know I have a phone, right?”

“Don’t have your numder, plus the means the map worked." Toby grinned. "Come on. We gotta go deeper."

"Deeper?"

"There's somewhere we wanna show you." Brian's voice was calm, but there was something underneath it—careful, measured. "Someone we want you to meet."

You should've asked more questions. Should've pushed. But Toby was already tugging at your sleeve, and Kate had drifted closer, her presence quiet but encouraging, and before you knew it, you were walking.

The trail seemed to disappear about a quarter mile in. Not fade out, either, but snap. 

One minute you had a series of footholds, the next nothing but thick underbrush and the silent, watchful trees. Brian went on ahead, moving with that strange, precise motionlessness, never hesitating even when the trail disappeared entirely. The rest of you trailed along behind him, Tim at the back, his limp making him slower but not stopping him.

"How do you know where you're going?" you whispered.

Toby glanced back. "We just do."

It wasn't an answer. It was the only answer you were going to get.

The forest changed as you walked. The pines gave way to older trees—oaks and maples so ancient their branches twisted together overhead, blocking out whatever weak sunlight had managed to filter through. The air grew colder. Damp. It smelled of moss and decay and something else—something sweet and wrong, like flowers left too long in water.

And then, suddenly, the trees opened.

You forgot to breathe as you drew in a house that clung to the biggest oak you’d ever seen, like a wooden growth on the trunk, as if the house had grown there rather than been built.

The cedar shingles on the sides didn’t look like shingles, more like scales, each one overlapping the last, irregular, weathered gray where the sun never reached. The curved windows seemed to bulge from the house, like bulging, blinking eyes, the glass so dark you couldn’t see through, reflecting nothing except the leaves that surrounded them.

Stairs led up to the door, narrow, steep, disappearing into a dark entrance that seemed to fold back on itself the more you looked at it. The doorway wasn’t inviting, just waiting.

"What is this place?" you heard yourself ask.

No one answered for a long moment.

Then Tim stepped past you, carrying himself toward the base of the stairs. He pulled a key from his pocket—old iron, the kind that looked like it belonged to a cathedral rather than a house—and held it up.

“Base,” he said quietly. "Sort of."

"It belongs to someone," Brian added. His eyes swept the tree line, the windows, the dark door. "Someone we want you to meet."

"They're not here yet," Kate said softly. It was the first time she'd spoken all day. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried in the absolute stillness. "We have to wait."

"Inside?" The word came out smaller than you intended.

Toby's hand found your shoulder. Squeezed once. "It's okay. We'll be with you."

You went up the stairs, quietly. The door opened, soft as a whisper.

Inside the tree house, space was distorted, curving and twisting in impossible ways, as though the inside was breathing. The central room was wrapped around the trunk, which ran straight through the middle, a living backbone, its bark polished in places from years of touch. The furniture was arranged here and there: sofas, mismatched chairs, a table stacked with papers, candles, and unidentifiable items. 

Shelves lined the walls, containing not just books, but jars, bones, and unidentifiable items that caught the light and distorted it.

And everywhere, plants. Dangling from the ceiling, growing up the walls, spilling out of pots and covering every available surface. They were meant to add a sense of life to the space, but in reality, they just gave the impression of hunger.

You stood in the center of the room, your eyes moving slowly as you took in the scene. The others had spread out a bit: Brian examining the windows, Tim lighting candles, Kate running a hand over the books on the bookshelf as if reacquainting herself with old friends. 

Toby was close to you, his bouncy enthusiasm somehow endearingly calming in the thick, oppressive silence.

“Guys, deadass, whose house is this?" you asked.

Toby's ticks increased. Tk. Tk. "Someone important. You'll like them."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one we got right now."

Tim straightened from the candles, wincing as his back protested. He looked at you across the room, those tired eyes unreadable. "We gotta wait," he said. "Could be a while. They're... far out right now."

"So we just... sit here?"

Brian turned from the window. Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe. Or an idea.

"We could play a game," he said.

Toby perked up immediately. "Yes. Game. Good idea."

"What kind of game?" you asked, suspicious.

Brian's mouth twitched. "You ever play seven minutes in heaven?"

You blinked. "Like... the party game? From the fifties?"

"The very same." He crossed to a corner of the room, where an old-fashioned hourglass sat on a shelf—large, wooden-framed, filled with dark sand. He picked it up, tested its weight. "We found this here. Never used it. Seems appropriate."

Tim groaned. "Brian."

"What? We're waiting anyway. Might as well pass the time."

"It's stupid."

"It's tradition." Toby bounced on his heels. "Come on, Tim. For the new person. Make them feel welcome."

Kate had drifted closer, her dark eyes fixed on you. She didn't speak, but something in her expression was almost... hopeful.

You looked around the room. At the strange house. At the four people who'd somehow become important to you in the span of a single night. At the hourglass in Brian's hands, dark sand waiting to fall.

"What are the rules?" you asked.

Toby's grin could've lit the whole forest.

The bottle appeared from somewhere—a green glass beer bottle that Toby produced from his bag like a magician revealing a trick. He placed it on the floor in the center of the room, spinning it experimentally. It wobbled, circled, settled.

"Perfect," he declared.

You'd all arranged yourselves in a loose circle on the floor—the worn wood cool beneath you, the candlelight flickering across everyone's faces. Tim got up from the couch with reluctance, sliding down to the floor with a grimace and a muffled curse. Kate leaned in close to you, her shoulder pressing against yours warmly. Brian sat opposite, unruffled and calm, the hourglass cradled in his lap. Toby was buzzing with excitement.

"Okay," Brian said. "Rules are simple. Someone spins the bottle. Whoever it lands on picks a partner. Both of you go in the closet." He nodded toward the small door near the kitchen—dark wood, brass handle, old and slightly crooked in its frame. "We flip the hourglass. Seven minutes. When the sand runs out, we let you out."

"That's it?" you asked.

"That's it." His eyes met yours. "What happens in the closet is up to you."

Tim snorted. "This is so stupid."

"You're just mad 'cause you know you're gonna get picked."

"I'm not mad about anything."

"You're always mad."

"I'm not—" Tim stopped, rubbed his face. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

Brian handed you the bottle. "You're the guest. You spin first."

Your heart jumped. The glass was cool in your hands, smooth. Everyone was watching you—Toby with eager anticipation, Kate with quiet attention, Brian with calm interest, Tim with barely concealed resignation.

The bottle took its time, wobbling, then circling, then stopping, and—finally—pointing its neck at Brian.

Brian raised an eyebrow, unsurprised by the turn of events in the least. “Alright.” He surveyed the small group. “I pick—”

Toby interrupted, his voice louder, more enthusiastic. “Let me spin the bottle for the partner. It’s only fair.”

Brian shrugged. “Fine.”

Toby picked up the bottle and gave it a dramatic spin. It spun, rang on the floor, and came to a slow, slow stop.

It pointed at Tim.

The room was instantly silent.

Tim glared at the bottle, his face a mask of shock, as though the bottle had betrayed him personally. Brian’s face didn’t betray his thoughts, but a spark, a glint of something, appeared in his eyes.

"No," Tim said flatly.

"Yes," Toby crowed. "Rules are rules."

"The rules are made up."

"By who?"

"By—" Tim stopped. Rubbed his face again. "This is stupid."

"You're just mad it's you."

"I'm not—" He broke off, muttering something under his breath that might have been a curse.

Brian, of course, was already there, hourglass in hand, and went to the closet door, pushing it open with a soft sigh. Inside, it was darker and cosier than any real wardrobe, more like a pantry tucked away in a corner. There were shelves along the walls, mostly bare, with a few dusty jars to catch the dim light.

“After you,” Brian said, waving a hand towards the darkness.

Tim looked at the closet as if it had personally wronged him. Then, with a groan that seemed to come from the depths of his own soul, he hauled himself up and began to limp towards the doorway.

“This means nothing,” he said, passing by Brian. “Nothing, okay?”

“Of course not,” Brian said, following him in. Tim glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes flashing with anger, then disappeared into the darkness. Brian followed, shutting the door behind him. It clicked with a heavy, significant sound.

Toby flipped the hourglass.

For a long moment, no one said a word. The grains of sand began to fall, black on glass, steady and unstoppable. The candlelight danced. There was a soft creak from deep in the walls.

“What do you think they’re doing in there?” you whispered.

Toby shrugged, his smile fading to something softer, something more contemplative. “Probably just sitting. Being awkward. Tim isn’t exactly good with feelings stuff.”

"Brian is."

"Yeah, but Tim makes it weird." He ticked. "Tk. They've known each other forever. It's probably fine."

Your hand was in the dimness, and Kate’s touched yours. A single pressure, and then nothing but the passing of the minutes, the steady flow of the grains of sand falling from the hourglass.

At last, the last grain fell away, and Toby stood up and walked to the door. He rapped on it once. “Time’s up.”

The door creaked open, and Brian came out first, as calm as ever, passing by Toby as though nothing had ever happened. Tim came out a second later, his face unreadable, his limp a little more pronounced. He didn’t make eye contact with anyone as he slumped down to the floor.

“Hey, you okay?”

He looked at you, and for a second, there was something in his tired old eyes, something that might have been gratitude, or something else, something more.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Fine. It’s just... dark in there.”

Brian slipped back into his chair on the other side of you, his eyes locking on yours, a question, or perhaps the answer, in his gaze.

“Your turn,” he whispered.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝓂 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

The bottle spun, slow and careless, like it had a secret you’d never know. Everyone watched. Toby had a look of satisfaction. Kate said nothing. Brian played it cool. Tim acted like he couldn’t care less.  

The bottle spun some more, then came to a stop. 

Facing Tim. 

Tim’s feelings were a jumble of surprise, annoyance, and something else, something buried beneath his surface. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

Toby chuckled. “Rules are rules, old man.” 

“They’re not—” Tim began, but trailed off. He rubbed his eyes, looked at you, and you looked back. 

And in that look, something unseen passed between you. 

Brian stood up, his hourglass in hand. “Seven minutes. You know the drill.”

Tim hauled himself upright, shuffled toward the closet, paused beside the door, and looked back at you. His eyes, tired, held something else, something warmer.

“You comin’?” Tim rasped, his voice low.

You rose, went to him, the closet door swung open, and you both went inside.

The darkness closed in around you, not an empty space but a presence. Your shoulder bumped the shelves, the jars stacked neatly in rows, the old things in the darkness, the things you could not identify by sight. 

Dried herbs, bunches of sticks, something that reflected a faint light, metal or glass, you could not tell. The air was filled with the scent of lavender, dust, and something older, the breath of the forest outside as if it had inhaled a breath and held it in.

Tim stood close to you, the warmth of him passing through the darkness as he shifted position. A jar made a soft noise as his elbow brushed against it.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s all right,” you said.

The silence closed in around you from every direction.

“I didn’t think it’d land on me,” he whispered.

“Me neither,” you said.

He breathed in deeply, the sound slow and measured, as if he was trying to calm himself down.

“You know,” he whispered, “I really didn’t want to bring you here.”

“To the house?” you asked, squinting in the darkness.

“To any of it,” he said. “This life. Whatever this is. It isn’t—” He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. “It isn’t safe. Not for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?” you asked.

“Someone good,” he said, the words rough and honest. “We’re not good people. Not really.”

You thought of that. The memory of Toby’s laugh, Kate’s gentle, unobtrusive way, Brian’s steady, steady self. And you thought of how Tim always stood between you and the dark.

“You seem pretty good to me.”

He didn’t answer. But you felt him move closer, the warmth spreading across space until space itself disappeared.

His hand on your waist, big, warm, careful. His fingers spreading across the hip, as if measuring, feeling for permission.

“This okay?”

You’d nodded, reminded that he couldn’t see. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

His other hand had found your face. His palm had been rough and calloused, yet somehow gentle enough to make your chest ache. His fingers had explored your jaw as though memorizing every inch of it. His thumb had caressed your cheekbone, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

You’d reached up and found him in the darkness. Your fingers had followed the sharp jawline and scratchy beard and thick sideburns. Thick and defined and the kind of sideburns that framed a face and made him look like every inch of the southern dad type. Your fingers had drifted down to where they met his beard and touched him and he’d shivered beneath your fingers.

“Those’re somethin’,” you’d breathed.

He’d huffed out a laugh. “Been growin’ ’em a long time.”

“They’re nice.”

“Yeah?” His tone had been infused with happiness. “You like ’em?”

“Maybe.”

His thumb had touched your lower lip. “What else you like?”

You didn't answer with words. You tilted up and found his mouth in the dark.

The first kiss was soft. Testing. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and his beard scratched your skin in a way that sent heat curling through your stomach. He kissed back slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.

When you pulled back, he followed. Chased your mouth.

"More," he breathed.

You gave it to him.

The second kiss was deeper. His hand slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and he kissed you like he meant it—like he'd been thinking about this since the gas station, since the car ride, since you first looked at him without fear. His tongue traced your lower lip, asked permission, and you opened for him.

He tasted like cigarettes and coffee, with a hint of something else, something deeper, something warm, something human, something real.  The other hand grasped your hip, pulling you close so that there was no space between you. You felt his warmth, his solidity, his strength in his chest, his leg moving to accommodate you both.

A jar clinked somewhere behind you. You didn't care.

His mouth left yours, trailed along your jaw, your neck. He found that spot where pulse beats hard and pressed his lips there, slow and deliberate.

"You smell good," he murmured against your skin. "Like outside and that cheap soap from campus."

"You noticed my soap?"

"I notice everything about you."

His hips shifted, pressed closer, and you felt him—warm and hard and wanting. A small sound escaped you, and he answered with a low hum of approval.

"Feel that?" he whispered. "That's what you do to me."

You pulled back just far enough to see his outline in the dark, to trace his sideburns again, to feel the shape of his face under your fingers.

"Tim."

"Yeah?"

"I want—"

He cut you off with another kiss. Deeper this time. Hungrier. His hand slid down your back, pressed you closer, and his hips rolled against yours in a slow, careful grind that made your knees weak.

"Like that?" he murmured.

"God, yes."

"Yeah?" Another roll of his hips, slower this time, letting you feel every inch of him. "You feel so good. Been wantin' to touch you since that first night."

"You hid it well."

"'Cause I'm old and stupid." He kissed your neck again, teeth grazing gently. "Didn't think someone like you would—" He stopped. Shook his head against your skin.

"Would what?"

"Would want someone like me." His voice was rough. Honest in a way that made your heart hurt. "Broken old man with a bad leg and too much baggage."

You pulled back. Found his face in the dark. Held it between your hands.

"You're not broken," you said. "And I want you. Okay? I want you."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his hands found your waist again, pulled you close, buried his face in your neck. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."

You stood like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the dark soft around you. His hands traced slow patterns on your back. Your fingers played with his sideburns, beard, his hair, the warm skin at the nape of his neck.

Then he shifted. Grinded against you again, slower now, more deliberate. His mouth found yours, and you kissed like you were both trying to say everything you couldn't put into words.

A jar dropped somewhere, and it exploded into shards. Neither of you stopped.

His hand slid beneath your shirt, warm skin meeting his touch, rough fingers mapping your spine. You leaned into him, and he breathed a low groan.

"Shit," he whispered. "You're gonna kill me."

"Good death?"

"The best."

He kissed you again, deeper still, and his hips kept that slow, perfect rhythm—grinding, pressing, making you feel exactly what you did to him.

The sand kept falling. Neither of you cared.

The knock came too soon.

"Time's up!" Toby's voice, muffled through the door.

Tim pulled back slowly. Resting his forehead against yours. Breathing hard.

"Damn," he whispered.

"Yeah."

"We gotta—" He gestured vaguely at the door.

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved.

Then he kissed you one last time—soft, sweet, a promise.

"When we get outta here," he murmured, "we're talkin'. About this. About us."

"Okay."

"Good."

He pulled back. You heard him straighten his clothes, run a hand through his hair. You did the same, smoothing down your shirt, catching your breath.

The door opened.

Light flooded in. Toby's grinning face, Brian's knowing look, Kate's quiet smile. Tim stepped out first, face carefully neutral. But his hand found yours in the light, squeezed once.

You and Tim both rolled your eyes. Serious duo.

✑ 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓈

The bottle spun slow, lazy, catching the candlelight as it wobbled across the floor. Counting had been meaningless now. Toby, Kate, Tim... each round left you breathless in a different way. 

And now it was your turn, the green glass spinning of its own accord, as if with a will of its own, one you couldn’t shake off. All eyes were fixed, each one attuned to a different pace. Toby, grinning from ear to ear. Kate, silent and still, lost in a world of her own. Tim, fidgeting with a careless glance at his nails. Brian, unmoved, his eyes fixed on the bottle, lost in a world of his own, in that almost still way he has. 

And then, suddenly, it stopped. And the nose of the 

bottle pointed... at Brian.

His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement, satisfaction, a hint of heat you hadn't seen before.

"Well now," he said quietly.

Toby cackled. "Ohhh, this is gonna be good."

Tim groaned. "Do we have to—"

"Yes," Brian interrupted him, already standing up. "We do." He extended his hand to you, his quiet smile of reassurance playing at the corners of his lips. "Shall we?"

You accepted his hand, and his fingers wrapped firmly but warmly around yours, leading you towards the closet.

Behind you, Toby flipped the hourglass. "Seven minutes! Make them count!"

The door closed quietly behind you.

At once, the room was consumed by darkness, absolute and complete. You stood there, blinking, trying to accustom your vision to the sight of nothing. Brian was motionless, silent, waiting for you to find your bearings in the darkness. You knew he was there, his presence, his patient waiting.

And then he was moving, his hand on your waist, soft and exploratory, his fingers tracing the contours of your hip as if seeking permission. In the same movement, he turned you, his fingers and the pressure of his body slowly pivoting you, your back against the shelves, the jars softly humming where they stood on the shelves. Something rustled, perhaps the herbs, against your shoulder.

The closet was small, almost holy, in its closeness, the scent of lavender and dust and something old, something ancient, seeming to cling to the air, as though the forest itself had breathed into this space and never left.

"There," Brian murmured, his voice low and close. 

"That's better."

"Better?"

"Now you're where I want you."

Your heart skipped. His hand stayed on your hip, warm and heavy, not moving, just... present.

"You know," he said quietly, "I was wonderin' when we'd end up in here."

"You were?"

"Mm." His thumb traced a slow circle on your hip. "Been watchin' you all night. The way you laugh at Toby's jokes. The way you look at Tim like you're figuring him out. The way you make Kate feel safe enough to show her face."

"That's—"

"Don't." His voice was soft but firm. "Don't deflect. I'm payin' you a compliment."

You swallowed. "Okay."

His hand moved from your hip to your face, finding your cheek in the dark. His palm was rough, calloused, but his touch was impossibly gentle.

"You're curious about us," he said. "I can tell. You wanna know why we're here, what we're doin' out in the middle of nowhere, who we're waitin' for."

"You make it sound like an interrogation."

"Not an interrogation." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "Just... observation. It's what I do."

You leaned into his touch without meaning to. He noticed. You felt him smile. "Yeah," he breathed. "You're curious. And curious people are my favorite kind."

You found his face in the dark—traced the strong line of his jaw, the slight stubble, the shape of his mouth. He let you, patient and still, until your thumb brushed his lower lip. "Can I ask you something?" you whispered.

"You can ask me anything."

"Why here? Why this house? Who are we waiting for?"

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful—measured, like he was choosing each word.

"They're... important. To us." A pause. "Sort of a manager, I guess. Organizes things. Missions."

"Missions?"

Another pause. Longer this time. You felt him shift, felt the weight of whatever he wasn't saying. "Tim's a little afraid of them," Brian admitted quietly. "Finds 'em creepy. Which is—" He huffed a soft laugh. "Well. Tim's not wrong. They're... a lot. But they're good to us. Good for us."

"And you wanted me to meet them?"

"Wanted?" He tilted his head. "Needed, maybe. If you're gonna be—" He stopped. Started over. "If you're gonna stick around, they need to know you. Approve of you."

"And if they don't approve?"

His thumb found your lips in the dark. Traced them gently. "Then we got a problem." His voice was soft. Serious. "But I don't think that'll happen."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I already approve." He leaned closer, his breath warm against your mouth. "And I got good instincts about people."

You kissed him before you could think about it.

He came at you halfway, slow and deliberate, as though each movement was calculated and considered. His fingers touched your hair, tilted your head back, and he kissed you as though time was standing still, as though you were the only thing that mattered in this small, dark room. He tasted of coffee, and something beneath that, something warm and sweet, like honey, like bourbon, something he’d been saving up for you alone.

When he pulled back, you were both breathing harder.

"Damn," he whispered. "Been wonderin' what that'd be like."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His lips found your neck, trailing slow kisses down to your collarbone. "You taste even better than I imagined."

Your hands found his shoulders—broad, solid under his hoodie. You pulled him closer, and he came willingly, pressing you back against the shelves. Jars clinked. Something fell. Neither of you cared.

"Brian," you breathed.

"Right here." His mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. His hands slid under your shirt, warm palms against bare skin, tracing up your spine, your sides, your ribs. "God, you feel good."

You grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling it upward. He came along, lifting it off in one fluid motion, and suddenly his skin was pressed warmly and solidly against yours.

His lips lingered on yours. He kissed you with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, slow and deep and a little bit dirty. His tongue found yours, his teeth brushing your bottom lip. His hands moved over your body, tracing every inch of you as if memorizing you, your waist, your hips, your back.

You let out a small moan into his mouth, and he swallowed it, as if it was something precious.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you." His hips pressed forward, pinning you against the shelves. You felt him—hard and wanting—and rolled your own hips to meet him. He groaned low in his chest. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're gonna kill me."

"Good death?"

"The best."

He kissed you again, deeper still, and his hands found your thighs. In one smooth motion, he lifted you—picked you up like you weighed nothing, settling you on a sturdy shelf behind you. Your legs wrapped around his waist. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, and he rocked against you slow and perfect.

"This okay?" he murmured against your mouth.

"God, yes."

"Yeah?" Another roll of his hips, careful and teasing. “If so, come really close and show me…”

You got close to him, and kissing him was like finding a new pace, deeper, softer, with sounds you never knew you could make, and it was all his.

He kissed you back, chuckling in your mouth, a sound of warmth and knowledge. The kind of sound that says he’s been waiting for this, thinking about this, since the moment you locked eyes in the gas station.

“That’s mine,” he whispered against your lips, kissing you again, but this time, a little slower. “Mine.” The word felt good and solid in the space of your chest. “Mine,” he whispered again, savoring the word on his tongue. “Say it.”

“Yours.”

“Good.” His hips moved, slow and easy, a rhythm that made your breath catch in your throat. “Say it again.”

“Yours. I’m yours.”

He kissed you as if you were a reward, a good girl, a good student, a good lover. His tongue danced in your mouth, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place, exactly where he wanted you. The shelf creaked in protest. “That’s right,” he whispered, nuzzling your mouth. “You’re mine. I’m going to take my time with you.”

His lips trailed down your neck, pausing for a moment at the pulse point, which was beating wildly. He breathed in the sensation of you, of your pulse pounding in your neck, and you felt him smile as you sucked in a breath in surprise.

“Yeah?” he whispered. “You like that?” 

“Brian—”

"I know." Another kiss, lower. "I know what you like. Been watchin' you all night. The way you bite your lip when you're nervous. The way you lean in when someone gets close. The way you looked at Tim when he came out of that closet all flustered." He chuckled, low and dark. "You got a type, don't you? Older guys who don't know what to do with themselves."

"That's not—"

"It's okay." His hand slid up your back, warm and sure. "I ain't jealous. Tim's my brother. But right now?" He pressed closer, let you feel exactly what you did to him. "Right now, you're with me. And I'm gonna make sure you remember it."

His mouth found yours again, hungrier now. His hands roamed your body like he was mapping territory—your waist, your ribs, the curve of your spine. He kissed like he owned you, like he had every right to take you apart piece by piece.

And God, you let him.

"Brian," you breathed between kisses.

"Mm?"

"I want—"

"I know what you want." His voice was silk and smoke. "But we got time. Seven minutes, remember?" His teeth grazed your earlobe. "I'm gonna use every second."

His hips rolled again, slower now, teasing. You felt every inch of him through the layers between you, felt how much he wanted you, how hard he was trying not to rush.

"You're so good at this," you whispered.

"At what?"

"Making me wait."

He laughed—that low, pleased sound. "Baby, the waiting's the best part. Gets you all worked up, thinkin' about what's comin'. And when I finally give it to you?" He kissed your neck. "You're gonna fall apart so pretty."

Your hands found his shoulders, his back, the warm skin under his hoodie. You pulled at the fabric, needing more of him, and he helped you tug it off. His chest was warm against yours, solid and real, and the sound he made when your skin touched his was almost vulnerable.

"Shit," he breathed. "You feel even better than I imagined."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." His lips touched yours again, but softer this time. "Been thinking about this since the gas station—the way you looked at me, the fact that you didn’t flinch."

"Why would I flinch?"

"'Cause I’m weird. Quiet. Watch too much." He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Most people find it creepy."

"I don’t."

"I know." Another kiss, a little warmer. "That’s why you’re here." His hands went to your thighs, and he pulled you towards the edge of the shelf. You hooked your legs around his waist, and he groaned.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You’re gonna kill me."

"Good death?"

"The best."

He kissed you again, deeper still, and his hips found that rhythm again—slow, careful, perfect. You moved with him, matching him, and the sounds you made were swallowed by his mouth.

"Brian," you gasped.

"Right here, baby. I'm right here."

His hand slid under your shirt, warm palm against your stomach, tracing up to your chest. He was gentle—always so gentle—but there was fire underneath, waiting.

"You wanna—" he started.

"Yes."

"I didn't even ask yet."

"Whatever it is, yes."

He laughed against your mouth. “Shit, you're perfect."

The kiss deepened. The dark wrapped around you. The shelf creaked. Jars fell. Neither of you cared. 

His hand found your waistband, fingers tracing the edge. "This okay?"

"Yes. God, yes."

He kissed you again, and his hand slipped lower—

And then the knock came. Loud. Insistent. Toby's voice muffled through the door: "TIME! SEVEN MINUTES! GET OUT HERE!"

Brian froze. For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breath was ragged. His hand was still where it was, warm and promising.

"Shit," he whispered.

He didn't move. You didn't either.

"Brian." Toby's voice again, grinning. "I know you hear me."

Brian groaned—low, pained, hilarious. "He's gonna be insufferable about this."

"Probably."

Another knock. "I'm not leavin'! Tim's timing you!"

Tim's voice in the background: "I'm not timing anyone!"

"You are now!"

Brian laughed into your mouth—real, warm, human laughter, like he couldn’t help it, like he’d been surprised.

“We gotta go.”

“I know.”

He then suddenly kissed you again, soft and sweet, like a promise pressed to your lips. “When we get outta here,” he whispered, “we’re finishin’ this conversation. And I mean finishin’ it.”

“…Really?” You smirked a little.

He smiled against your lips. “Good.”

He helped you down from the shelf, hands on your waist when your legs shook. You found Brian's hoodie on the floor and handed it to him. He put it on, and you both tried to straighten out your clothing and run fingers through your hair, like you hadn’t just spent seven minutes making out and ruining each other.

“Ready?”

“No.”

He grinned that calm, knowing look and opened the door.

Light poured in. Toby stood there, grinning like the cat who got the canary, practically buzzing with excitement. Tim stood behind him, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Kate stood back, looking amused, her dark eyes taking in every detail.

“Finally!” Toby exclaimed. “What took you so long?”

You and Brian just looked at each other. Freaky duo.

✑ 𝓉𝑜𝒷𝓎 𝓇𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 

The bottle twirled, lumbering across the floor like it had a life of its own. Rounds swam through my mind—Tim’s labored breathing when we came up, Brian’s sly smile, Kate’s pale cheeks. Now it was my turn to spin, the green glass drinking in the candlelight as it made a lazy turn.

Everyone’s eyes locked onto it. Tim tried not to look, I knew. Brian watched it with an intent stare. Kate retreated into herself, but still kept an eye on it. Toby was like a fly buzzing around him.

The bottle slowed, then stopped.

And it was pointed directly at Toby.

He lit up like you'd given him the world. "YES. Okay. Okay okay okay—" He grabbed the bottle, spun it for partner with way too much enthusiasm. It whirled, clinked, spun again, and finally came to rest.

Pointed at you.

Toby’s smile, however, had lost some of its sharp edges and had begun to slide into something else, something more vulnerable, maybe, in his dark brown eyes. It was as if you could feel it hanging there in the air. 

“You good with that?” he whispered, his voice just above a breath.

“Y-Yeah…” you stammered, your next breath a little tangled. Your heart was somersaulting, all kinds of complicated.

Brian already had the hourglass in his hand. “Seven minutes.” He handed it over to Toby with a look that said a number of things, all at once. “Behave, you two.”

“No promises.”

Tim made a face, Kate’s lips curled into a half-smile.

Toby took your hand, beginning to lead you towards the closet.

The instant you stepped into the closet, darkness enveloped you, complete and absolute. You stood there, blinking, waiting for your eyes to adjust to the new environment. Beside you, Toby seemed warm, alive, twitching a little as he stood still, breathing a little more rapidly than usual.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. We're in the closet. We're together. In the dark. This is—" he paused. "Tk. This is fine. This is normal. This is—"

"Toby."

"Yeah?"

"Breathe."

He laughed, a little surprised. "Right. Breathing. I know how to do that." A pause. "Mostly."

You felt him move, felt his hand search for yours in the dark. When his fingers finally made contact with yours, they wrapped around them with a quiet, intense grasp, not a wild one, just a deep need to connect.

"You good?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Better now." His thumb made soft circles on your hand, a soothing motion that seemed to center him. "Better now that you're here."

The space between you stretched out, not awkwardly, just a pause that seemed a fraction of a second too long. It felt full, full of everything that had been unsaid, everything that had yet to be said.

You felt him turn, felt the warmth of him move closer. His breath touched your cheek.

"Can I—" He stopped, shifted, started again. "Okay. Can I try something?"

You nodded, knowing he couldn't see you. "Yeah."

His other hand touched your face in the dark, a gentle, almost reverent touch, as if you were something fragile. His fingers trailed across your cheek, paused at the corner of your mouth. They were rough, from careless habits, from nervous habits, yet they touched you with a gentleness that made something inside you twist.

You felt him lean in, his warm breath against your lips.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Gentle. A little bit clumsy because he was smiling too much to do it properly. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, and his head ticked once against yours—tk—but he didn't pull away. Didn't apologize. Just kissed you like it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

His hand found your hair, his fingers wrapping through it, and he pulled back just far enough to say, “Been wantin’ to do that since the gas station.”

You laughed against his lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kissed you again, this time quick and hard. “I saw you come in. Saw you looking at all of us. And you didn’t—” He ticked against your lips. “Tk. You didn’t pull back, not at me, not at Kate, not at any of it.”

“You’re not scary.”

He pulled back, and you could feel his shock, even in the dark. “I’m not?”

"No." You located his face, the shape of his jaw, the scar that you knew was there. "You're just Toby."

He stopped, still, for a long time. Then, softly, "Nobody's ever said that before."

"Said what?"

"That I'm just... anything. I'm always too much or not enough." There was a wobble in his voice, a small one. "But you just... you take me as I am."

And then, “Besides, you should really be a little scared of me, bade.”

You kissed him again, a little harder this time. When you finally broke apart, both of you caught your breath a little harder than usual.

"Hey," he said, a little more quietly. "Can I tell you something?"

"Anything.”

He moved, settling into the space between the shelves. The jars made noises, quiet sounds all around you. They rattled, bumped each other. Something fell, broke, and no one noticed. There was lavender, dust, and something else, something older, wilder, like the forest had breathed in, had touched this place, and had not left.

“So, the person we’re waiting for?," he teased, batting at you with a lazy smile. "Tk. The one who lives here?"

"Yeah?"

"Tim and Brian call ’em the manager. Which is—" He let out a soft chuckle. "Which is funny, because they’re not really a manager. More like… an observer, I guess. Someone who watches. Keeps track."

"Keeps track of what?"

"Of us. Of stuff. Of—" He gestured into the dark, vague and casual. "Things that need doin’. Missions, Brian calls ’em. Jobs." You didn’t press for details about what kind of jobs. Something warned you not to. "But here’s the thing," Toby went on, his voice dropping a notch. "They’ve got a soft spot. For me and Kate especially."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He leaned closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know why. Maybe 'cause we're the broken ones. The ones who got found instead of just... showed up. But they're—" He paused, searching for words. "They're good to us. In their own weird way. And I think—" Another tick. "Tk. I think they're gonna like you."

"Why?"

"'Cause I like you." Simple. Direct. No sarcasm. "And I talk about you. A lot."

You smiled in the dark. "You talk about me?"

"Shut up." But he was grinning, you could hear it. "Brian's been makin' fun of me for it. Says I got a crush."

"Do you?"

He kissed you instead of answering.

This one was different—hungrier, more urgent. His hands found your waist, pulled you closer, and you stumbled back against the shelves. "Toby—"

"I got you." His mouth found your neck, kissing, nipping, making you gasp. "I got you. Just—I need—"

You knew what he needed. The same thing you needed. To be close. To be wanted. To be held like you mattered.

You pulled him closer, and he came willingly, pressing you back against the shelves. His body was warm against yours—lean but strong, that sleeper build hidden under all those layers. His hips pressed against you, and you both groaned.

"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—" He kissed you again. "You feel so good."

"So do you."

"Yeah?" Another kiss, sloppier now, desperate. "Tell me. Tell me what you want."

"You. Just you."

He made a sound—low and desperate and so honest it made your heart hurt. His hands slid under your shirt, warm palms against bare skin, tracing up your sides, your ribs, your chest.

"Been thinkin' about this," he mumbled against your mouth. "Since that first night. The way you looked at me. The way you didn't care about the—" He ticked. "Tk. The noises. The weird."

"I like your noises."

He pulled back. Even in the dark, you could feel his shock. "You do?"

"Yeah. They're you."

He kissed you again, and there were tears on his cheeks—you felt them, warm and wet against your skin. But he was smiling. You could feel that too.

"You're special," he whispered. "You know that?"

"So are you."

He laughed, a wet, real, almost holy sound, and then he yanked you close, spun you around, and suddenly you were slammed to the floor. The floor was cool and lumpy, made of shattered glass, dried herbs, God knows what, but Toby was hovering over you, warm and real, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

"Hi." he breathed.

"Hi." you returned.

He kissed you again, this time slower, more careful, like the world had just stopped for the two of you and no one else existed. His body was against yours, and you felt it all, the rapid beat of his heart, the soft ticks, the shiver that ran through him when he found you.

"Toby."

"Yeah?"

"I want—"

"I know." He kissed your neck. "I want it too."

He was moving against you, slow and teasing, and you gasped, and he swallowed the sound.

"Yeah?" He was looking at you, his eyes dark and hot and interested. "You like that?"

"God, yes."

"Good." Another roll, harder this time. "'Cause I've been wantin' to do this since—" He kissed you. "Since—" Another kiss. "Since forever."

You laughed against his mouth. "It's been few days."

"Forever." He grinned. "Same thing."

His hand slid lower, tracing down your stomach, your hip, your thigh. He was gentle—so gentle—but there was fire underneath. He kissed you again, and his hand found what it was looking for. The dark wrapped around you. The sand kept falling. And Toby held you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

The knock came too soon.

"TIME!" Tim's voice, muffled through the door. "Seven minutes! Get out here!"

Toby froze above you. For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested against yours. His breath was ragged. His hand was still where it was. "Shit," he whispered.

"Yeah."

"I don't wanna move."

"Me neither."

Another knock. "Toby! I know you hear me!"

He groaned—low, pained, hilarious. "Tim's gonna be so annoying about this."

"Probably."

"He's gonna make dad jokes for a week."

You laughed. Actually laughed, there on the floor of a strange closet, surrounded by broken jars and scattered herbs, with Toby on top of you. 

He grinned against your mouth. Then he kissed you one last time—soft, sweet, a promise. "We're finishin' this later. Okay? I don't care how long it takes."

"Okay."

He helped you up, steadying you when your knees wobbled. You found each other's clothes, straightened what could be straightened, ran fingers through hair. Toby picked a leaf out of your collar and grinned.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Noooo. I’m not.”

He laughed—that real laugh—and opened the door.

Light flooded in. Tim stood there with his arms crossed, trying to look stern and failing. Brian watched with quiet amusement. Kate's lips twitched.

"Finally!" Tim said. "What took you so long?"

Toby stepped out, calm as a cucumber. "Jars fell."

Tim stared at him. "Jars fell."

"Yeah." Toby ticked. "Tk. Lots of jars. Very fragile."

Behind him, the closet was absolutely destroyed. Jars everywhere. Herbs scattered. A shelf completely pulled down. Two bodies' worth of indentations on the floor.

Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. Brian actually laughed—a real laugh, low and warm. Kate's smile grew.

And Toby's hand found yours in the light. Squeezed once. Held on.

"So," he said quietly, just for you. "Later?"

"Later."

You and Toby just grinned at each other. Feral duo.

✑ 𝓀𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓈-𝓂𝒶𝓎𝑒𝓈

The bottle spun slow and lazy across the floor, catching the flicker of candlelight as it wobbled past Brian's knee, past

Tim's outstretched leg, past Toby's bouncing feet. You'd lost count of how many rounds now—each one leaving you more breathless, more tangled up in these strange, beautiful people who'd somehow become the center of your world.

All eyes were on that bottle. Toby was grinning from ear to ear. Brian was steady as a rock. Tim was being busy, looking at his nails or something like that. Kate was being quiet and still, her dark-rimmed eyes fixed intently on that bottle.

It slowed down, spinning, and came to a stop.

And pointed at Kate.

She blinked once, slowly, as if considering what that bottle sign meant.

Toby shouted, “Kate! Kate! Kate! Yes! Go, Kate!”

Tim made a sound of annoyance, and Toby responded similarly.

Kate looked at you across the circle. Those dark eyes held yours for a long moment—searching, asking.

You nodded. She stood, extended a hand.

You took it. Her hand was cold, small in yours, yet it gripped with a stubborn intensity.

The closet door closed behind you. Instantly, darkness enveloped you, complete and total. You blinked, giving your eyes time to adjust to nothing. Kate, beside you, seemed a small, steady presence, still, watchful, her breathing tranquil, unhurried.

You didn’t let go of her hand. Neither did she.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The dark wrapped around you like a blanket, soft and heavy. Somewhere above, you heard the faint rustle of the house settling, the whisper of wind through branches.

Then you tugged her hand gently. Pulled her closer.

She came willingly. Her body warm against yours in the chill of the closet, her head tilting up toward you even though she couldn't see.

"Hi," you whispered.

A pause. Then, barely audible: "Hi."

Her free hand found your face in the darkness. Cold fingers traced the shape of your jaw, your cheek, the bridge of your nose. Gently. Curiously. As if she were committing you to memory.

"You're real," she whispered.

"So am I."

She made a small noise, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something in between. Something soft.

"I'm glad," she whispered.

"Glad I'm real?"

"Glad you're here." Her thumb traced the shape of your lower lip. "Glad you stayed."

You kissed her thumb without thinking. She froze. Then, softly, "Can I—"

You replied by leaning down and finding her mouth in the darkness. The kiss was gentle. Exploratory. Her lips were chilled at first, warming to yours as the seconds passed. She kissed like she was practicing—tentative, aware, paying attention to every small detail.

When you broke the kiss, she followed. Pursued your mouth. "More?" you asked.

She nodded against you. "Please."

You gave her more.

The second kiss was more passionate. Her hands rose to your chest, around your neck, pulling you closer. She made a small noise—surprise, pleasure—and you felt her smile against your lips.

"You're good at that," she whispered.

"At kissing?"

"At making me forget to be scared."

Your heart squeezed. You pulled her closer, wrapped your arms around her, holding her against you in the darkness."Never be scared of me," you whispered into her hair. "Okay? Never."

She nodded. Her face pressed into your chest. Her warm breath against your shirt.

For a moment, you simply stood there. With your arms around each other. Breathing in sync. The darkness enfolding you.

Then she moved, pulling away just enough to look up at you. Even in the darkness, you could sense her eyes on you.

"I want to tell you something," she whispered.

"Okay."

"The person we're waiting for. The one who lives here." She hesitated, collecting her thoughts. "They're... important. To all of us. But especially to me and Toby."

“Soo like a manager?"

A soft noise—almost a laugh. "Tim and Brian call them that. Observer, sometimes. Watcher." She paused. 

"Why not?"

"I don't know. Maybe they forgot it. Maybe they never had one." Her fingers drew patterns on your chest. Absent-minded and soothing. "They've been here a long time. Longer than any of us. They can't leave the forest."

"Can't?"

"Won't. Both." She shook her head slightly. "It's complicated. They're tied to this place. To the trees. To the—" She stopped. Searched for words. "To whatever lives here."

You didn’t ask what that meant. Something told you not to.

"But they have a soft spot," Kate went on. "For me, and Toby especially. The broken ones." She said this without any bitterness, just the facts. "They watch over us. Make sure we're safe. Give us a place to go when we need to hide."

"That’s like a family."

She didn’t speak again. Then, quietly, “Yeah. I guess that’s true.” Her hand touched your face again. Traced your cheek. Your lips.

“I like being near them," she whispered. "Even when we don’t talk. I can feel that they care. Feel it. Like warmth from far away.”

“That’s beautiful.”

She tilted up. Kissed you again—slower this time, more deliberate. Her lips parted against yours, and you felt her tongue trace softly, asking. You answered by deepening the kiss. Your hand slid into her hair—soft, slightly tangled—and she made a sound that went straight through you.

"Kate," you breathed.

"Yeah?"

"I really like you."

She didn’t say it aloud, though. She kissed you instead, and you could feel the smile in it. Her hands moved underneath your shirt, cold against your skin, and you inhaled sharply. She giggled at this, the sound soft and slightly startled.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.” You pulled her in closer. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m weird.”

“So am I.”

She kissed you again, this time more uncertainly, and more certainly after that. Her hands explored you, slow at first and then more adventurous, over your ribs, across your chest, and around your back. It was almost as if she was trying to catalog you, memorize every inch of you.

So you did the same, your hands finding her waist, her hips, and the line of her back. She was so small under all those clothes, but there was something quiet and strong about her, something lean and quick and fully present.

“Can I—” She started to say.

“Anything.”

Her lips found your neck. Soft at first, then braver. She kissed her way down to your collarbone, and you felt her smile against your skin when you shivered.

"Good?" she whispered.

"So good."

She kept going. Lower. Her hands found the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, and her lips followed—warm against your stomach, your chest, your—

"Kate."

She paused. Looked up. Even in the dark, you felt her question. "I want this," you said. "I want you. But—"

"But?"

"I don't want to rush. Not with you."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she crawled back up, settled against you, rested her head on your chest.

"Okay," she whispered. "We can go slow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your stomach. "I like slow. Slow means we have time."

"We have time."

The dark wrapped around you. Her breath evened out against your chest. Somewhere above, the sand kept falling. Neither of you cared.

The knock was too soon. 

"Time!" Toby's voice, muffled through the door. "Seven minutes! Get out here!"

Kate didn't move. Neither did you.

Another knock. "Kate! I know you can hear me!"

She sighed against your chest—a tiny sound of protest, soft and warm.

"We gotta go," you whispered.

"I know."

"I don't wanna."

She smiled against your skin. "Me neither."

But she moved away slowly, reluctantly. Her hand found your face in the dark, tracing your features one last time like she was committing them to memory. Then she kissed you—soft, sweet, a promise pressed against your lips. "Later?" she breathed.

"Later."

She helped you straighten your clothes, fingers gentle as she smoothed your collar. You picked a leaf from her hair, tucked a stray strand behind her ear. She leaned into your touch for just a second—and opened the door.

Light flooded in. Toby stood there with a massive grin, practically vibrating. Tim behind him looked relieved it wasn't his turn. Brian watched with quiet amusement.

"Finally!" Toby crowed. "What took you so long?"

Kate stepped out, calm as ever. “Nothing.”

Toby blinked. "Nothing?"

“Yeah we just talked.”

Toby squinted past her at the closet—perfectly neat, not a thing disturbed. “You guys kiss, didn’t you?”

Kate shrugged. “And?”

Brian actually laughed—low and warm. Tim hid a smile behind his hand. Toby looked between you both, suspicious but absolutely delighted. And Kate's hand found yours in the light. Squeezed once. Held on.

You and Kate both tilted your heads. Quiet duo.

✑ 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈𝒾𝓁𝓀 (𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 𝑜𝒸)

You kept your distance from the circle, and let the game continue without you.

The bottle landed again on your lap, what felt like the tenth time, and you shook your head again. “I’m good. I’d rather just watch for a while.”

Tim readily agreed, no questions, no pressure. Brian’s eyes had a spark of understanding. Toby pouted for exactly three seconds, but Kate’s squeeze of his hand made him perk up again. Kate gave you a small, understanding smile.

They respected your boundaries. They did not pry. They did not pressure. It was all so strange, really, how easily they gave you space. As if they knew, perhaps better than anyone, the cost of staying present.

You saw Tim and Brian step up, serious and quiet, and leave with the same world, just a little more at peace within themselves. Then it was Toby and Kate’s turn, quiet as a whisper, quieting Toby’s own ticking away. The hourglass continued to tilt, spilling its sand as though time itself did not care what we were doing.

You leaned back against the wall, warm and drowsy, candlelight casting quick and aimless shadows on the room, which felt strange in all ways. There was a tree trunk nearby, old and wise, watching us. The plants hung motionless, heavy.

At last, you fell asleep.

You awoke to a stillness that felt almost palpable, like water pressed against your ears. Everything seemed complete, absolute. The candles burned, yet the room seemed empty, eerily so. The circle seemed empty, devoid of Tim, Brian, Toby, Kate. Simply the burning flame, the heavy, dark stillness pressing close about the house.

“Hello?” Your voice seemed small, lost within the stillness.

No answer.

You moved, your heart rate accelerating with a quicker tempo. The main room, once so familiar, now seemed unfamiliar, wrong. The closet door hung slightly ajar, an invitation to trouble that you knew you shouldn’t answer.

Every instinct was telling you to keep it shut, to call out again, to rally the others.

But your feet kept moving, stubbornly forward.

The door groaned as you nudged it open.

Inside, darkness. Thick, heavy. Not the closet you’d spent seven minutes in earlier; this felt deeper, older, as if the space had grown while you weren’t looking.

You stepped over the threshold.

The door slid shut behind you, quiet as a secret.

You turned, and the room disappeared into utter black. No line of light, no hint of the frame, nothing. Darkness pressed against you, heavy as a hand on your eyes. It felt alive—hungry, waiting.

You could not see your own hand in front of your face. The shelves, the floor, the walls—gone. Just an endless, swallowing void.

Then, almost in slow breath, something began to glow.

A pale purple, shimmering and soft. It didn’t light the space so much as stain it, a stain that seeped through like ink thinning in water. It came from ahead of you, nearby.

Two eyes opened in the dark. They didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t move at all except to watch—ancient, patient, with pure black pupils that swallowed light rather than reflecting it. A halo of purple glimmered around them, making them seem to drift, detached, within the void.

You could not move, could not breathe, could do nothing but fix your gaze back.

And then, from the shadows, a shape began to emerge.

It started small—a face emerging from shadow. Dark, pale brown, and sharp to the touch, beautiful in a way that made your skin prickle. Above each eye, three dark circles, like permanent marks of constant observation. One swirling mark was positioned centrally on the forehead, just above the nose, with designs that appeared to shift when you looked directly at them.

From her dark, curly hair, two long things extended—feathery, delicate, twitching slightly as if sensing the air. Antennae. They curved backward, catching the faint purple glow and making it shimmer.

And behind her—behind everything—the wings.

Massive, iridescent, they unfurled from her frame like a revelation: purple, black, with swirl patterns on the lower edges that seemed to pulse, breathe, drift. They hung heavy on her shoulders, a living cloak that trailed on the floor as she moved. Every step caused the patterns to quiver, smoke curling in slow motion.

She was small. A little shorter than you, even. Compact. Almost delicate. And yet, she filled the room. Filled all the corners of the space around you.

Her face came into view in full, the eyes standing out: solid black, without any whites, without any pupils, but with an unending darkness surrounded by a purple light. They looked at you with an intensity that was almost surgically precise, as if she could sift through all the thoughts, all the fears, all the desires, and file them away in a folder.

Her mouth opened slowly. A soft purple light appeared there, coloring her breath, her teeth, her tongue.

“You're awake.”

Her voice was soft, almost melodic, with a touch of sweetness. But there was something underneath, a shiver, like it passed through water and static to get to you. Like it wasn’t really hers, just borrowed.

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t form words. You stood there, frozen, as she moved closer.

The wings struggled, whistled. The antennae twitched, selecting you.

“I've been watching you.” A pause. Her eyes never left yours, dark, intent. “Since the gas station. Since before.”

"Watching... me?"

"Mm." The sound was almost a hum. Almost a purr. Content. Pleased. "Interesting. Very interesting. That's why they brought you here."

"The—" You swallowed. Your throat felt dry. "The others? They brought me to—"

"To me." She tilted her head. Those eyes. Always those eyes. "This is my home. My forest. My house."

You looked around at the dark, at the space that shouldn't exist, at the impossible wings that filled it. 

"This is... your house?"

"My home." She said it simply. Like it was obvious. Like the concept of home for something like her was so far beyond human understanding that she was simplifying for your benefit. "They stay here sometimes. When they need shelter. When they need to hide." A pause. "When I ask them to bring me interesting things."

"Things?"

"People." Her glow brightened slightly. Those antennae twitched again. "Specimens. Guests." A soft sound—maybe a laugh, maybe something else entirely. "You."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "I'm—I'm not—"

"You are." She stepped closer still. Close enough that you could see every detail—the impossible black of her eyes, the patterns on her skin, the way her pupils seemed to shift, to multiply, to become something other than human when you looked too long. 

"Th-they're my friends."

“Friends.” She savored it, rolled it around her tongue like it was an unknown thing. A small smile played on her lips—and it was perhaps the most unsettling thing she had done so far, because it was almost... almost like it was real. Almost... almost like it was warm. “Yes. They think so too. That’s why they brought you.”

“For you to… what?”

“Evaluate.” Her glow pulsed with emphasis. “Document. Decide.”

“Decide what?”

“If you should stay....” She took another step closer. Her face was almost touching yours. That purple glow was floating in space, suspended between you. “If you… fascinate me. If you last.”

You should run. You should scream. You should do something, anything, instead of standing there, frozen, watching those eyes bore into you like you were a specimen in a jar under a microscope.

But you couldn’t.

And somehow—impossibly—you didn't want to.

Her breath curled close, warm and sweet, with a faint purple light, like pollen or spores, that would settle deep within your lungs. It touched your arms, your chest, your throat. Not choking, not trapping. Just there. Just holding. Filling you with a sense of weight and lightness.

“I’m glad they brought you,” she whispered, her voice low and husky, intimate, like a secret shared in the dark. “I’ve been watching you for so long. Wondering. Waiting.”

Her hand rose, small, with fingers streaked with ink-dark patterns that seemed to shift with her movements. “You’re even more interesting up close.”

"Please," you breathed. Your voice sounded distant. Fuzzy. "I don't understand—"

"Aww." Her thumb traced your lower lip. Tone giving gentle, possessive. "You don't need to understand. Not yet. Not now." Those black eyes held yours, and you felt yourself falling into them. 

"Stay still. This will make sense soon."

The words settled into you, just sank deep into your chest, your mind, your bones. You couldn't have moved if you wanted to. Couldn't have fought if your life depended on it. The purple glow in her breath had filled you, coated you, made you pliable and soft and willing.

She leaned closer. Her lips parted. That purple glow brightened, staining her mouth, her teeth, her tongue with luminous light.

And then she kissed you.

Deep and easy, the kiss went—warm, soft, and sure. Her mouth radiated heat, and it spilled into yours, honeyed and whispered, like smoke or something alive. It filled you up, filled your lungs and throat and brain. Not choking, just warmth. Like ink in water. Like light in fog. Like something digging in.

You tasted her. Sweet and old and a little strange. She tasted like the forest after rain, like the space between heartbeats, like falling asleep in a warm room after the longest day.

Your hands came up—to push, to protest, to do something. They pressed against her shoulders, her chest, the soft fabric of whatever she wore. But she was warm. So warm. And her wings curled forward, enclosing you both in darkness and that soft purple light, and your hands... softened. Still there. Still pressing. But not pushing anymore.

Just holding.

She felt it. You knew she felt it. The corner of her mouth curved against yours, and the kiss deepened.

Her tongue traced your lips. The glow intensified. You felt it behind your eyes, in your fingertips, in the space where thought used to live. It was dissolving you. Rebuilding you. Making you hers.

You tried to remember why that should scare you.

You couldn't.

Her hand slid into your hair, gentle and possessive. Her other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, and you went willingly—eagerly—pressing against her small frame like she was the only solid thing in a dissolving world.

Her wings enclosed you fully now. Complete darkness. Complete warmth. Just her lips on yours and that glow filling every part of you.

"Shh," she whispered against your mouth. Her voice was everywhere. Inside you. Around you. "Shh. I've got you."

I've been watching you.

Since the gas station. Since before.

The thoughts blurred. Melted. Became something else.

You're mine now. My interesting thing. My specimen. My—

The thought stalled in its tracks. Or maybe you just quit being able to follow it. Your lips still touched theirs—soft, purposeful, unhurried. The light had enveloped you fully now—encompassed your lungs, your blood, your thoughts. You felt yourself drifting, falling, dissolving into something thick and cozy and endless.

The thought went away. So did you.

You opened your eyes to candlelight and worried faces peering down at you. Toby bent in, his dark brown eyes wide with excitement. “They’re awake! They’re awake!”

Tim’s figure materialized next to Toby, his face weary and apprehensive. “Hey, you with us?” 

You blinked. You were on the floor in the main room, and you were on something comfortable—maybe a blanket. Kate knelt next to you, her hand squeezing yours.

“Wha—” Your voice was rough, distant. “Wha—happened?”

“You passed out,” Brian said quietly, a little distance away, examining you with his intent, steady gaze. “Found you on the closet floor. You were just... asleep.”

"The closet?" You tried to remember. There was something—someone—a glow—a kiss—?

"She was there." The words came out before you could stop them. "The observer. The one who lives here. She was in the closet."

Everyone went still from your words alone, Tim and Brian shared a glance. Toby’s tics are on arrested, as if the world had been paused. Kate’s grip on my hand increased.

"You saw her?" Tim asked quietly.

"She—" You swallowed. Your mouth was sweet. Unusual. "She kissed me. She said she was glad you brought me here. She said she had been watching."

Another long silence. Then Toby expressed curved, just slight. Softly. Astonished. Truly. "Wait... doesn't that mean she likes you. Like she actually liked you."

"Liked me?" Your words was hollow. Distant. From your own voice.

“Well… she doesn't kiss just anyone," Kate said, her dark eyes filled with a soft, prideful light. "That means you're in."

"In what?"

"In." Brian’s voice was gentle. Careful. As if he were explaining something simple to a child, clearly something that you ain't. "With us. With her. With all of it."

You stared at them. At their calm faces. At their easy acceptance. At the way they all seemed to understand something you absolutely did not. Something was cleary wrong, very, very wrong.

"She said it would make sense," you murmured. "When I woke up."

"And?" Tim asked. Those tired eyes watching you like he was waiting for you to finally get it.

You thought about it. Thought about black eyes and ink-stained fingers and a kiss that felt like falling into somewhere safe. Thought about the glow still warm in your chest. Thought about how you couldn't quite remember why you'd been scared.

But you were scared now.

The fog in your mind started to clear—just a little, just enough. The sweet taste in your mouth turned sour. The warmth in your chest felt wrong. Invaded. 

"What the fuck," you said.

Everyone blinked. "What?"

"What the fuck." You pushed yourself up, swaying. Kate's hand fell away. Toby's grin faltered. "What the fuck is going on?"

Tim held up his hands. "Hey, hey—easy. You just woke up. You're disoriented—"

"No." The word came out sharper than you intended. "No, I'm not. I'm confused and I'm scared and I just—" You stopped. Swallowed. The taste wouldn't go away. "That thing in the closet. That wasn't human."

Again, more silence.

"She's not," Brian said quietly. "We know."

"You know?" Your voice cracked. "You knew there was some—some creature in there and you just—you just let me—"

"She wouldn't hurt you." Toby's voice was soft, urgent. "She wouldn't. Not if she kissed you. That means she likes you—"

"I don't care what it means!" You were on your feet now, stumbling back, putting distance between yourself and all of them. "I don't care what any of this means! I came here because I thought—I thought you were my friends—"

"We are." Kate stood slowly, hands raised, like she was approaching a frightened animal. "We are your friends. That's why we brought you here. That's why she wanted to meet you—"

"She?" You laughed—hysterical, broken. "She has a name? Of course she has a name. Of course this is all—" You pressed your hands to your head. The glow was still there. Still warm. Still wrong. "I can still feel her. In my head. In my chest. She did something to me—"

"She kissed you, nothing more.” Tim's voice was steady. Grounding. "That's all. She kissed you."

"That's not all and you know it."

No one disagreed with you. More silence built, a long, heavy pause, the candles flickering, your heart pounding. And then, softly, from the darkness near the closet...

"Such a fascinating display."

You froze. Everyone froze from the sudden soften of a tone.

It's like the shadows shifted. Curled.

Became something more as she stepped out of the dark like she'd always been there. Like she owned it. Like she was it. Those same black eyes you saw in the closet. Those large, beautiful wings folded against her back. That small, knowing smile. "You're afraid," she observed. Her head tilted. Those antennae twitched. "Good. Fear is... clarifying. It shows me what's underneath."

“Stay back.” You said it, the words trembling out, “Stay the fuck back.”

She didn’t, of course, she didn’t, but came closer, slowly, purposefully, the wings dragging along the floor.

“You’re upset,” she said, not unkindly, but almost clinically, almost cataloging, “you’re upset, you’re angry, you’re scared, you’re violated, you’re confused, the kiss—” Her mouth curved, a small, wise, merciful, mischievous curve, “the kiss was a gift, but you don’t understand that yet.”

"A gift?"

"Acceptance. Interest." Another step. "You are the first in a very long time who has made me want to observe closer."

"I didn't ask for this."

"No." Those black eyes held yours. "But you will thank me for it. In time." Her breath curled toward you—that same purple glow, that same sweet weight. You tried to back away, but your body wouldn't move. Wouldn't listen.

"Stop," you whispered. "Please—"

"Shh." She was close now. Too close. Her hand rose, those ink-stained fingers tracing your cheek. "This is hard. I know. But fighting it will only make it worse."

"Please—"

“Rest now.” Her voice curled around you like smoke, like silk, like something that already claimed you as theirs. “When you wake again, you’ll understand. You’ll see.” Her lips brushed your forehead, giving soft, almost kind.

Then the world softened once more, and you drifted away. The last sound you heard, before you were consumed by darkness, was her voice—soft, pleased, possessive:

"I'm going to enjoy documenting you, human."

♤ — 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 / 𝒽𝓂 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

Your pink kitten heels clicked unevenly on the gravel, the sound sharp and lonely. The heels weren’t made for this kind of terrain. Not even close. You stumbled every few steps, ankle wobbling precariously on a stone or root, nearly twisting more than once. A quiet curse left your lips, fogging in the cold air.

You hadn’t meant to be out so late. The party had dragged on - loud music, flashing lights, too much warmth packed into one buzzing living room. You’d stayed longer than planned, chatting with people you half-knew, sipping something sweet and fizzy out of a red plastic cup. It had been fun, in a hollow sort of way. But after a while, the laughter got too loud, the dancing too close, and you needed air.

So you left.

The long way home would’ve meant another forty minutes by the road, and your feet already ached in your kitten heels. You’d taken the shortcut through the woods before, during daylight - it was quiet, direct, always empty. Tonight, the cold dark gave it a different shape entirely. But you told yourself it was fine. Just a few minutes. A little eerie, maybe, but manageable.

Your arms were wrapped tightly around yourself, the warmth of your jacket not quite enough. The skirt you wore - cute at the party, less ideal now - fluttered faintly with the wind, tugging at your black sheer tights. One knee bore the evidence of an earlier scrape, the thin nylon ripped just enough to show skin. You hadn't thought twice about it then.

You should’ve taken the longer route.

Your AirPods were still in, low music thrumming in your ears, some melancholy synth-pop tune to drown out the oppressive quiet. But you were too aware of your surroundings to be soothed. Your head kept turning, scanning the black between the trees. You told yourself you were being paranoid.

And then you saw him.

You stopped.

He was just… there, standing a dozen feet ahead of you on the trail like he’d risen from the shadows themselves. One foot still in mid-step, like he had been walking the opposite direction, and had stopped exactly when you came into view.

You froze.

Your stomach dropped, a primal instinct flaring before your thoughts even caught up. Your eyes flicked over him - frantic. He didn’t move.

Converse. Gloves. A thick dark jacket pulled low over his arms. Some kind of industrial mouth guard strapped across the bottom half of his face. And goggles pushed up on his head, like he hadn’t needed them in the dark.

You couldn’t see his eyes, not clearly - but you could feel them.

Locked on you.

Every nerve in your body screamed to run, but your feet were stuck. Your fingers clenched tighter around your own arms, breath puffing faster now in the cold.

He tilted his head slightly. Just a little. Like a curious animal.

Toby had just been walking. The woods were his - they always had been. The silence suited him. His tics didn’t echo here, didn’t bounce off walls or draw attention. The cold numbed his thoughts, and he liked that. Liked feeling far away from himself.

And then you came clattering into his world like a siren in a snowstorm.

At first, it was the noise. Your uneven steps, the awkward click-clack of those ridiculous heels. He heard them long before he saw you - like the skitter of something fragile and out of place. Curious, he slowed his steps, instinct guiding him toward the sound.

And then the wind shifted.

Your scent hit him like a truck.

He staggered.

Warm skin. Sweet perfume, faint hint of vanilla and something floral. Soap still lingering in your hair. The kind of scent that wasn’t meant to exist out here in the pines. Not meant for him.

Then he saw you.

His heart thudded once - hard. A pulse like a punch in his chest.

You were beautiful in a way that hurt. Skirt swaying. That little rip in your tights drawing his eyes like a magnet - his gaze dragged there and stuck. You didn’t even know how good that looked, did you? The way the nylon gave way just enough to show skin? You were flushed from the cold, hair tousled and wild from the wind, lips parted slightly in the chill.

And those shoes.

Tiny little heels, delicate and dumb, scuffed and muddy now. The way you stumbled in them made something twist in his gut.

He didn’t move. He didn’t want to scare you. But he couldn’t stop staring.

And then - oh. He saw it.

You were scared.

You didn’t scream - not yet - but your body betrayed you. Shoulders drawn up, chin tucking slightly, pupils wide. You’d stopped breathing for a second, didn’t you? He knew what fear looked like. He’d seen it a hundred times. But on you…

God. It was different.

Toby felt it like a wire being pulled tighter and tighter in his chest.

He twitched. Shoulder first, then his neck. A tic, sharp and jerking. His glove tightened reflexively on the handle of the hatchet strapped to his side - the one with the orange handle. He didn’t draw it. But he knew you saw it.

He wanted to say something. He opened his mouth - forgot about the guard for a second - then caught himself. He couldn’t let you see what was underneath.

You shifted your weight, finally drawing a shaky breath. The wind picked up, swirling your hair across your cheek like a slow-motion frame in some dream. Or a nightmare.

You pulled one AirPod out with trembling fingers.

“…Hi?”

Small voice. Careful.

Toby swallowed behind the mask. His tics flared hard. His head twitched to the side again, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low, halting, muffled by the metal guard.

“You… y-you shouldn’t–b-be out h-h-here…”

The stutter was worse than usual. It always was around people. But with you, it felt like his mouth forgot how to be a mouth. Everything in him was short-circuiting.

Your brows furrowed, that uncertain mix of polite concern and get away from me. You took a half-step back.

He saw it.

And still he couldn’t move.

He wanted to follow you. Wanted to walk right up and run a gloved finger along that tear in your tights and ask if it hurt. Wanted to see if you’d look at him with that same expression if you knew what was under the mask. If you knew how many others had frozen like that before they stopped breathing entirely.

But he didn’t. He was glued to the spot.

You took another step back.

Then another - quicker this time, panic flaring in your chest like a struck match. You didn’t even care about the noise your heels made now. You just needed space. You needed to be away from him, from that thing in the mouth guard with goggles pushed up on his head and something dangerous strapped to his side.

Your breath was coming faster, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Your fingers were trembling as they clutched your jacket tighter, like that would protect you somehow. Your mind was screaming–

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. What is happening–

You muttered it aloud without realizing. “Jesus–fuck, okay–just walk, keep walking, it’s fine, it’s fine, he’s just–some guy, he’s not gonna–”

You didn’t believe your own words.

You could feel your heartbeat now, not just in your chest but in your throat, pounding like a war drum. It choked your breath, made your legs weak. The man - whoever he was - hadn’t moved. Not a step. But that made it worse. The stillness was wrong. Like a predator waiting for you to turn.

And then it happened.

As you were walking backwards, your eyes never leaving him, your heel caught on something - a raised root, maybe a rock - and you stumbled with a yelp, arms flailing. Your ankle twisted with a sharp jolt of pain and the world tilted, and before you could catch yourself, your feet went out from under you entirely.

You landed hard on your ass, gravel and wet leaves scraping against your tights and bare skin beneath the tear. Your hands hit the ground behind you, catching your fall, but the shock still rocked through your spine.

No no no–

You scrambled to sit up, fingers sliding in mud and bark. Your legs were bent awkwardly under your skirt, the wind biting at your exposed skin. Your throat made a high, panicked sound -  not quite a scream, more like a breath that didn’t know where to go.

You looked up.

He was still there.

Watching.

Silent.

You saw his shoulders twitch. Just slightly. A sharp jerk, like a flinch he didn’t control.

Toby’s breath caught when you fell. It wasn’t the sound - though the gasp and the crunch of leaves had sent a jolt down his spine - it was the sight.

You on the ground.

Disheveled. Scared. Vulnerable.

His eyes locked on your legs again - bent beneath you, your skirt hitched slightly, those tights ripped wider now, the tear stretched, the exposed patch of skin marked with tiny red scrapes. You looked like you’d been touched by the forest itself. Like it had tried to claim you.

And he–

God, he wanted to.

He was practically vibrating now. His gloves twitched at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching. The hatchet at his hip felt heavier, like it knew.

And then he finally moved.

It was so sudden that your breath caught mid-gasp.

No warning - just a sharp twitch, a step forward, and then he was coming toward you. Not walking. Stalking. His movements were uneven, erratic, somehow both stiff and fluid. His feet hit the gravel with a crunch that sounded far too loud in the quiet woods. The wind rushed through the trees above, and still, all you could hear was the beat of your own terror in your chest and the heavy, deliberate sound of his approach.

You couldn’t even scream. You were frozen, bracing, a deer watching headlights. He was so much taller up close - broad in the shoulders, his arms held out slightly as he twitched, neck snapping once to the left with a brutal jerk.

And then - worst of all - he knelt.

Right in front of you.

No hesitation. Just dropped to his knees in the wet dirt like it meant nothing. His body still shaking, twitching violently - uncontrolled, constant. Like a machine with the wires torn out. And he reached for you.

“No–” you breathed, flinching, trying to crawl back, but your hands slipped on the cold leaves.

His gloved hands were suddenly on your leg.

Your scraped-up, exposed skin where your tights had torn. His touch wasn’t gentle - but it wasn’t rough, either. Just… curious. Intent. Fingers tracing the blood-speckled fabric, hovering just over the raw skin. The contact made you flinch so hard your back arched.

And you started crying.

Silent at first - just tears spilling without sound, slipping down your cheeks while your throat locked. But then your breath hitched, a tiny sob breaking free.

He saw.

His hand stilled. His head twitched sharply to one side, and then - slowly - he leaned forward and wiped the tear from your face with the back of his glove.

He looked… confused. Like he didn’t understand it. Like he didn’t understand you.

Then he mumbled something - almost inaudible beneath the mouth guard, voice warped and low, nearly swallowed by the wind:

“S-scared little b-bunny…”

Your heart stopped.

You didn’t know what possessed you.

Adrenaline flooded your bloodstream like a drug. Your vision tunneled. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, louder than your music, louder than the wind.

And in a flash of white-hot, terrified clarity - you moved.

You kicked him.

Hard.

Your foot connected with the center of his chest, right over his ribs - right between those stupid straps and layers. And for one horrible second, nothing happened.

Then he stumbled.

He hadn’t expected it - not at all. He fell backward into the dirt with a harsh, choked sound, limbs flailing, one leg twitching out sharply as he hit the ground. You didn’t wait to see if he got back up.

Your hands went to your feet, fingers yanking the straps of your kitten heels loose, ripping them off with ragged movements. A buckle broke. One heel went flying into the brush.

And then you were up.

Running.

Barefoot. Legs burning. Skirt flapping. Cold air clawing at your face as branches whipped past, the tights on the bottoms of your feet tearing with every desperate step - splitting open against gravel and sticks, skin scraping raw beneath them.

You didn’t dare look back.

Not even once.

You just ran.

And you didn’t stop running.

Not when the trail curved, not when your lungs burned, not even when sharp gravel embedded itself into your bare feet through the shredded remnants of your tights. Every crack of a branch behind you sounded like a footstep. Every gust of wind felt like it carried breath. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

Your street came into view like a mirage - that familiar bend, the old lamppost buzzing faintly in the night. The porch light on your front stoop glowed soft and yellow, like a distant lighthouse.

You stumbled up the steps, nearly tripping on your own numb feet.

Fumbling.

Keys. Where were your keys–?

Your fingers were shaking so badly you almost dropped them. The moment the lock clicked, you shoved the door open, slammed it behind you, and turned the deadbolt so hard it rattled the frame. Then the chain. Then the second lock.

Only when it was done did you let yourself breathe.

You backed away from the door, heartbeat thudding painfully in your chest. Your hands hovered at your sides, twitching, still ready to move, still ready to fight even though you were home. Even though you were safe.

And then it all crashed in.

Your knees gave out.

You collapsed right there in the entryway, half on the doormat, half on the cold wood floor, your torn tights crumpled beneath you, scraped feet stinging now that you were still. Your body trembled with leftover adrenaline, and a sound slipped from your lips - broken and dazed.

“…What the fuck…”

It came out as barely more than a whisper. Then again.

“…What the fuck…”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, curling into a loose ball on the floor, the warmth of the house not touching you yet. Every blink brought flashes of him - the goggles, the twitching, the voice. That low, garbled mumble:

Scared little bunny.

Your breath hitched.

You didn’t know what that was. Who that was. Or why he had just let you go. But you knew this: he’d touched you like he wanted to keep you. And that terrified you more than anything else.

A week passed.

The bruises faded. The scrapes scabbed over. You bought new tights, threw the old ones away without even thinking. You told yourself you were fine. And maybe… you almost were.

You didn’t tell anyone. What would you even say? That some twitching, masked stranger came out of the woods like a glitch in reality and stared at you like he was memorizing your face? That he touched you like a child studying a butterfly - gentle and fascinated - but held a hatchet on his hip like it was a third limb?

It didn’t make sense out loud.

So you buried it. You worked. You cleaned. You met a friend for coffee and laughed a little too loud. You avoided the woods. You didn’t even glance down that path when you passed the edge of it.

You made yourself a promise: never again.

It was just a one-time thing. A freak incident.

You were safe now.

You almost believed it.

Until the morning everything broke again.

You were halfway out the door, travel mug in hand, scarf slung over your shoulder, when you opened your front door–

And froze.

There, sitting neatly on your porch like a fucking offering, were the pink kitten heels.

Your pink kitten heels.

The ones you’d ripped off your feet and left behind in the forest like a discarded second skin. Still dirty. Still scuffed. One of the buckles was hanging on by a thread, stretched from the way you’d torn them loose in a panic.

You stared.

Your heart didn’t race at first. It stopped.

The mug slipped from your hand and hit the floor inside the doorway, splashing lukewarm coffee across the tile. You didn’t even flinch.

There was no note. No message. Nothing else.

Just the shoes.

Perfectly lined up.

Waiting.

Your breath hitched sharply, and you stumbled backward, hand flying to your mouth like it would stop the scream rising in your throat. You slammed the door shut with a loud, shaking bang and fumbled with the locks, turning them all in a rush, breath coming in ragged gasps.

He had been here.

Not just here - at your home.

He knew where you lived.

You backed away from the door until your spine hit the wall, and then you slid to the floor, trembling all over again like it was that night in the woods.

You didn’t know it, but you were being watched.

From across the road - just past the edge of the property line, where the perfectly trimmed lawns gave way to dense, quiet trees. That sliver of forest that always felt a little too close. A little too dark, even during the day.

He was standing there, half-concealed behind a wide-bellied tree, just far enough to be hidden in the green, just close enough to see everything.

Toby’s body was still, but twitching.

His gloved fingers curled around the rough bark. His head tilted ever so slightly to the right, goggles catching faint reflections of your porch light as he stared across the quiet street. Breathing heavy. Focused.

He had been watching since before dawn.

He wanted to see your face.

He thought about it all week - your reaction. Would you smile? Cry? Whisper “thank you” to the sky like some girl in a dream who understood him?

Instead, you flinched. You recoiled like he’d slapped you. Hid from the gift he left you with shaking hands.

His head twitched. Shoulders jerking. The breath in his mask hitched sharply.

He didn’t understand.

Wasn’t this what you wanted?

He’d returned what you’d lost. The shoes. The part of you that had touched him - scraped skin and nylon and fear. It had felt like a connection. Like the start of something.

But now…

His gloves clenched on the ledge beneath him, leather creaking faintly.

You were afraid. Afraid of him.

Not grateful. Not soft. Not like before.

And worse - maybe even angry.

He could see it in the way your jaw clenched, the way your shoulders shook with something other than just fear.

Toby didn’t know what to do with that.

But one thing he did know: He wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

He stayed there long after you were gone.

Still, breathing shallow behind the trees, watching your front door like it might swing open again. Like maybe you’d come out and correct your reaction - smile, laugh, thank him, say his name (even though you didn’t know it yet).

But you didn’t.

And when the sun finally rose a little higher, and the warmth of the morning light began to wash over the neighborhood like nothing had happened - Toby turned.

He slipped back into the woods like smoke.

Each step deeper into the treeline made his breathing sharper. Harder. His jaw clicked audibly beneath the mouth guard, a tic slamming through his neck that jerked his head hard to the right.

She doesn’t get it.

The thought looped, over and over, like a corrupted tape. His hands twitched at his sides as he walked, gloves flexing and unflexing.

You had looked perfect that night. Lost and soft and afraid - a little bunny, alone in the woods. Your skin scraped, your legs trembling, tights torn like a gift. That look in your eyes. That tremble in your breath. And he had touched you. You’d let him.

His mind replayed the memory on an endless loop, each detail etched into his brain like acid. The way your leg shook under his gloved fingers. The hitch in your breathing as his hands roamed. He felt his dick twitch at the images in his head, his brain carrying him away with fantasies of you - how it would have felt if he’d forced himself on your trembling body, ripped those tights to shreds, shoved his dick into your wet– Fuck.

He adjusted his pants, a sigh escaping his lips. He had work to attend to, but he promised himself he was going to jerk off later. To thoughts of you, of course.

As he was walking, he wondered why you seemed to hate him. He didn’t understand. Hadn’t he been gentle? Hadn’t he returned what you dropped? Something you left behind - for him?

He stomped through a patch of wet leaves and bark, almost stumbling. His shoulder spasmed hard.

Maybe you were scared. Too scared. That made sense. You were delicate. He knew that. You needed more time. You needed… gestures. Proof. A way to feel safe with him. Comfortable. Seen.

He could give you that. He would.

You didn’t leave your house. The whole day.

The shoes were still there.

That’s what made your stomach churn every time you crept past the window - every time you dared to peek through the blinds. Those same pink kitten heels sat exactly where you’d found them. Neatly placed. One buckle still broken, fabric still smudged with dirt from that night.

He hadn’t taken them back.

He hadn’t added to them.

He’d just… left them.

Like a warning. Or a reminder.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What if he was watching to see what you’d do with them? What if the moment you touched them, it meant something - to him?

So you didn’t. You left them untouched. Like rotting fruit on an altar.

The rest of the house became a tomb. Every lock checked and rechecked. The TV played in the background constantly, noise to drown out the silence. You didn't dare go for a walk. You barely answered your phone.

But night was the worst.

Your bedroom sat on the second floor, nestled in the back corner of the house - the window facing the line of trees where the wild overgrowth began. You’d always loved that view. Loved leaving the curtains open just to let the morning sun in.

This time though, you’d pulled the curtains - thin and white and mostly decorative - but they didn’t shut all the way. There was a gap. A sliver. You’d meant to fix it a dozen times, get new, wider curtains.

But now that sliver of a gap might as well have been a gaping wound.

Because through that gap, framed in pale cotton and warm lamplight, you could be seen. Every movement. You stood in the middle of the room, too tired and shaken to think straight, peeling off your clothes like normal. Your shirt went first, arms lifting, skin catching the warm glow of your bedside lamp. Then the jeans, sliding down your hips, pooling on the floor. You sighed - just a human sound, unaware, exhausted.

You didn’t realize you were being watched.

From the woods across the backyard, hidden deep in the brush just beyond the edge of your garden lights, he stood.

Toby.

He’d been there for hours.

Motionless but twitching. Goggles catching faint moonlight. His shoulders jerked occasionally, one leg kicking the ground with irregular spasms, but his gaze - his gaze never left you.

He saw everything.

The bare stretch of your back. The delicate curve of your thighs. The way your panties hugged your hips - pale and soft and cut high, cheeky little things that rode up as you moved. Your ass was perfect. He stared like he was starving. Like he wasn’t sure whether to run, or to crawl forward and climb up to your window and press himself to the glass.

He felt lightheaded.

He hadn't known you wore things like that. Tiny panties. You were such a slut.

He didn't know how to breathe with that much skin showing.

In his mind, you were only teasing him further as your two hands moved to your back, unclasping your bra without warning. Your tits bounced slightly, now free and revealed, as you left your bra on the back of your desk chair. 

Toby was practically drooling, his eyes zeroed in on your chest. His hands moved on pure instinct, one shoving at his pants until they pooled around his knees, the other freeing his aching cock.

He was frantically jerking himself off, his eyes never leaving you. “F-f-fUCK you’re a– such a sl-slut–” he mumbled. He'd fantasized about this moment countless times, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing your body. So soft, so beautiful. 

He came in seconds, spilling into his clenched fist, his climax crashing over him like a tidal wave. His whole body felt like it was on fire, his legs trembling. He leaned against the tree, a tic in his shoulder making him slam his arm into the bark with a dull thud.

You were moving now, ass swaying a little as you grabbed a nightgown from your closet. You pulled it on, and then you were on your way to the bathroom, probably to brush your teeth. 

By the time you were back in your bedroom, turning off the lights and slipping into bed, Toby was gone.

You barely slept.

Every noise outside your window had your nerves singing - a creak, a gust of wind, the scrape of branches too close to the siding. Your house, once cozy, had become a mausoleum of dread. Every shadow felt like a watchful eye. Every silence, a breath held.

But life didn’t stop just because yours felt like it was tilting sideways.

So you dressed, got ready for work.

Not carefully - not like usual. You threw on the first decent dress you could find, pulled a pair of black tights up your legs, the new ones, and smoothed them out with quick hands. Your hair was barely brushed, your concealer just thick enough to hide the bags under your eyes. 

And you didn’t look at the kitten heels on the porch on your way out. Not once.

Bag slung across your shoulder, you walked to the bus stop fast, arms folded tight, boots hitting pavement with rapid, anxious steps.

Work passed in a blur.

The whole time - the whole entire day - your mind kept drifting back to the porch. To the shoes. To him.

Did he know your name?

Did he know where you worked?

Had he followed you before - on one of your harmless, quiet walks through the trees when the air was still crisp and clean and you didn’t think monsters existed?

Now everything felt like a setup. Like he’d been waiting.

It was already dark when you stepped off the bus after work.

The streetlights hummed faintly, casting puddles of yellow over the cracked sidewalk. You walked slower this time, hyper-aware of every sound - the creak of branches overhead, the wind rustling through bushes, the distant thrum of a dog barking.

You didn’t want to go home. You wanted to turn around, walk until your legs gave out, disappear somewhere busy and bright and full of strangers.

But you didn’t.

Your house appeared around the bend, small and quiet and exactly as you left it - porch light on, curtains drawn, blinds pulled tight.

Your steps slowed.

The porch came into view.

And your heart stopped.

The shoes were gone.

The pink kitten heels. The ones you left behind in the forest. The ones he returned like a trophy. They had sat there all day, untouched, their silence screaming.

And now they weren’t there.

You froze halfway up the walk, something cold unfurling in your gut like ice water spilling inside you.

Lying there, in their place, was a rabbit.

White.

Dead.

It wasn’t posed grotesquely - no visible wounds, no blood matted in the fur. But its eyes were glassy, wide and staring, head tilted unnaturally to one side. Its body was small, too small, like something fragile crushed under the weight of something it didn’t understand.

The sight of it hit you like a punch in the stomach.

You staggered back, hand flying to your mouth, bile scraping the back of your throat. You couldn’t look away, not yet. Your mind was trying to make sense of it. But your body already knew what this was.

A message.

The world narrowed. The chill of the evening closed in. Streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting pale yellow halos, but all the light in the world couldn’t touch the cold that was blooming in your chest.

He had left this.

He had taken the shoes and left… this.

And then you remembered.

Your breath caught in your throat.

His voice - garbled, stuttering, low and strange behind the mouth guard: "S-Scared little b-bunny..."

Your knees nearly gave out.

The memory flooded in, uninvited. The woods. His twitching silhouette. The rough brush of his gloved hand on your leg. The hatchet. The way he had stared at you, like he wanted to crawl inside of you.

Bunny.

You scrambled inside.

The door slammed hard enough behind you to rattle the hinges. You didn’t even bother locking it - your panic was too immediate, too consuming. Your heart was beating so loud you thought your neighbors might hear it.

The house was warm but suffocating, every shadow too dark, every silence too heavy. You stepped backward, stumbling slightly in your boots, until your back hit the opposite wall.

You blinked.

You needed to see. Needed to make sure he wasn’t inside, not waiting in the dark spaces you didn’t check often enough.

And then - without thinking - you bolted upstairs.

The hallway was dim. Your bedroom door was half-closed.

You had left it open that morning. You were sure of it.

But now it was ajar. Just a crack. Enough to show the edge of your bedframe. Enough to make your stomach twist.

You pushed it open slowly.

The room was cold.

You stepped inside, eyes sweeping every corner, scanning instinctively - under the bed, the closet door, the window latch–

–and then you saw it.

On the bed.

Laid neatly atop your pale comforter, like something tucked in and waiting for you, were the pink kitten heels.

Still dirty.

Still scuffed.

Still marked by your escape.

One buckle broken, dangling limply.

Your legs nearly gave out.

The world tilted. Your head swam. Every cell in your body screamed wrong wrong wrong.

You hadn’t brought those inside.

No one should’ve been able to.

You clutched the doorframe, using it to keep yourself upright, staring at the shoes like they might move again. Like they might stand up and walk toward you, possessed by the memory of that night.

And worst of all - you knew exactly what it meant.

He had been inside.

At some point - while you had been at work - he had come in.

He had been in your bedroom.

You stumbled to your bed, every muscle in your body trembling. Your eyes never left the shoes. 

They sat there like they belonged. Like they had been waiting for you.

The air felt heavier near them. Charged. You could almost hear the woods again - the wind, the cracking branches, the click of your heels on gravel. The panic. The fall.

And then…

A sound.

Behind you.

Soft. Almost nothing. Just the creak of a floorboard where no weight should’ve been. But you heard it.

You froze.

Didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

The cold behind your neck wasn’t just air. It was presence.

Then came another sound - a click, sharp and jerky, like something metallic being knocked against a jacket zipper. Familiar. Awful.

You turned.

He was there.

Standing in your doorway like a nightmare that had followed you home.

Same dark jacket. Same gloves. The industrial mouth guard glinting faintly in the low light, its edges catching your lamp’s glow. Goggles rested high on his forehead, his hair wild and tangled from wind or movement. His shoulders twitched with small, erratic spasms, neck jerking to one side like something in him was miswired.

You couldn’t breathe. You wanted to scream - your body begged you to - but no sound came out. You were locked in place. Trapped.

He stood still. Watching you.

Then he stepped forward.

One foot. Then another.

The movement was uneven. Wrong. Like he was marionetted by invisible strings that didn’t pull the way they should.

You backed up instinctively, legs hitting the edge of your bed. Your hand shot out behind you, bracing yourself against the mattress. Your knees bent slightly, ready to bolt, to collapse, to fight - anything.

He stood there, two feet inside your room now. Head tilted. Breathing slow and audible behind the metal covering his mouth.

His voice came next, garbled and raw behind the mask. Broken by tics and something deeper:

“…Y-you… l-left them…” he rasped. “I b-b-brought them b-buh-back…”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your lips trembled, mouth parting, but nothing came.

His head twitched again, violently this time, like a spasm he couldn’t stop.

“I… w-w-wanted… y-you… to h-have them–”

He took another step forward.

You shifted instinctively, now seated on the foot of the bed, but leaning away from him. You could barely hear over your heartbeat. The air buzzed with panic. The walls felt too close. The silence between you was unbearable.

Then he spoke. Low. Muffled. Halting. “Did… d-did you see it?”

You blinked, not understanding.

His head twitched once, sharp to the side. He kept going, words spilling like stones down stairs - unsteady, excited. “Th-the… the bunny. O-on the porch. I–I left it. For you.”

Your stomach turned.

You shook your head before you even realized you were doing it, lips parting in horror. He saw. And something in him lit up.

He took another step. “I kn-knew you’d see. I–I saw you see it.”

His voice rose slightly. Too eager. Like he was proud. “It–It looked like you. L-little. Pretty. Soft. Like you were. In the woods.”

Your whole body tensed.

He saw that too.

Something flickered in his eyes - confusion? Disappointment? His hand twitched at his side, curling into a loose fist. “You… you d-didn’t l-like it?”

You said nothing.

Because what was there to say?

His voice changed. “Ungrateful bitch.”

The words landed like a slap.

He didn’t shout it - it came out through clenched teeth, sharp and sudden, like something that slipped past a filter he hadn’t meant to drop.

You flinched.

He noticed that too.

Instantly, his expression shifted again. His posture softened. The fury melted, warped into something pleading.

“I–sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

His head snapped to the right, then back to center, like a broken puppet yanked by invisible strings. His tone shifted - lower now, more clipped, voice grating with something that sounded close to irritation.

“I t-tried. You l-left me those sh-shoes like a trail. Like a g-gift. I brought them b-back.”

He gestured suddenly - jerky and sharp - behind you, where the pink heels still sat.

“You left. You ran. You kicked me.”

Each word was louder than the last. His breath rasped through the guard. His hand twitched again - then both did. And just as fast, his voice dropped again.

Soft. Uncertain. “…But… I fo-forgave you.”

You blinked, slow and dazed. Opened your mouth, closed it again. You didn’t know what to say, how to feel.

He looked at you, kept going. “You were s-scared. I g-get that. I’m scary. People say th-that. They don’t mean it but I hear it. I always hear it.”

He was pacing now. Not smoothly - like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or bolt. His limbs jerked with every step, but his voice tried to stay even. Calm. Reassuring. Like you were the one being unreasonable. 

“But y-you were nice. In the woods. You said hi. No one does that.”

He paused. Looked at you full-on. “That meant s-some-ttt–something.”

Your stomach dropped.

He smiled behind the mask - you couldn’t see it, but you felt it. Something in the tilt of his head, the sudden stillness. The way he breathed, heavier now, slower.

And then, with a flicker of excitement, he added: “I w-watched you. Last night. Through your window.”

Your eyes went wide.

“You wore th-those tiny panties.”

Your hands gripped the mattress, white-knuckled. You could feel the blood rush to your cheeks, couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Those words were enough to drag you back into reality. “What?” your voice was small and trembling, your eyes locked on him now.

He chuckled. It was a boyish sound, almost pleasant. 

“Yeahhh… mhm. Baby, I– saw it all. You muh-made me so– hard”.

Jesus Christ. This guy was clearly insane. But the way he was looking at you, his gaze undressing you, only made your cheeks turn a deeper shade of crimson. You had never had a guy say that to you before. Not like that. Not with that kind of certainty. No teasing, no blush, no stumble. Just possession. Like he had already decided you were his, and your approval didn’t factor in.

“You’re b-blushing,” he said, voice low, with a maddening mix of amusement and certainty. Like he was cataloging your reactions, tucking them away for later use.

You jerked your gaze away, but it was too late. He’d seen it - seen all of it. The flush in your cheeks, the way your breath caught, the subtle tremble in your fingers. You hated that he was right. Hated it more that part of you responded to it. To him.

He stepped closer, slow and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure if he was crossing a line (he’d crossed it a long time ago). His knee brushed against yours, a spark that jolted through you and made you gasp, and he didn’t move away.

You looked up at him, your throat tightening. He was towering over you, strikingly tall.

His eyes dropped for half a second, flicking to the hem of your dress, then jerking back up to your face. “Th-that dr–dress is… it’s–f-fuck. I mean, it’s r-really… uh, SLUTTY-nice. It’s– nice.” His lips twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite trust himself to.

You blinked. “...Thanks?” It was just a casual dress, you’d worn it to work many times, it really wasn’t anything special. A little low cut, sure, but nothing crazy. Still, he seemed to really like it.

The silence stretched, thick and tight between you, until you were aware of every shallow breath, every nerve ending. His knee stayed pressed against yours, deliberate now. He tilted his head, eyes flicking over your face, not so much admiring as studying. Measuring your response. Consuming it.

“D-distracting,” he murmured again, voice lower. “It r–rides up when y-you sit like that.”

 A beat.

Then, his hand reached out. Touched you. His hand lingered just above the crease of your knee, the fabric of your tights warm beneath his touch. He glanced down, fingers brushing lightly over the smooth black nylon, and his breath hitched - barely, but you cought it.

“Y-you wore…” His jaw twitched, and he blinked hard. His shoulder twitched next, just once, like a pulse beneath his skin. He swallowed. “Wore s–s-some like… like th–that. In the woods.”

You nodded, slow. You remembered, of course. 

He cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Th–those were r–ripped.” A blink. Then, almost to himself, “You fell and– they ri-ripped m-more.”

There’s a beat where you think he’s finished, but then he laughs - quiet, low, without humor. His hand shifts on your leg, his thumb dragging slowly along the smooth nylon. “These are… they’re n–new. Clean.”

You can feel how hard he’s working to hold the words in line, to push past the stutter and the blinking and the sharp little twitches that keep slipping through. But the way he looks at you? That part’s smooth. Fluid. Heavy with meaning.

You hadn’t pulled away. Not yet. But your breath had hitched, and your muscles had gone tight beneath his hand. He noticed. Of course he did.

Your pulse thudded in your throat, from danger - but from something else too. You couldn’t name it. A thrill tangled with unease, sharp-edged and confusing. You weren’t sure what he would do next. You weren’t sure what you wanted him to.

He studied you carefully, not just watching but reading. The small changes in your breathing, the set of your shoulders, the way your eyes flicked down, then back to his.

“You’re s-scared,” he said, almost gently. Not an accusation. Just fact. He blinked, the tic in his jaw flaring again, his shoulder jerking once. “But you’re… y-you’re not running.”

That was true. You weren’t. You could have shifted away - he hadn’t trapped you. You could have said no. But you didn’t. Would he even have listened? 

Truth be told, you had been convinced he was here to kill you. End you, once and for all. The dead bunny on your porch felt like a clear message conveying just that. But now, hearing him talk, feeling him touch you - almost gently - you understood. He liked you. Wanted you. And some messed up part of you was flattered.

You didn’t say anything. Just breathed - slow, shaky. His hand hadn’t moved, and neither had you. But the silence between you had changed again, softening around the edges.

And then…Fuck, you shifted.

It was small. Barely there. A tilt of your knee, the slightest lean toward him. But his hand, still resting against the black nylon, felt the change instantly. You’d moved into him, not away.

His breath caught. What the fuck? His eyes flicked up to yours in a heartbeat, wide, searching.

You didn’t look away.

To him, this was you giving him permission. Telling him to go ahead, to do whatever the hell he desired. And he took you up on that offer, immediately. 

Rough hands grabbed the fabric of your dress. With one violent motion, he yanked the dress off, the sound of tearing fabric slicing through the silence like a scream.

The ruined dress landed somewhere across the room.

You were left in your underwear and those damn sheer tights. You gasped, covering yourself instinctively, but his hands found yours and pushed them away with the same desperation that had been building in him since the moment he walked in. 

A moan escaped him at the sight of you - low, unfiltered, like it slipped from somewhere deep in his chest without permission.

His hands twitched at your sides, gloves creaking as he tried to still them. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven, like he didn’t know whether to fall apart or pull you in.

“G-god,” he muttered, jaw locking, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “You’re… you’re k-killing me Bunny.”

The name hit you harder than the torn dress or the way his hands shook against your skin. Bunny.

Your breath caught, not from the cold, not from embarrassment - but from that one word, cracked and trembling on his lips like it had meaning. Like it was more than just a nickname. Like it was something he didn’t hand out freely.

He reached out again, slower this time, as if afraid you might vanish. His fingers brushed your waist, your ribs, lingering like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with shaking hands.

His eyes trailed down to your chest, then lower, lower, lower, swallowing thickly as they finally landed on your thighs, wrapped in those sheer black tights. So sheer they may as well have been painted on, leaving nothing to the imagination. And underneath them–God–the curve of your panties was clearly visible. Black. Delicate. The lace soft and thin against your skin, hugging your hips like a secret not meant to be seen, yet now fully exposed to him. His stare locked there, unblinking. 

You were staring back, at him. Or rather, the mask. The guard. That thick, black thing always strapped to his face like armor. You’d wondered about it more times than you wanted to admit. What was underneath? What was he hiding? Was he… ugly?

Your curiosity wasn’t clean. It wasn’t sweet or polite. It had a darker edge to it - morbid, almost.

You’d caught shadows of his jaw before, flickers of bare skin when he adjusted it in a hurry. The scars on his neck told stories his mouth never did. And sometimes, when he spoke low, his voice slipped around the edges of the guard in ways that made you imagine what his lips looked like, how they moved. You’d imagined his mouth twisted in a real smirk. His grin without the muzzle. His anger without the barrier.

You didn’t want to see it just out of vanity. You wanted to understand it. You wanted to understand him, and whatever it was about his face that he thought needed to be locked away like a weapon.

It wasn’t just morbid curiosity. It was intimacy, carved out of raw fascination. And yet… part of you was afraid.

Afraid that when he finally pulled it off, he wouldn’t just be different - he’d be right. Right to be afraid of what you’d think. Right to cover himself up at all times.

Your voice cut through the heat between you like a blade. A soft one. “May I see you?”

His body stiffened instantly, like the question hit him somewhere between pride and panic. His head jerked with a tic, once - twice - then stilled just enough for him to stare at you. Like you’d asked him to bleed.

“What–my face?” he scoffed, sharp and too loud, more reflex than real protest. “Hah, ohh… cuh-curious little g-g-girl. Wanna s-see the freakshow up close?”

You raised your chin a little, unshaken. “I– just want to see you.”

His lips curled under the guard, a smirk you couldn’t quite see but felt anyway. A scoff rumbled out of him as he paced a short circle, head jerking with another tic.

Then it came - quick and sharp, without warning:  “S-slut.”

The word hit the air like a hammer.

You blinked, but didn’t recoil. You knew that tic by now, the one that struck like a snake but didn’t carry venom. Still, the silence after it hung thick.

He glanced at you sideways, smirk twitching. “Hh-heh. That one snuck out.” He didn’t say sorry. Just looked at you with that lazy tilt of his head like you knew what this was.

“Well,” he continued. “d-don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered, more to himself than you.

And then, without ceremony, he reached up and slowly unhooked the mouth guard from behind his ears.

The moment stretched.

Then, he let it fall.

The guard dropped to the floor with a quiet, metallic clink.

And you saw him.

The long, jagged gash split up the left side of his mouth - pink and silver and raw, his teeth visible through it in a way that felt permanently vulnerable. Wrong, but also... weirdly endearing. A constant, twisted half-smile carved into his face.

But beyond it - beyond the scar?

He was pretty.

Messy brown hair that curled awkwardly at the ends. Deep-set eyes, the kind that looked too tired for his age. Full lashes. That half-grin, real this time, cocky and crooked in a way that said he knew he was being watched.

“Well?” he asked, twitching, arms folding across his chest. “Happy now?”

You stared for a second too long. He noticed. 

And then you nodded slowly, and let out a quiet hum, like the sound slipped out before you could think.

“…Yes,” you murmured, “thank you.”

Toby didn’t say anything. He just looked at you.

A twitch jerked his eye, and one corner of his mouth pulled up - not into a smile, not exactly. Just a look. Mocking, almost. Not exactly with meanness, but something sharper. Like he didn’t know what to do with your answer, so he filed it away behind ridicule and half-lowered eyes.

Then, without a word, he moved.

His hands twitched as he reached up, pushing the scratched goggles from his forehead and tossing them to the floor. Next came the jacket - heavy, worn, hanging off him like a second skin. He slid it down with rough, unsteady movements, his shoulders twitching beneath the fabric. He dropped it beside the goggles.

You watched, breath caught in your throat.

Next, he grabbed the hem of his shirt. He hesitated for only a second, then pulled it up over his head in one motion. His ribs flexed with the movement, the muscles beneath his skin tightening as the shirt came off.

That’s when you saw them.

Scars. Wounds. Bruises.

All of it.

His chest, his arms, his sides - his skin told the story his mouth never had. Jagged scars running like fault lines. Burn marks in strange, scattered patterns. Bruises old and new, some deep purple, others yellowed and fading. His collarbone looked like it had been broken once, maybe more. His left shoulder bore what looked like a deep, jagged knife wound long since healed, but still angry-looking.

Toby’s breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling fast. Not from exertion, from exposure. From the silence. He kept going.

He pulled off his gloves, one finger at a time, slow, deliberate. His hands were scarred too - knuckles scraped, a few fingers crooked like they’d been broken and never set right.

Then came the belt. He yanked it open, the leather slipping through its loops, the metal buckle hitting the floor with a hard clink.

But that wasn’t the sound that made your breath catch.

He reached down and unclipped the one thing he hadn’t taken off yet - his hatchet.

It had been resting against his hip the whole time, mostly forgotten in the moment’s tension. But now, with silent purpose, he lifted it from the loop and turned, stepping toward you.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then - he set it down.

Right next to you.

On the bed.

Steel and wood and weight.

Like a statement. Like a threat. Like a reminder.

You could feel the weight of it in the mattress beside your thigh. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t touched you yet. That did.

Your eyes flicked up to his, heart hammering. He wasn’t smirking now. Wasn’t mocking.

Just watching you. Waiting.

The breath hitched in your throat. 

And your thighs shifted. Tightened.

A flush rose to your face the moment you felt it, shame and heat crawling up your neck. But it was too late - he saw it.

His head snapped with a tic, a sharp jerk to the side, and when he looked back at you, something in his eyes had changed.

Without a word, he crossed the space between you again.

And then–rip.

You gasped aloud as the sound tore through the quiet, sharp and obscene. His hands had found the fabric of your tights, and with one hard yank, they were ripped straight through - shredded at the seam, pulled wide open like they’d been in his way for far too long, exposing the soft flesh of your thighs.

“Mm–m-much better,” he muttered, his voice low, rough, lips twitching around the edges of that ruined smile. The words were playful, but mostly hungry.

And then his lips were on yours. No warning. Slammed. It was chaotic and sudden, the way everything about him was - messy, a little desperate, all teeth and breath and the press of his scarred chest against yours.

Your back hit the mattress as the weight of him pushed forward, not crushing but consuming, like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough. His hands landed on either side of you, bracing himself, twitching, knuckles scraping the sheets like even gravity couldn’t pin him down. You could feel the scar at the corner of his mouth brush against your lips, rough and sensitive, like it made him feel more.

His voice broke into the kiss, barely audible, teeth gritted and breath sharp:

“I’m– gonna b-break you…you know that, rrr-right? ”

A threat. A test. A truth he couldn’t stop himself from telling. 

You could only nod dumbly, your wide eyes staring at his.  

His eyes searched yours, flickering and wide, as if he was waiting for the panic to hit you. For you to come to your senses. For you to run. But you didn’t. 

And then he was moving again. His hands jerked downward, rough and clumsy, with a kind of urgency that had nothing to do with lust alone and everything to do with panic and hunger and wanting too much for too long.

You barely had time to gasp.

The ruined tights you were still wearing - already torn at the thigh - gave with one swift pull. A sharp, ugly sound tore through the room as fabric split wide between your legs, shredded in seconds like they were never meant to be there at all, leaving a hole in the crotch area that completely exposed your panties.   

You felt the cold air hit your skin. Then the warmth of his hand.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t check your reaction this time. He just looked.

And then - with one trembling hand - he hooked his fingers around the edge of your panties and pushed them aside. Not entirely off. Just enough.

The breath he let out was wrecked. Like even the sight of you, like this, open to him, not entirely afraid anymore, was something he couldn’t wrap his brain around. Like his body had gotten here before his mind could catch up.

He slipped two fingers inside you. The stretch, the sensation of being filled, drew a whimper from your throat. He curled them just so, finding that spot inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids. 

“Ahhh… so wet a-already. You– you’re nuh-nastier than I thought”. His voice, deep and husky, made you moan, quiet and broken, your hips rolling down to meet his hand. It was too much, too fast, too good, and yet not enough at all. 

Your nails raked down his arms, leaving red welts in their wake, and he didn't stop, didn't even falter, barely seemed to notice it. He just kept touching you, kept stroking that spot inside that made you see white. You were so close already, teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful. His fingers moved faster, plunged deeper, and then he slipped in a third finger, stretching you further. 

His mouth came down to meet your jaw, biting and sucking, marking you up so thoroughly that anyone who saw you afterwards would know exactly what you'd been doing. The thought only wound you tighter, made you clench around his fingers as he fucked you with them, hard and deep and relentless. 

You could feel the pressure building, building, building, until finally it crested and broke and you were coming with a cry, coming so hard you saw stars, coming so hard you forgot your own name. He worked you through it, gentling his touch even as he kept you suspended in that perfect, endless moment. And then, finally, you were drifting down, boneless and sated, barely aware of his fingers slipping free of your oversensitized flesh. 

Your eyes fluttered open to find him watching you, his expression equal parts awed and hungry, his eyes dark with promise. He brought his hand to his mouth, sucked your essence from his fingers with a low, appreciative groan. "Fffff-fuck," he breathed, "you taste even b-better than I imagined."

And then– impact. You felt a sharp sting across your sensitive cunt - his hand had swung down and slapped you, hard, his palm connecting with your tender folds. Your eyes flew open, glistening with tears from the sudden jolt of pain mixed with lingering pleasure. "Wha– why?" Your voice was hoarse, trembling and gasping for breath. The stinging sensation spread through your core, a throbbing ache on your tender cunt.

But he barely registered your question, too focused on the red bloom of his handprint on your skin. “Fuckin’ hell–y-you’re perfect” he growled, rubbing his palm over the affected area, reigniting the burn. He twitched, neck snapping to the side, then back down to look at you. “Nnn-not g-gonna be gentle, Bunny.”

You never knew what version of him you were going to get. That was one of the first things you learned about this man. He could be quiet one moment - eyes down, voice cracking through his stutter, hands trembling like he couldn’t trust them not to break something. And then, in the next breath, he'd flip - bold, almost smug, like he wore his damage like a badge. Like he dared you to look too closely.

That switch, that volatility... it should’ve scared you.

But it didn’t. Not really.

It unsettled you, sure. Left your heart caught somewhere between compassion and something sharper, something hot and magnetic. Like standing too close to a live wire, knowing you shouldn’t touch, but wanting to anyway.

He said he wasn’t going to be gentle? Okay. Okay. 

You moaned desperately without meaning to. His head jerked again.

Your bra strap had slipped off your shoulder sometime in the chaos. Not completely, just enough. Bare skin. Collarbone. Vulnerable. It was a silent reminder to him that you were still not completely naked, that your tits were still covered up and hidden from him, and that seemed to piss him off suddenly. 

With a sharp tug, he yanked the whole bra down to your upper abdomen, freeing your breasts from the confines of it. He palmed the soft skin, tweaking one nipple between his fingers until it pebbled under his touch. He lowered his head, taking the other nipple into his warm mouth. His tongue swirled around the sensitive nub before sucking hard, making your back arch off the bed. Your fingers shyly tangled in his hair as he lavished your breasts with attention, alternating between gentle licks, rough sucks and bites until you were panting and writhing beneath him.

“Please…” you mumbled, not even knowing what you were asking for or what you wanted from him. You just needed him, every part of him, so bad. 

Mouth still full of your tit, his hands went behind your back, unclasping your bra. He threw the piece of underwear on the floor, hard, like it personally offended him.

You felt the heat between your legs, felt the wetness pooling and forming a small puddle under you. You were so painfully horny, stimulated, needy. You had never felt like this before and it practically transported you to another dimension.

You finally found the strength and courage to touch him, to put your hand on his skin. Your fingers landed low on his stomach, near the waistband of his pants. His muscles jumped under your touch.

His hand grabbed your wrist instantly, mouth reluctantly letting go of your swollen nipple.

A low growl, voice cracking. “Careful.”

Tic.

“You d-don’t know what you’re starting.”

He brought your hand lower. Forced you to feel how hard he was through his pants.

There was a brief moment - both of you panting, your lips swollen, his scarred mouth trembling. You thought maybe he’d pull away, or maybe he’d simply grab the hatchet that was lying right next to your thigh and just end you.

But then–

He pulled himself off of you.

He stood at the edge of the bed, chest rising and falling, twitching harder now - like his body couldn’t keep up with what was happening inside his head.

And then his fingers were at his waistband.

One jerk.

Then another.

He yanked his pants and boxers down roughly, with no grace or rhythm. Like he wasn’t doing it for show, wasn’t thinking about how it looked - only that he needed them off, now, before he exploded.

You sat up a little, breath caught in your throat. Your eyes trailed down - he was big, flushed, his thighs marked with bruises and old cuts just like the rest of him. He stood there for a beat, exposed and twitching, like he expected you to flinch.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t give you a chance to ask or react.

He just looked at you.

Dark-eyed. Desperate.

Like this was the only way he knew how to be real.

And then, voice low, breath rough: “S-s-stop me b-bitch. Rrgh–tell me to s-stop, or I’ll… I-I’ll keep going.”

His body was trembling - not from fear, but from need. From the pressure coiled so tight in his gut he didn’t know if he wanted to fall into you or fall apart.

You opened your legs a little wider.

And that was all the answer he needed.

Still towering over you, he leaned forward, grabbing a fistful of your hair and forcing you to sit up and face his cock. A sound escaped his mouth, something between a laugh and a groan, as he looked down at your pretty face. So flustered, so teary-eyed and ready for him. He couldn’t believe you were looking at his cock with so much hunger, so much desperate need.

"K-kiss my d-dick," he growled, giving your hair a sharp tug, holding his cock out for you. "Such a dissssgus-s-s–disgusting little–WHORE"

A whimper left your throat at his words, at the rough way he was handling you. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger. He could do anything he wanted to you and you'd have no choice but to take it.

You pressed your lips to the tip, planting a small kiss on it. Then another, and another. Your lips trembled every time they brushed against his cock, the heat of his skin searing your mouth. A full-body shudder raced through you at the taste, at the texture, his musky scent filling your nose and making your head swim. You could feel his eyes on you, boring into your skin, watching your every move with a predatory intensity that made your heart race.

"Ffffffuck," he groaned, his hips twitching forward, desperate for more of your mouth. He smacked his heavy cock against your cheek when he saw you looking up at him through your eyelashes. "O-open up baby."

Trembling, you parted your lips obediently, allowing him to feed his thick shaft into your hot mouth. You gagged a little as he forced himself deeper, which just made him chuckle breathlessly, clearly enjoying your discomfort.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as he forced himself down further, your lips stretched obscenely around his girth. You gagged and spluttered, drool dripping down your chin, making a mess of yourself. But he just growled in approval, his fingers tightening in your hair. "You– love this, d-dddon't you? Love being used like a-a-a… a little bitch."

He was going in and out of your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin with each thrust. The obscene sounds of your gagging and his grunts filled the room, echoing off the walls. In that moment, you were nothing but a receptacle for him, a warm wet hole to sink into. And God help you, but some dark, twisted part of you was loving every second of it.

He pulled away when you least expected it, his hand letting go of your hair in the process. You were left gasping for air, thighs trembling, tears running down your cheeks. 

The state you were in, the tears, the shaking, the way your breath still hitched in your chest like your lungs hadn’t caught up - it stirred something in him, made his cock ache. His jaw clenched, twitch jerking his neck to the side, and he looked at you, really looked, realizing just how bad he wanted to fuck you up. You looked so innocent, so pure - even like this.

He reached down, grabbing what was left of your tights - torn, clinging to your thighs like scraps of a moment that had already come undone - and yanked them down in one rough, final pull, along with your panties. The shredded fabric of the tights dragged along your skin, catching on your knees before he tossed it to the floor like it meant nothing. Seeing you naked, exposed - it meant everything.

You sat on the edge of the bed, legs bare, still shaking slightly.

Then you saw him move.

He didn’t say a word. Just reached down behind you and grabbed them - the pink kitten heels he’d placed on the bed earlier, just inches from the hatchet.

Still dirty. Still scuffed. Still yours.

One of the buckles barely clung to the strap, stretched and twisted from the way you’d torn them off in the woods. Like they’d been choking you. Like you needed to shed them or die.

But now he held them.

And without asking, without looking up at you first, he crouched down, slid one hand beneath your heel, and slipped the first shoe on your foot.

Then the other.

His hand lingered a moment longer than it needed to, scarred fingers pressing lightly to your ankle.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

Because the way he moved - slow, deliberate, twitching as he handled the worn heels - it wasn’t just care. It was something heavier. Something ritualistic. Like this meant something more to him than you'd ever guessed.

Then, finally, he looked up at you.

Eyes dark. Hooded. Something unreadable behind them.

Something close to obsession.

His lip curled just slightly, that ruined scar twitching along with the rest of him. Then he muttered it, almost like a confession. “You left ‘em behind,”

 He leaned closer, his breath warm against your knee.

 “But I picked ‘em up… and I j-jerked off with one of ‘em pressed to my f-fuckin’ face.”

His head twitched violently, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t look away.

His voice dropped even lower.

“Smelled like panic and perfume.” A short, ragged inhale. “S-s-still does.”

His fingers curled tighter around your ankle, almost possessively now, voice warping into something between adoration and obsession.

“And now you’re gonna wear ‘em… w-while I wreck what’s left of you.”

The words had hit you like a slap and a kiss at once - filthy and reverent, disgusting and intimate in a way that left your stomach in knots.

You felt his fingers tightening around your ankle, still holding you in place like the shoes themselves had shackled you back to him. His grip wasn’t hard, but it was intentional - the way someone holds something that doesn’t belong to them yet, but soon will.

You should’ve felt terrified. But you didn’t.

You felt heat.

Low. Deep. Dull and heavy between your legs.

And he was staring up at you. Waiting. Twitches jerking his head slightly, that half-smile curling just beneath the scar. Daring you to react.

To run. To flinch. To stay.

Your chest rose, unsteady. A tear slipped down your cheek again - not from fear this time. From how fucked up this all was. From how much you wanted it anyway.

Wanted him, like this. Unhinged. Dangerous. Yours.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned forward, your hand sliding into his messy hair, gripping at the roots as your lips hovered just above his.

And then, softly, your voice shaking:

“Then ruin me.”

His whole body twitched.

And he moved.

His hands were on you in an instant. A fist in your hair, yanking your head back so fast it stole the breath from your lungs. His other hand gripped your thigh, bruising, spreading you open without hesitation. His face was right there, scar grazing your cheek, breath hot and fast like he couldn’t breathe unless he was inside your skin.

“Say it,” he growled, voice low and cracking. “Say m-my fucking name.”

You froze.

Eyes wide. Lips parted.

But… nothing came out.

Because you didn’t know it.

You felt the heat in your stomach twist into something colder.

Your voice barely made it past your lips.  “I… I don’t know it.”

For a split second - silence.

Then his whole body jerked with a violent twitch. His breath hitched, sharp, like he’d just been stabbed. He ripped his hand away from your leg and shoved back from you, like this was all your fault.

His hand flew up.

CRACK.

The slap landed. Hard. Hot. Your head whipped to the side, hair scattering, lips parting on a gasp, ears ringing. A red bloom appeared on your cheek, bright and aching. Your whole body froze - not from pain. From shock. From recognition.

You turned back slowly. There was blood in your mouth, you could taste it.

His hand trembled. He didn’t back away. You didn’t miss the way his cock twitched slightly, still hard and solid, still glistening with your saliva from when he was fucking your mouth. 

He reached up, slowly now, and threaded his fingers into your hair. He stroked it back from your face like he was trying to erase the moment with tenderness, like if he was soft enough now, it would undo what came before.

“Toby.” he said. 

“Toby.” you echoed.

And the way his name sounded - falling from your lips, low and raw and trembling - wasn’t just a name. It was an ache, a sin, like you tasted him through the sound. He almost came then and there. Your voice, so sweet, saying his name like you belonged to him. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold himself still, trying not to lose control like a fucking teenager touched for the first time. “Yeahhh, yes, just– like t-that baby, k-keep saying it”.

His hands were on your thighs again, spreading them apart with force. You obliged, opening your legs and showing him your soaked pussy. He groaned at your eagerness, hands sneaking behind your knees and yanking you forward, your back hitting the mattress, your legs flying up.

He hoisted your legs over his broad shoulders, kitten heels scratching slightly at his neck, and then he was bottoming out inside you without warning. Your pussy was so, so tight. The squeeze of your inner muscles around his thick length robbed him of breath. His jaw tightened. Tic pulled at his cheek. “You’re–fuckin’–soaked.”

He was so big, you could almost feel him in your belly. He was stretching you out so good, you whimpered, hands fisting in the sheets beneath you. He chuckled slightly, the sound reverberating through his chest as he began to move. Each powerful thrust of his hips forced a gasp out of you. Your legs wobbled on his shoulders, the heels threatening to slip but he held you firm. You were lost in a haze of pleasure, nails coming to scrabble uselessly at his arms as he rutted into you. "Toby," you moaned. "yes, yes… please."

His swollen lips were slightly parted, pupils blown wide and dark with lust. He was a vision of desperate intensity, so focused on fucking you open on his cock. "Such a-a-a–SLUT" he growled, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs. "This p-pussy is–mine, you understand?"

A breathy moan tore from your throat as he hit that special spot inside you, pleasure sparking through your veins like electricity. You barely choked out an answer, “Yes…yes, Toby, yes, all yours.” He kept you spread wide, open and available as he used your body for his pleasure. You arched into him, meeting each brutal thrust of his hips.

The obscene slap of skin on skin echoed through the room, punctuated by the squelch of your arousal. He was relentless, fucking in and out of your clutching heat, grunting with the effort. "Fffffucking d-drenched," he panted. "Stupid little g-girl."

That usual twitch in his neck jerked his head to the side, and then he was sinking his teeth into your calf. A razor's edge of pain sparked through your oversensitized nerve endings, blurring the lines between agony and ecstasy. You keened, high and breathy, as he worked his way up your leg with dark intent.

"Mine," he growled against your flesh, the word muffled and guttural. "All mine."

He nipped and sucked, trailing fire in his wake. Each possessive mark sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, your core clenching greedily around his length. You were drowning in sensation, lost to the brutal rhythm of his hips and the sweet sting of his teeth.

Toby released your calf with a wet pop, his lips curving in a feral grin. "Look at y-you, spread out like a ffff-fuh-fucking feast" He notched himself impossibly deeper, grinding against that perfect spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

A choked sob tore from your throat as he angled his hips, dragging the thick head of his cock over your g-spot. The coil of tension in your gut wound tighter, coiling and pulling until you swore you'd shatter. His one hand found your lower abdomen, pressing down roughly as to feel his own length inside of you.

You wanted to cum so bad, you felt your release creeping up with every brutal move of his hips. But of course, he wasn’t going to let you. Not yet.

He pulled out, leaving you clenching around nothing with a desperate whine. Toby watched you with a predatory glint in his eyes, drinking in the sight of you splayed out and aching. "Beg," he demanded, his voice a dark rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Beg for it, and m-maybe I'll let you cum."

Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you didn't hesitate. "Please," you whimpered, too far gone to care about your pride. "Please, I need it. Need you." You writhed on the sheets, trying to grind down against him. "I'll do anything, just please let me cum."

Something dangerous flared in Toby's gaze, his grin widening, his tongue flicking over his bottom lip to wet it. "Oh, I'll let you cum Bunny," he promised. "But fuh-first, you're g-gonna earn it."

He flipped you over like a ragdoll, your face coming into contact with the mattress with a breathless gasp. He tapped your ass, once twice, signaling you to lift it up for him. You did immediately, ass up in the air, back arched like a cat, cunt dripping wet. 

Toby smacked your ass hard, the sound echoing in the room. "Good girl," he purred, pressing his weight on top of you. He nudged your legs further apart, his cock sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance. "Tell me hhhhhow muh-much you want it," he coaxed, voice low and filthy. 

You let out a broken moan, trying to push back against him. "So much," you sobbed, tears now freely streaming down your face. "I need it, please. Need you to fill me up, make me cum on your dick. I'll be so good for you, just please."

Toby's eyes darkened, he could barely believe what he was hearing, couldn’t believe this was real life. "Such a d-d-desperate little whore," he crooned, giving your ass one last hard smack. "Ah, alright, baby. You've e-earned it."

And then he was pushing into you, big cock splitting you open and stretching you wide. You nearly screamed at the sudden intrusion, back arching sharply as he once again filled you up. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him, desperately trying to draw him in even deeper.

He set a brutal pace, fucking into you hard and fast, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling your ears. He gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise the soft skin. One hand reached for your hair, suddenly yanking your head back, forcing your spine into an even more pronounced arch. He groaned at the sight, bicep flexing as he pulled you back onto his cock again and again.

You were tearing up, his iron grip on your hair making your whole head burn, his thrusts merciless. Your whole body trembled, and you almost, almost, couldn’t take it anymore.

“Toby, please… slow down, just–a little, please” you pleaded, eyes shut tightly, voice barely a whisper as your throat strained from the angle he'd forced your head into.

He said nothing. Without missing a beat, Toby simply reached over to the side, his hand closing around the handle of his forgotten hatchet that had been resting, innocently, on the bed - his eyes never leaving your shaking body in the process. 

You didn’t see him grab the weapon, but you certainly felt it when he laid it flat on your sweat slicked back, the cold metal making your blood freeze. Your whole body seized up, a choked scream lodging in your raw throat. Was this it? Was he gonna kill you, in the middle of pounding you silly? The mental image was so insane, so fucked up, you almost wanted to laugh.

But then, as he kept slamming into you, not slowing down, not letting go of your hair, you understood. He had warned you. It had been his way of saying try me again and I’ll end you, like I ended the bunny on your porch. So you were trapped between him and the sharp edge of his hatchet. Completely at his mercy, and utterly helpless to do anything but take what he gave. And somehow, that only made your cunt throb more, slick dripping pathetically down your thighs.

“Tuh-take it b-bitch, take m-m-my dick” he grunted, feeling you clench and drip on his length. The flat side of the blade of his hatchet was digging into your back, leaving a dull ache that pulsed with each move. You didn’t dare say another word - anything could provoke him, and the weight of the hatchet made it clear he wasn’t bluffing. One wrong word, one wrong twitch, and that flat side might become the sharp one.The thrill of it was dizzying, choking you like the scream you couldn’t unleash. You were his. Utterly. Irrevocably. Helplessly. And you’d never gotten off on anything so hard in your life.

You could feel every throb and twitch of his shaft as it stretched you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of climax with each brutal thrust. Toby's one hand never released your hair, yanking your head back time and time again, forcing you to arch painfully for him. "Toby, I’m– gonna cum" you squeaked, your eyes rolling back as the orgasm crashed over you in intense waves.

"Ffffffuck, your pussy… spasming on my d-dick so hhhhard," Toby snarled, picking up the pace until it felt like he was trying to fuck you through the mattress. "Keep t-tuh-taking it whore" With a few more erratic thrusts, he buried himself balls-deep inside you and came with a guttural groan. You could feel the hot spurts of his load filling your insides, marking you as his once again.

As the aftershocks dissipated, you felt him slowly lifting the hatchet away from you, the pressure easing like a storm reluctantly retreating. He dropped it on the floor with a dull thud that echoed louder than it should have in the stillness between you. The sound felt final. The warmth of your own fear still clung to your skin, sticky and electric. You didn’t turn around, couldn’t. Not yet. The second he let go of your hair, you fell forward on the mattress, face buried in the sheets. Your whole body ached. 

Toby slumped on his side beside you, propping his head up on his hand, watching you with that half-lidded stare that made it impossible to tell what he was really thinking. His softening cock still twitched weakly as it dripped your combined fluids. "Mmm...fuck, you t-took that s-so well," he whispered into your ear, touching your shoulder as if to get your attention. 

You weakly turned your head towards him, your cheek flat on the mattress, the whole front of your body still pressed into the bed, as if the weight of what just happened had physically pinned you there. 

His brown eyes were searching as they scanned the look on your face. You were exhausted, satisfied, a little scared. Scared of what would come next. And he saw that fear - he drank it in. His gaze lingered a little too long. Just studying you, memorizing you. Like he was deciding what version of himself to be next.

Then he smiled. “You’re perfect.”

He reached out and pushed a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear like a lover would.

“I didn’t m-mean to suh-scare you, doll,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate. His stutter softened the words, pulled at something in you that should have stayed untouched. The way he said doll - like it was a secret just for you - sent a strange warmth into your chest.

“I j-just get too in my head sometimes,” he said, eyes flicking between yours. “You… you get–” he stopped, jaw tightening with a tic, then forced the words out, “–get me out of it.”

You blinked slowly, still too heavy to move, but you turned into his touch just slightly. Barely. But enough that he noticed.

His smile deepened. 

Then, letting out a small sigh, he sat up, brushing his hair back with one hand, the other still lightly resting on your waist as if reluctant to let go completely.

You watched him quietly, your body aching but your gaze tracking his every move.

He stood and moved around the room like it belonged to him - and by extension, so did you. With practiced ease, he began to dress: boxers, then jeans. Belt threaded through the loops. Shirt pulled on, then his jacket. Gloves pulled on tight. Last, he picked up the hatchet from the floor, the handle catching the low light. He slid it into the strap at his side with quiet precision, like it mattered more than whatever he was leaving behind.

You shifted again, rolling carefully onto your back, breath catching for a second at the pull of bruised muscles. The ceiling blurred a little, then cleared. You turned your head, just enough to see him sliding on the mouth guard, then fitting the goggles high on his forehead. The transformation was jarring, like watching the man slip into the shell of something colder. Less human.

Still, he lingered. Standing in the doorway, his silhouette framed in the dim, flickering light.

“I’ll be back before you know it, little Bunny,” he said, muffled by the guard, but warm. Intimate. The nickname curled around your spine, soft and sharp at the same time - something that sounded sweet until you remembered why he called you that.

He waited a beat, watching you the way you imagined a wolf might watch something it didn’t want to kill, yet.

Then the door closed.

And you were alone.

Not free. Just alone.

The room was too quiet now, the scent of him still hanging in the air. Your body hurt. Your chest hurt worse. But beneath it all was a stillness that almost felt like disappointment.

➽──────────────❥

You moved in exactly a year ago.

New town, new you, or something like that. A house on the edge of nowhere, tucked into the treeline. When you’d initially bought it, shaking hands to seal the deal, nothing was out of the ordinary. The conversation itself was mundane, but there was a tension in the realtor's shoulders that made you uneasy. His eyes were constantly darting to the windows in every room, always glancing at something just out of sight. It was odd how he seemed so ready to bolt, like there was a threat he couldn’t tell you about, a hushed secret that outsiders weren’t supposed to know.

You had brushed it off, even when his palm trembled in yours far more than professional jitters allowed. Ignored it when his obvious apprehension built sky high as dusk started to set. This was a good deal, rare and reasonably priced on the market compared to the others. So you packed your bags and settled in, the memory of the troubled salesman long forgotten.

Until that night.

A week in, and you were decently satisfied. Arranging the built-in fire pit for some well-needed rest, when you’d heard it. A rustle of leaves along the borders. Your backyard stretched acres, the fields were vast, your home was isolated from neighbours, and the closest thing you had to civilization was a gas stop on the highway.

You weren’t superstitious by any means; logic came first. It was probably just a fox, attracted to the bright lights of your porch, not some ghastly ghoul that’d come to eat you, right? Shaking your head to rid the thoughts, you resumed your task. Your decor was homey, miscellaneous camping chairs you’d bought on a whim, all circling the bonfire you’d painstakingly started on your own. Armed with a pack of marshmallows and graham crackers, you sighed. Popping the fluffy treats on a cleaned stick and kicking your feet up.

The hearth looked borderline ancient, with scuffed brick and unused for at least a decade; it still worked like a charm, though. Enjoying the warmth, you should have been relaxed, the atmosphere serene, moon hanging bright over the clouds. The breeze was cool enough for a light sweater, comfortably chilled to perfection. There was just this feeling that wouldn’t leave you fully, the heaviness of being watched.

Overactive imagination had haunted you since childhood; that’s all it was, naive anxiety over things that didn’t exist. Yet the feeling of eyes on you only grew.

You had eaten through a quarter of the bag by now, distracting yourself with the sugary snacks barely worked, and the once peaceful evening had developed an edge. This was stupid; you were not going to ruin your long weekend because the person who sold you the home had anxiety. The rumours hadn’t helped much either; your trips to town were eventful, the people kind and considerate. It was whispers that made you pause, the look of shock, when you told them about your residence.

Patting your shoulder as if they pitied you, gaze drifting to the multitude of missing posters stapled on almost every corner. The words ‘how unfortunate’ were never spoken; you felt it anyway. The nonsensical worries flooded your mind, and you decided you were going to silence them once and for all. What’s the harm in checking? You were going to do a quick sweep along the perimeter, something to ease the tension.

You’d gone back inside and grabbed a flashlight, the metal snug in your hold. Feeling confident as you walked. This was just because the house was new, being unaccustomed to your surroundings, had you a little off-colour, that’s all. The beam swayed back and forth, searching between branches and shrubbery, but nothing. You were about to head back, ready to tell your friends the next day about your little adventure, when you caught it.

A figure, just stray of the spotlight. The shape of a hand, the rest completely swallowed by darkness. It didn’t even register at first; you were frozen, not screaming or sprinting, simply standing in place. Nearly unbothered, you slowly tilted the torch up, from his arm to his chest, your head angled back. His form never seemed to end, reaching to the leaves, you don’t know how you’d missed him before. Broad in an inhuman way, you had to step back to fully capture him in light, neck hurting from the strain.

The sight hits you full force when you see his face.

A dark blue mask, eyes barren with empty voids in exchange, he looked a part of the shadows themselves. Towering over you, only a few feet away. Cold sweat wracked your body. Donning a black sweater, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, you realized why his hand had confused you. His skin was grey. A muted charcoal, claws in place of dull nails. Stygian and blade-like at his fingertips, you were going to die tonight. It wasn’t even his appearance; it was how he carried himself.

The air around him reeked of death, making every instinct preinstalled in your blood scream danger. Your ancestors’ way of survival. A millennium of defining what it meant to be in the presence of a predator. Palms clammy, you were panicking; therefore, you said the first thing that came to mind.

“Please don’t eat me.”

Squeaked out in a pitiful attempt to be spared. He didn’t move an inch, stillness alienating. You were an anxious rambler; this time was no different. “I have marshmallows if you’re hungry?” Then, just barely, he leaned his head to the side, as if he was studying you. You continued anyway. It was a very, very dumb thought, but maybe he was friendly?

“You’re uh… super tall. That’s cool, you live around here, or you just prowl the trees for fun?” Awkward and sweaty, you laughed at your own joke. And despite being terrified, you did your best to crack a grin at him. He remained silent. Shifting from foot to foot, you stared at him, and he stared back. His eyes, or lack thereof, were boring into you, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Coughing into your fist once, you cleared your throat, “I just moved in, so, neighbours, am I right?” Shrugging, you chuckled.

He didn’t. “I think I’m gonna turn in, long day and all that. I’ll.. see you around, probably?” Cautiously backing up, you inched towards the house, facing him the entire way. By the time your heel made contact with the porch, he was still here, unmoving as ever. Now, a faint silhouette in the distance, you waved and shouted goodnight.

You didn’t sleep a wink.

➽──────────────❥

You truly, in honest to god truth, have no idea how you ended up here.

After your encounter, you began gaslighting yourself into thinking it was a fever dream. That plan immediately went down the drain when he started showing up. Frequently. At first, you’d been jumpy to say the least, stiff while you had your one-sided conversations. He’d show up at the threshold at random times during the week, always silent and as rigid as the day you’d met him. You didn’t know why he kept coming back, or why you’d light your bonfire and wait, you just did. Justified by the fact that if he wanted to hurt you, he would have already.

Over time, his attendance became less scary and more routine. You could rant, spew every living thought you had, and he’d just stand there. You weren’t even sure if he was paying attention; it was simply nice to get things off your chest. Then, he’d stopped looming in the evergreen, choosing to sit quietly on a stump a couple of steps behind your chair.

It was kind of charming the way he’d scrunch himself up to fit, the make-shift stool far too small. His hands folded neatly in his lap as he listened. The question of who he was and why he was forefront of your mind, he definitely wasn’t a run-of-the-mill man from what you could tell. Aside from the ashen skin and claws, you’d catch glimpses of pointed ears when he’d shift. Hidden under his hood, highlighted by the fire when the wind was in your favour.

You’d asked before, but you never really expected a response to be fair. Odd fashion choices, you supposed, but who were you to judge? You’d talk about unceremonious things, a show you’d started, a new recipe you tried, and he’d stay no matter how boring. You spoke to him the way you would a stuffed toy, not quite addressing him, more just filling the air. However, after another night in his mysterious company, it clicked. He was lonely. An answer so obvious that you were disappointed in yourself. The discussion wasn’t special or different than the others prior; the pieces just fused.

You couldn’t guess what he got up to in the daytime, but you thought you were well within your rights to assume he didn’t get out much.

The understanding changed your view of him entirely. And with that, the way you interacted did too. Your fear mellowing out into fondness, your talks stretching longer and longer. Finding comfort with him near, and whether you knew it or not, you were breaking him down. The walls he’d spent years building, soaring and impenetrable, were starting to chip. Jack kept his distance for good reason; he knew what he was. The thing parents would tell stories about to keep their young in bed, the shadow in the closet that you’d have nightmares of.

He was an abomination, born of violence and greed, sacrificed for the promise of grandeur. The ritual forsaking, binding him to walk the earth in chains. Imprisoned by the very hunger that had damned him. The appetite for blood. The need to take, stealing from the innocent, to feed. He had lived more lives than he could count, each more punishing than the last.

He hunted on autopilot, getting it over with and gorging himself full. It made him feel disgusted; most days, he’s numb, and on others, he screams until his throat is raw. An outsider in his own home, his peers wary at best, but he sees the way they judge. As if their hands are not as tainted as his, they talk amongst themselves, sharing meals and inside jokes, and he watches.

Their companionship refuses to extend. When passing around chips or confectionery, he’s skipped. Never considered, like the nourishment will be dirtied if he touches it. The worst part is, he can’t blame them. He doubts they’re aware he can even digest anything other than flesh; how could they? When he returns, emanating finality, when he walks past with crimson dripping from beneath his mask. He hates it, being the boogeyman, even amid monsters.

That’s why you were so interesting. He could smell the fear on you, yet you laughed at him. Told him he was tall, and that it was cool. The normalcy of it stunned him, made him return. To watch as he always did, but you started talking to him. Cautious at first, then your scent warped into something sweeter, warmer.

He searched everything for hints of distress, your body language, your tone, your eyes, to the way you sat- and nothing. You trusted him.

He thought you were strange.

You thought he was sad.

So, that night you’d brought him a snack. His hands were always empty while you munched on whatever treat you had. It made you feel a little guilty; perhaps he never talked because he was shy, and you were literally stuffing your face in front of him. Waking up early to prepare, you spent the afternoon baking away. If you were going to offer him food, you were going to do it right.

Packing a basket with the pastries, you descended the foyer, already spotting his emerging figure from the trees. However, instead of facing your seat to the fire, you’d swivelled around. This was new; the basket in your arms was also new. He tilted his head to the side. Just what were you planning? For the first time since you’d met him, he seemed genuinely shocked. Leaning back like a skittish animal as you placed the goods in his lap, he tensed. A couple of seconds passed, and you began to second-guess every decision you’ve made up to this point. Was it offensive? Maybe he was allergic? An uncomfortable pause wedged between you, before he broke the silence.

“You don’t fear me.”

A statement. His voice was deep, baritone rumbling low in his chest. The base of it was so guttural you felt it more than you heard it. Peering up, his gaze meets yours, “Why?” The question was asked softly, for someone who appeared so commanding, he spoke fairly quietly. The contrast was jarring, yet it endeared him to you even more. “Well, I don’t know, I thought you looked lonely.” The last syllable left your mouth as he stood. How curious, a human, capable of understanding how he felt.

His frame overtaking you, neck craned up, “I just think you’re neat, I suppose.” Nodding, your eyes flicked to the basket that had slipped onto the grass. “I baked, if you were hungry.” You were a timid little thing, clueless and naive. A fawn ensnared in the claws of a beast you’d willingly thrown yourself at. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him without disdain, and you were so open. Defenceless, almost like a pet, it wasn’t your weakness that made his mouth water. It was your trust.

It stirred something in him, a part he’d assumed died long ago. Want. His desire, animalistic and starved, simmered under his skin. Ever-present and ready to snap. You could see it for just a moment, his muscles contracting as if he’s prepared to pounce- before it’s smothered. The heat freezing over, shame taking its place. Guilt and mortification surge through his body in waves. You’d offered him your efforts in good faith, and his appetite had increased for a completely different reason. It was humiliating to have the lack of control he possessed.

Your words had seemed to take his breath away for the worst. Somehow even more rigid than earlier, this was not the effect you wanted. Backtracking, you sputtered, “I’m sorry if I overstepped- it’s just I always have something when you visit and I realized I’d never offered before-“ A clicking resounded from his throat, eyes (voids) vacant. You fidgeted in place, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to, it’s cinnamon rolls I made today. I think they’re pretty good- ah, I should have asked if you’re allergic.”

The explanation is clumsy, though your earnestness fascinated him, so desperate to make him feel at ease as if you had any power here. Caring so much about his comfort that you’d spent your precious time baking for him. Mortal lifespans were terribly short in comparison to his decades of existence, and you had chosen to waste your constantly whittling human seconds just to not- what? Hurt his feelings? An ever-draining hourglass, each granule of sand adding to the growing mass, counting down to your end. An act so seemingly meaningless to you held a world of weight to him.

A sacrifice. Scarlet dripping down your arms as you proposed it at his decaying shrine, clueless to the fact that this was what had sealed your fate. The moment he’d decided for the first time to keep something for himself. If the devil dealt in blood, this must be his payment for the carnage he’d spilled. His paid bounty finally surfacing, a gift in exchange for all the destruction he’d raged. Wrapped in silk ribbon, his naive rabbit to keep.

You’d spent the rest of the evening as you usually did, except for his newly added dialogue. He still wasn’t much of a talker, but he’d tell you things. Actually answering your questions instead of leaving them to fade into obscurity.

He told you his name was Jack, that he lived far into the woods away from the lights, told you he didn’t like the noise. Said that it was better to wear a mask, not expanding further when you prodded. You had learned that he had some sort of enhanced hearing, scent and senses alike, you also assumed he was blind, though you thought it’d be rude to ask, settling on his hobbies instead.

He was smart, that’s for one. Jack’s knowledge of the medical field was no joke; he knew about intricacies you hadn’t even heard of, and that he liked order and schedule. Organization, spending his time memorizing the way the trees moved, mapping out the forest trails and the wildlife that inhabited them. It was admirable how much he noticed about such tiny details, picturing his lumbering form silently staring at squirrels while he walked past made you giggle.

His responses drifted from vague to elaborate; it felt like you’d both known him your entire life and only met him today at once. Nonetheless, a routine had formed. And so had your solace in him, an unlikely companion was a companion all the same.

Or so you thought.

➽──────────────❥

The anxiety of the house’s surroundings became a far-off memory.

Rarely crossing your mind, you worked, you rested, and in between, you had a friend to keep you company. Yet, the word friend was becoming more denial than fact by the day. Your initial impression of Jack was fear-inducing, clouded by distrust and adrenaline, then it was baseline acceptance, and currently it rests at humbling and embarrassing attraction. The traits that had you recoiling in shock now had you doing a double take, not in disgust or terror, but in longing.

His outfits remained more or less the same; it wasn’t new clothes or anything of the sort that drew you in, it was the minute attributes that slowly caught your attention as your perception of him altered.

First, his height. It had stunned you the night you’d run into him; presently, you had to take a breath every time he ducked under a doorway not to say something obscene. Towering in all his might, the worn-down fabric stretched across his chest, struggling to contain his brawn with each step he took. And he was broad, shoulders stacked with high-strung muscle, built for pressure and gruelling labours you couldn’t name.

The same claws that had frightened you made you want to douse yourself in ice water; you think your entire head could fit in his palm. Faint scars littering his forearms, you’d watched as the veins in his hand bulged when he helped you move a table. Lifting the heavy oak with an arm, not a single grunt, either, it was effortless. One time, you were so entranced in your daydream about what it’d feel like if he’d just pick you up and squeezed—

He had to have called your name at least three times to snap you out of it.

The worst offender? His voice. Like the purr of an engine every time he spoke, smooth and low. As deep as bourbon. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, it reminded you of distant thunder. Resonate in the way it commanded, never failing to make you shiver. You thanked your lucky stars he couldn’t see, saving you the humiliation of being caught glancing at him excessively, or the way you pouted with want when he’d move a certain way, his hoodie rising just above his belt.

Your face growing hot, eyes averting his face when he’d lean down to listen. The way you’d squeeze your thighs together when he’d hum by your ear in agreement. He was your friend, so when you’d mention you needed something fixed around your home, he’d do it without question.

The shameful part came when he would grab the tools, and you’d tell him you were going to read. The lie was always said confidently. You were most definitely not going to read or spend any time in your room, trailing behind him as quietly as you could, peaking from the corner while he worked. It was terrible, and you knew it; the guy couldn’t see, and you were using that to your advantage like a pervert. He would kneel by your sink or wherever and tinker about, with your figure tucked by the room’s edge.

He navigated your space with ease, most likely due to his intensified awareness, you presumed. You tended to forget he didn’t possess the same sight you did, rushing up to him, picture in hand to show him a stupid doodle you’d made, to be met with nothing. A slight head tilt and silence, freezing for a brief moment before you start prefusely apologizing. Jack’s response was the same every time. Bringing up a loose fist, his knuckles brushing your nose bridge, before tapping your forehead twice with his thumb. A way of teasing you, his version of vocalizing he took no offence.

His face is hidden by the mask, but you swear he’s grinning at least a little behind it. You imagine the quirk of his lips, the way his cheeks pull up just a tad, you think his smile would be nice. You also think it’s an absolute crime that no one has hit on him before, appalling, actually.

Selfishly, you’re grateful, though that doesn’t make the information any less shocking. You’d brought it up in passing if he was seeing anyone, and he’d turned to you with such visible confusion you’d laughed. In theory, it made sense; in practice, it did not. Like have you seen him?

Over seven-feet-something of straight man, hulking yet gentle, and aside from his vaguely questionable hobbies— he was nearly perfect boyfriend material. Gentlemanly, where he didn’t even try, the type to cup the corner of tables when you’d bend to pick up a dropped mug. Closing cabinets so you wouldn’t hit your head in the bustle, and grabbing your bags before you could even decide if you needed help or not.

Jack was thoughtful, far more considerate than you think people gave him credit for. And perhaps if you told your peers you were in love with some lone-wolf forest dweller who lacked eyes, they’d judge you, but that’d only be because they hadn’t met him. You guaranteed that if he had a night on the town, he’d have suitors lining the block. You told him that. Making a joke about it when he was staring at you like you were crazy for insinuating he, the literal embodiment of the silent type trope people dreamed about, was taken. He had shaken his head, pinching your cheek softly, then returning to his task.

Patient, tall and humble. And he almost one-hundred-percent did not see you like that. This must be hell.

➽──────────────❥

Jack was not blind.

As a matter of fact, he had better sight than anyone else on the planet.

Demon biology and science were tricky; he didn’t have physical eyes, sure. However, he could see just fine, analyze moving creatures even miles away if he wanted; his “view” of things worked vastly differently from the average person’s. The first time you’d stumbled and apologized, he had half the heart to correct you, until you blushed.

He could feel it, the blood rushing to your cheeks, then you mumbled out some shy excuse about your bad memory. Twisting your thumbs together, pupils dilated as you blinked up at him. It was adorable. He knew it was probably bad and very misguided to lie to you like this; he simply couldn’t help himself. You and your puppy-like curiosity, so excited to show him the most mundane things, because you thought he’d like it. A cool rock you had, or a funky colored sticky note you’d found, as if your eagerness would overwrite your previous knowledge of him.

It was awfully indulgent on his behalf, yet he didn’t have it in him to cease. Especially when you started following him around, nearly tripping over yourself in an attempt to be discreet. It became a game, pretending he didn’t see you, ignoring your inaudible giggles behind your hand when he’d move something heavy for you. Acting like he hadn’t noticed you peering from the hallway, mouth pressed into a thin line in fear of being caught while he was repairing a rickety chair leg. He was well aware he was playing with fire; you didn’t even know who he was, what he did, let alone what he was.

But was it truly so wrong to preserve this one thing?

All he did was serve under orders; his dictator left him alone most times, but that didn’t mean he was free to do as he pleased. Patching up wounds day and night, drowned in violence at hours on end. Saving the lives of people who would leave him to bleed if they got the chance, not even in feeding did he have reprieve. An act so impossibly human warped into something despicable by most standards.

He was deluded at this point because, somehow, a part of him believed you’d stay. Stay when you inevitably find out, stay when he’d confess to you his wrath, stand by his side when he’d return to you, soaked in gore and carnage. You had to, wouldn’t you? He’d shown up in the middle of the night, looking like death itself, and you’d grinned at him had you not? He’d returned time after time, as mysterious as the last, and you’d welcomed him, had you not? Giddy when in his presence, your joy seeps into his bones, and he can smell you. Smell your craving. Your lust. The scent is sickly sweet, thick molasses that coats the walls. Borderline taste the heat that coiled between your plush thighs.

Your want comes in waves, knocking the air out of his lungs, the second it hits his nostrils. And it was getting harder and harder to ignore, spit collecting under his tongue as you bluff. Sitting in front of him, pretending your core wasn’t slick with need, all because he was close to you. A lamb to the slaughter, presented on a silver fucking platter. The control on his own desires waned every time you pushed too close, leaned in too far.

He was growing restless, the energy making his body taut. He started hunting more, feasting with abandon, tunnel vision stuck on his memory of you. Winter was approaching fast, and he needed more meat to keep him satiated than normal, primal instincts taking hold. Jack’s hunger was blistering; he wanted to devour you whole.

And he was sure you’d thank him with a smile on your face.

➽──────────────❥

There had been a shift in the air recently.

The forest around your residence had turned quiet. Originally, you’d assumed it was the weather that had driven the birds away, but this seemed… different, strange in a way. The silence felt unnatural, like the wildlife was hiding from something. Chased away by an invisible threat, the once lively trees had fallen still. It left a strange ache you couldn’t quite place. As for Jack, he’d been weird lately, too.

The last time you saw him, his shoulders were tense, and he barely answered any of your questions. It didn’t feel like he was irritated or annoyed, just distant; as if his mind were elsewhere. Responding to everything you said with grunts or stiff nods, his body jerking faintly once and a while, resembling a predator holding itself back.

He’d abruptly stood up when you were reading on the couch, arriving only a few hours earlier before suddenly storming out. That was weeks ago. You were worried, staying up on random nights just in case he’d stopped by and no one was there to open the door. He did have the spare key you’d given him; you just wanted to see him the second he returned. Wracking your brain for anything you could’ve done to set him off, yet you can’t remember a single time in the past month he had even disagreed with you. He was fine, nothing was standing out, leaving you to stew in your own confusion and fret. Your concern was solely focused on him—

Until you started noticing the blood.

Stark against the fresh snow, the faded red streaks weave between the timber. Specks spread across the yard; you had tried to rationalize it, you lived in the woods for god’s sake, just because it was a little quieter than usual didn’t mean the animals stopped existing, stopped hunting. It didn’t mean the rumours were true.

Then, you noticed the claw marks. Dug into the bark, stretching across the trunks and dragging into the frozen soil. They were ragged, angry, left by something starved. The scores were sizable; whatever creature that had done them had to have been massive, some too high up to be from a bear. You weren’t close to the hillside either, mountain lions out of the question, and even if you were, what kind of feral cat leaves scratches like that?

None of it was making sense; the lacerations didn’t look sporadic either. Your property had been marked. Ice filled your veins as you stared; you hadn’t even realized how much time had passed.

The sun was long gone, dusk setting heavy over the treeline. A gnawing dread had begun creeping in; you were terrified. If it were on paper, perhaps you could have brushed it off, chalked it up to nerves. You’ve dealt with strays before; this was another variant entirely. A finality in the air that wouldn’t shake. Along with your worry for Jack, you selfishly wished he were here to protect you. His unyielding nature, always reliable, sturdy and safe. He appeared to be able to keep a cool head about almost anything. He’d know what to do, where to go, what to say to stop the tremble in your hands.

You were close to tears when you spotted it, cold sweat lining your back. A flicker amongst the trees. Moving far too fast to be human or animal, the shadow ripped its way through the shrubbery. Breaths picking up, you darted behind your sofa. You knew it was a bad hiding place, but something in the way it advanced told you shelter was pointless. Pulling your knees to your chest, you clamped a palm over your mouth to muffle the petrified sob. A growl echoes out; the sound is guttural, reverberating through the walls, shaking the glass windows as the wind wails.

Eyes shutting tight, you curled into yourself. Of course, this would happen when he was away. At this moment, you would’ve given anything to bring Jack back to you; he’d know how to fix it, he always did. When you’d panic over something stupid, he would soothe you in a way only he could. But Jack wasn’t here, and you were alone. Scared out of your mind with a hell bound beast encroaching on your home, you didn’t want to die.

The fear was unlike anything you had ever felt, chilling you from the inside out. It spread like a parasite, aching in your lungs with every breath, twisting your stomach to nausea. You hiccuped, hugging your legs close. You didn’t want to die- this wasn’t fair, and if something happened to you, what would happen to him? Your dearest friend, more loved than he’d ever know, and you’d never even gotten the chance to tell him. The porch creaked loudly, heavy steps thudding against the frosted wood; you wanted to scream.

The door swings open, breeze screeching in the background. The cold is rushing in, draft circling the room, and the lock clicks shut. Apparently, this beast had manners. Heartbeat deafening in your ears, then you hear it. The tell-tale shuffling of boots, Jack. Shooting up, you spun around, already stepping past the couch. Relief flooding your body, lips twitching up, you wanted to laugh— tell him about how scared of the storm you got without him.

He’ll probably think you’re ridiculous, shake his head a tad and ruffle your hair. Scold you softly, say you’ve been watching too many movies, reading too many books, with a reasonable explanation on the tip of his tongue. Rounding the corner, the words died in your throat. The tempest had cut your power, but even from where you stood, you could tell something was horribly wrong.

The darkness of the hallway enveloped him. He stood off-center, shoulders hunched, his hands limp by his sides, twitching every couple of seconds. It was too dim to see clearly, yet you caught it anyway. A thick, viscous liquid, dripping from under his mask, now that you had noticed it, you realized he was drenched in it. The scent reaches your nose a beat after, metallic.

“… Jack?”

Muttered weakly. His head tilted down, like he was observing you. You knew it was him, so why were you so uneasy? His foot dragged an inch forward, your legs reacting before your mind, subconsciously taking a step back. He notices, he always does. When you were anxious, when you were hungry, because you forgot to eat breakfast, when you were scared.

The notion hurts him; your fear felt violating and wrong in his body. The pained howl he lets out has every hair on the back of your neck standing on end. Sharply pitched, inhuman as he continues to stalk closer. You shuffle away further, retreating, and it upsets him. You looked so terribly fragile, meek, with tears still clinging beneath your lashes. He needed to warm you, to keep you safe, it was blizzarding outside after all, and he knew how anxious you got during blackouts. His mask took a hit during the hunt, and his hood had been knocked off somewhere along the way. The buckle too withered to hold up the weight, finally snapping, mask slipping off and clattering to the floor. You barely register the sight before he crosses the hall in three strides.

His face. Gaping sockets where his eyes should be, filled with black tar that smeared his skin. He says your name, or a version of it anyway. Voice warbling deeper than you thought possible, cadence unsteady. Reaching out for you, his clawed hand brushes your cheek, catching a tear that falls when you blink.

“Little lamb.”

It barely sounded like him, and all you can do is stare. His mouth opens, tongues sliding out to wet his lips. Wait, tongues..?

Your eyes widen as they swiped along the edge of his teeth. Pointed and sharpened, like they could bite through bone. He presses his forehead to yours, arms caging you in. Your hands instinctively pressed against his chest, clutching the damp fabric. You trust him, yet your gut is screaming for you to run, the inner battle making you shake in his embrace. Brows furrowing, why wasn’t this working?

Shivering meant you were cold; it meant you were vulnerable. The scent of your distress sets off alarm bells in his head; his urge to consume and preserve you clashing. A gravelly and repetitive clicking resonated from his throat, overlapping his speech, “Cold. Why do you tremble so, mi ocelle?” The concern emitted from him in ripples, apprehension so heavy it felt as if you were suffocating. “I- I was just worried about you, it’s… storming out.”

You didn’t know what to say; the events playing out were something you’d never learnt to plan for. What were you to do when the devil was at your door with a bleeding heart in his hands? Perhaps you were foolish. Naive in ways others would never understand, but if the Morningstar were yours, then it must be in your fates to be burned.

Leaning in, he cooed. “You were worried… for me?” Your timid confession seemed to appease him, nuzzling your face with his. Amusement blooming across his features, he traced up your spine, the edge of his talons fraying cotton. “Prey tell, my dove. What do you fear?” Your mind was racing for an answer, searching for something- anything- that wasn’t him.

Swallowing, you stuttered, “I thought- I thought I saw something in the woods—“ He hummed, like this was fun, like he knew. Reading the barren truth that you could only deny for so long. “It was by the window. I saw it earlier, I swear-“ Cutting you off when he suddenly withdraws. The frost was a harsh contrast, his warmth no longer shared. “Then let’s look together. To ease you.” He glances at you once from over his shoulder, turning as he heads for the living room.

The plush entryway carpet does little to comfort you, following in his steps until stopping in front of the aperture, your stomach in knots. Jack leaned back against the frame, almost leisurely. “Describe it to me, won’t you?” You toed at the rug, ankle bumping the coffee table leg.

“It was tall- and it growled so loudly the house shook.”

His shoulders twitched, stature reaching above the windowsill. His brawn obstructs the moon’s glow, the shadows spilling like ink. As if you were framed by death’s silhouette. Baritone purr rumbling deep behind his ribs.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and it left these gashes on the trees. Blood trails in the snow-“

The muscle in his forearms twisted while he gripped the glass ledge, sable keratin tapping the surface in rhythm. They gleamed under the pale light, dark crimson dripping off the razor edge and splattering up his hands like paint.

“I see.”

“And it sounded hungry, like it wanted to devour me in one bite.”

Tongue dragging along his teeth, nearly drooling. The weight of his eyes left goosebumps in their wake. Sweeping from your pouty cheeks to the flushed curves of your chest. Memorizing your damp skin.

“Starved, I’m sure.”

“It was tearing apart everything in its path, and moving too fast to be an animal- I don’t know- it- it was like a—“

“Monster?”

Your head snapped up. Empty voids boring into you, black oil mixing with red. His complexion, the claws, you couldn’t decide if you were stupid or so desperate for attachment you’d refused to see the signs. It was always there, a whispered thought when the conversation died down, a realization when his hand would jerk at the sight of the news. Now it was too late, the monster was in your home, and he was going to eat you alive. With nowhere to turn, panic seizes you, breath coming in shallow pants. Jack’s face was unreadable, eerily still.

You spin on your heel, sprinting up the stairs. He was standing next to the main hallway entrance; you wouldn’t be able to get past without him grabbing you. You can hear the harsh thud of footsteps from behind, hot on your tail. You know it was futile, yet adrenaline clouded your judgment. Running like hell, as fast as you could, swerving around the staircase railing the second your feet hit the second floor. It didn’t matter if he was going to catch you; you needed to get away. Ducking in through the gap of the bedroom door, you carefully made your way to the ensuite bathroom.

It was over; you just wanted to go on your terms, have some time to think before it ended. Being a human was truly awful, you think. Because in all of this, the part that bothered you the most was how much you enjoyed being held by him. His touch, the way he brushed away your sadness, and now he was coming to slaughter you. How ironic is that? That even now, being hunted, you still wished he were there to comfort you.

Vision blurring, you laughed to yourself. The bathroom didn’t have a lock; you slid down the wall and onto the cool tile. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, stopping outside the door. The knob turned slowly, and he pushed it open. When you saw him, it made your chest heavy. He looked handsome like this, the moonlight from the window outlining his frame. He was pretty, beastly features or not, they were his, and that was enough. “Can you at least do it fast? I baked you cinnamon rolls, y’know.” Wobbly smile on your lips, you tensed. Bracing for the impact, the numbing pain of a puncture wound, but it never came.

Opening your eyes, you sniffled. Jack had knelt in front of you. Docile, unmoving and rigid as stone. Submission in the way bite-ridden guard dogs revere sheep. “Such a peculiar little thing.” Said softly, hushed and low. Not snarling or pouncing on you like you expected, simply quiet, handling you with care as he always did. Scooting closer, he tucks your frenzied hair behind your ear before resting both hands on your legs. His thumb rubbed in gentle circles against your calf, “You thought I was going to kill you?”

The lightness of his tone makes you blink, like scolding a child for not holding on when they were afraid of the dark. Shedding tears for something so easily fixed. “So sure I was your end, yet your body still calls for me.” He had you pinned, half crawled over you as he spoke, the random jolts that wracked his body worsening by the second. Faces inches apart, you could see the restraint that held him together, the slight shake in his breathing, how his hand flexed, nails digging into the porcelain. “I can smell it, mellilla.” Dipping his head to your neck, he inhales deeply before his teeth break your skin with little effort. You flinch at the feeling, gasping.

You grabbed onto his sweater, eyes watering in confusion. It hurt; the laceration was shallow enough not to be fatal, just deep enough to bleed. His tongues lapped at the mark. You were so sweet. Groaning as he swallows, and you shiver at the sound. His knee was pressed between your thighs, rocking back and forth every time he moved. The pain was slowly melding into gut-churning heat, wires crossing in your head, you whined. Breathing hard, he shifts, hips grinding down.

“You have no idea, do you?-“ The zipper of his jeans nudged against your clit, your thin sleep shorts were riding up, and the pressure had you dripping. “-What you do to me, fuck.” His assault on your throat never faltering, drinking in your nectar. Sinking his canines in deep over your pulse, he needed to feel it. Had to taste your heartbeat or he’d lose his mind. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks, and you clung to him as if he were a lifeline, squeaking when he started gulping at your spilling wound. “Sorry- I know. It hurts, doesn’t it?” Muffled against your skin, his apology fell on deaf ears.

Parting from you with a wet pop, strings of blood and saliva stretched from his jaw to your neck. More beast than man as he sat back on his haunches, chest heaving. His lids drooped low, drunk off it, “Look at you, my little rabbit. Ripe enough to eat.” Hooking a finger under your shirt, he yanks it up in one swipe. Claw slicing it cleanly, leaving you bare. It made his mouth water. Caging you again, his mouth clamping around the perky nub. Writhing, your back arched off the floor. Arms secured to your sides by his palms, Jack’s strength was otherworldly. Even through his sweater, the contours of his body were unmistakable.

The ache had you dizzy, cunt throbbing in pulses with each nibble he took, littering your breasts in bruises and cuts. Tongues acting as a salve, easing the sting with gentle licks. Mewling, you pushed up into his mouth. He didn’t touch you like he wanted to fuck, he touched you like he was trying to rapture your soul. Have you reborn, remade, fracture your very cortex until the only thing you remembered was him.

Bodies moving in tandem, driving his hips to a slow, agonizing grind. Simulating sex, the same motions, yet not quite there. Your head was spinning, denim stained where your cores met. “You’d forgive me, wouldn’t you? If I got too hungry, you’d let me have you-“ When you said he was going to kill you, this wasn’t what you had pictured at all. The base of his words had you squeezing down on nothing, crying to be filled. He kisses you softly, to mar you right after. “-Let me lick your bones clean, show everyone my teeth- so they’d know how delicious you were. How divine you satisfied me-“

It was sick, vile, the fantasies he spun, your lust betraying your principle. Lips molding to yours, his tongues violating each centimetre of your mouth. You gagged around the intrusion, slimy and tentacle-like; they swarmed the cavity. Proding deeper, his mouth latched as he fucked your throat. Only pulling back once you were on the verge of passing out, fist rapidly slamming against his side. Your lungs burned, black spotting your vision, fear reaped amore that seeped into the darkest corners of your mind.

His cock throbbed with need, hefty against your cunt, and you could feel each and every pulse. It’d tear you apart, larger than you thought possible; you’d never wanted anything more in your life.

Panting above you, the chuckle that left his lips was manic. “They’d wage war in envy, massacre their own kind- driven to madness that they couldn’t have you.” Laving at your collar bone, the heat in your stomach on the brink of scorching, coiling tight. You’d soaked through the fabric, wetness making it stick to your folds, “Build shrines in your name, frame your ribs in mausoleums just to admire-“ His rutting growing harsh, desperate and feral, “Worship you like religion. Offer gold and jewels- sacrifice their gods at the foot of your tomb.” Your release hits you hard, euphoria choking you. Jack, close behind, cumming with a hollowed groan, the aftershocks making his hips jolt. Unrelenting, when his pace fails to cease, not giving you a chance to recover.

“You’re cruel to me, my lamb-“ Arms cocooning you, he lifted you off the tile, trapping you to him. His words pierce through the fog, “I- I don’t understand.“ Huffing out his nose, he laughs, exasperated. “You think I couldn’t see you? Hiding behind corners, following me around like a needy pup.” The admission floods you with embarrassment, pouting as you try and avoid his gaze. “I thought you were-“ he interrupts you, amused. “Blind? How quaint.”

Mocking and adoring all at once, you were so fun to play with. “It was adorable, you know. Pretending you weren’t there, watching you stumble and apologize.” He leaned in close, mummuring against your ear, “Pretending it didn’t have me starved.”

The cadence sends goosebumps down your back, shoulders bowed while you whine. “Always so kind, hm? Don’t worry, even if my sight did not lead me-“ kissing down your neck, he continues. “-There are plenty of other ways to indulge, are there not?” Leaving hickies in his path, nicking your fevered skin, “Sound.” Teeth grazing, before sinking in, your lips parting in a sharp gasp, “Jack.” Trailing further, slipping his hands from under you, and gripping your hips. Hard. His talons penetrate the fat of your ass, drawing blood. “Touch.” Pain and pleasure laced, and all you could do was lie there and take it.

Crawling down your body, bruises blooming over your abdomen. Mouth dragging over your tummy, your navel and pelvis. He snags the waistband of your shorts with his canines, jerking his head back harshly and shredding them off you. He borderline growls when his eyes land on your pussy. He thinks they should hang paintings of your cunt at the fucking Louvre. Puffy and weeping, beautifully delicate as he runs the pad of his thumb up your slit. “And-“ collecting the syrup, his grin stretched wide, a smirk that had you gushing,

“Taste.”

He dives in, lapping at your aching clit with fervour. It was too much, too fast. Convulsing, your hands shot to his hair, grabbing at the messy locks. Thighs snapping closed, bracketing his head. His tongues were everywhere, nose buried in your mound, wet squelching filling the room. “Oh- ngh- fuck.” You were crying, screaming as if you were being murdered. He uses your waist as leverage, thrusting you into his mouth. The tendrils reached deep, fucking you rough while his nose grinded on your sensitive bud. They scissored you open, devouring you whole, and you felt dizzy. Arching, your heels dug into his back, “S’too much- Jack, please- I can’t.”

He groaned into your heat, your pleas making him rut against the floor. You were shaking something fierce, the pressure building in your gut becoming unbearable. “W-wait, please- please, feels weird-“ His tongues were hitting your spot over and over again, eyes rolling back as your body went taut. The orgasm was cataclysmic. Your cunt pulsed wildly, liquid splurting out. It coated his jaw, spraying across his face; you couldn’t even think. Brain completely emptied and ears full of cotton, Jack still gulping down your spillage. He pulls off of you with a sticky smack, breathing heavy, “Messy girl.” He taunts. Sitting up, he grabs the back of his hood, throwing it off in one swoop.

Shoulders sculpted, sweat beading down the contours of his chest, and you stared shamelessly. Gaze drifting from his flushed and heaving pecs to the divots of his V-line, happy trail peaking over his belt. He tugs at the buckle, the metal clasp falling open with a clink. Popping the zipper, he wrenches his cock free, and the sight made your eyes widen. The head drooled with pre, sitting dense in his hand, it looked like it weighed pounds.

There was no way that thing was fitting inside you. “I don’t know if I can…” Trailing off, hesitance contorting your features. “It’s going to hurt.” Blunt and matter-of-fact, and you knew he wasn’t boasting. Not for ego or otherwise, it was simply a warning. “But you’re strong, I know you are.”

Yanking you by the hips, he settled between your legs, lining himself up. “Remember to breathe, my flower.” Soothing you, as he nudges his cock against your entrance. The tip struggles past the tight ring before sinking in, the stretch making you hiss. Your fists are balled up at your sides, tears immediately gathering at your lashline. Whimpering, it felt like he was ripping you in half. “Shh, I know- doing so well. My brave girl.” He hushes you gently. Gathering your hand in his, he presses your palms flat and intertwines your fingers. “Squeeze when it gets too much.”

Rocking forward, he pushes in an inch, your pained whine bouncing off the walls. “Just focus on my voice, can you do that for me?” Forcing your lids to stay open, you nod, “Okay.” But as his hips buck barely a centimetre, your panicked yelp stops him in his tracks. “It- it hurts- I can’t.”

Hiccuping, you were quivering like a leaf, face scrunched uncomfortably. Cooing low in his throat, he drops his head closer. Tongue collecting the salt on your cheeks, “Poor thing, why don’t we play a game? To distract you.” You sniffled, “A game?” He hums, nose brushing yours. “When I move, you’ll count.” Explaining slowly, he kisses you, reassurance mixing with saliva. “Do you trust me?” The question whispered, sacred against your lips, and your eyes fluttered shut. “Yes.”

With your green light, he begins to thrust, carefully and reverently. Shaft glistening with your slick, he slides deeper. “One.” You sighed, breath fanning across his skin, “That’s it, good girl.” You felt like silk around him; it was intoxicating. His length is dialating your walls, “Two-“ The once prickling twinge had started to dull, melding into a warm simmer amidst your thighs. You clutched his hand firmly, “Ah- three.” Gliding in and out, probing further. He grunts, restraint wearing thin. “Four.” He was hardly halfway, and you swore he was in your lungs. Jack shuddered over you, vein prominent against the lines of his neck, Adam’s apple bobbing.

Jaw slack, his spit dribbling onto your skin, carnal and dangerous. His teeth bared as he let out a strangled keen, “Forgive me, my sweet.” His hips were jerking before you could even comprehend what he’d said. Slamming to the hilt, and you wailed. “Gods, you feel- fuck-“ He panted, head flung back. Tremoring violently while he held you flush. You went limp, the sensations overwhelming you, fully speared on his cock. So impossibly filled, the last of his control had withered to ash.

He fucked into you like an animal. Hard and fast, brows furrowed in ecstasy. Bruising grasp on your waist, using your pussy as a sleeve, he raises you. Bouncing you as if you weighed nothing. One hand tugging at your wrist, the other keeping you steady. “Feels so good- can’t fucking stop.” Your back bowed, helpless. Shockwaves sparked up your spine each time you sank on his cock. Molten iron pounding against your cervix, branding your cunt with his lust. The climax takes you by surprise, whiting out your vision. You clenched on him so hard he could barely move, glands pulsing as he stuffed you.

The sticky lacquer is pumping you full, leaking out and puddling on the bathroom floor. Tongue like lead in your mouth, you slurred, “J-Jack- ngh.” He doesn’t even blink, slipping you off, he flips you. Your arms were jelly, crumbling onto your chest, face pressed to the cold tile. Ass propped by his claws, he slides back inside in an instant. Sanity draining with each second, he couldn’t feel your warmth.

Your body jolted roughly from the power of his thrusts, drilling into you with abandon, frantically chasing his release. His veins had been flooded with magma, broiling him alive. Thumbs kneading at your flesh, spreading you wide, he lets out punched groans when his balls slap against your clit. A milky ring is forming at the base of his shaft, gluey and opaque. Lewd plaps filling your ears, his palm pressed your arch down into a perfect semi-circle, driving deeper and deeper, “Christ- you take it so pretty, my lamb- fucking made for this weren’t you?” You scratched at the foundation, delirious, he was so strong. So big, fucking his authority into you, ruining you for anyone else.

Your eyes crossed- stomach bulging from his girth, you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, sobbing as drool leaked out of your agape mouth. Jack was mounted on you like a dog.

Lugging you up, manhandling your boneless form, he bends you over the sink counter. Chiselled hips pummeling you from behind, his flexed bicep locked around your throat. The mirror had fogged with condensation, the tap sputtering from the ruthless tempo, and you barely recognized yourself. It was pornographic the way he had you, something you’d see on the front page of an exed out website. And he wasn’t faring any better, dishevelled strands stuck to his forehead with perspiration. Skin dewy, globs of slick and cum dripped down your legs, he sounded gone. Huffing, “Made for me, made to be bred- should I keep you like this?” His pace quickened, close to the edge, “Keep you full, begging for my cock? Chained and desperate- you’d like that, no?”

Your brain failed to form a cohesive thought, high on the pleasure, “Ah- p-please-“ The response fuelled his rut; he needed to sear his print onto your flesh. Stain you like possession, sovereignty over your spirit, heart and womb. Jack snarled, seething, and he yanked your head back. The climate is sweltering, pressure on your airways tightened, “Words, girl.” He was so mean, abusing your poor cunt. “Yes- please, want it. Wan’ it s’bad.” Shrill cry, leaving your lips.

This wasn’t sex; it was ownership.

His release paints your walls lava-hot, stars bursting behind your lids. Before the afterglow has a chance to reach you, he throws you over his shoulder. Kicking the door open with his foot, the hinges screeching loudly, and you dangled almost lifelessly in his hold. Stepping into the room with little ceremony, he tosses you on the mattress, landing with a bounce.

He was gorgeous, the crescent light peeking through the curtains, tongue running along his sharpened canines. Sultry as he crawled between your thighs, up your body, famished. Prowling, eyeing you like sweet prey- he had you under him for hours. It was ritualistic, claiming and methodical; his devotion clung to you in smoke. Whispering scripture against your skin in languages older than the earth itself. Pulling orgasm after orgasm from your yielding body, refusing to stop until you’d forgotten your own name.

You were a mural of depravity, illustrated in fever. Aphrodisiac tinted with Jack as your artisan.

Ankles by your ears, you had lost count of how many times he’d made you scream, the bliss blending, and the only thing that existed was him. All encompassing, and drilling into your oversensitive pussy. “S’too m-much- I can’t.” His chuckle mocked, “Too much? And here I thought you wanted to be mine-“ He was bullying you, cruelly pressing down on your bloated tummy. Weeping tip knocking mercilessly into your soft spot, you flailed against the sheets, twitching and whining pathetically. “Please, I can’t- I can’t-“ babbling, you gushed around his girth, completely drenching his abs. He had fucked you dumb.

Snickering, he snaps his hips forward, pelvis flush and grinding on your puffy clit. “Liar.” And he began jackhammering into you, unrelenting, his weight folding you in half. The headboard slammed against the wall vigorously, pictures tumbling off the nightstand, mattress squeaking every thrust. Its movements were so harsh that they left indents in the plank flooring. His muscles rippling with exertion.

Claw hooked beneath your knee, his free hand reaching up to strike the bedpost with a bang. It splinters under his strength, and you moaned like a whore. “One more- give me one more, my life.” He grunted, panting and burying his face into your shoulder, the linen shredded to bits.

The frame was thrashing, creaking noisily with warning. His cock swelled at the base, the stretch burning as he forces it passed your opening. Knot stuffing you full, filling you to the brim, and you writhed hysterically- digging your nails into his back. Shallow scrapes littered his skin, from his shoulder blades to his tensing arms. “Mmph- oh god, m’cumming- Jack-“ It blazed from your head to your toes, igniting everything in its path, thrumming in your blood. Teeth sunk in your neck, growl vibrating to your lungs, his inflated girth trapping his seed deep.

Mahogany cracking sharply, the wood giving in and collapsing. The bed was slanted, haphazardly held up by one leg. And Jack is already licking the wound clean, kissing the area softly. He sighs, “… Apologies.” Strangely guilty, the change in demeanour gives you whiplash.

You didn’t know what he was apologizing for, whether it was the marks that scattered across your flesh, or the ruined guest room- either way, you could tell he meant it. Covered in bites and bruises, and you’d never been happier. He takes initiative, carefully scooping you up and rolling your bodies over slowly. Tucked against his chest as your breathing evened out, still connected. You assumed you’d be stuck here for a while. The primal heat finally dying down, the sun began to gleam over the horizon. Your limbs felt like lead.

Sleepy and warm, you broke the silence, “Would this be a bad time to tell you I have a crush on you?” The confession was framed as a joke, yet your vulnerability lingered in the air that followed. He exhaled through his nose with a huff, an almost laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching just a tad. “You are by far the strangest human I’ve ever met.” Giggling quietly, you cuddle further into his chest, “You would’ve eaten me if I wasn’t.” Your words make him pause, shame creeping in. Looking up, you can see the storm starting to brew in his head. “I was kidding, twas’ just a joke.” And he scoffs in disbelief,

“You should hate me.”

“Too bad I don’t.”

It was bothering him. No matter how stone-faced he was, you’d realized you had learned to read him. “Jack-“ He cuts you off with a disgruntled hum, “You don’t even know what I am, what I’ve done-“ Leaning up, you kiss him. Sweet and slow, letting him feel your trust. “I let you into my house when you’d say like- two words a day max. Plus, you looked like the boogeyman when you showed up that one time. And-“ You peck his jaw, continuing, “I still thought you were cute, so.” Jack stares at you as if you’ve grown three heads.

“Your self-preservation is severely lacking-“

“Answer my question, beasty.”

He raises a brow at the nickname before responding anyway. “… No, it would not.” You were admiring him, your gaze fond. “So…” Trailing off, expectant. Tilting his head in thought, while his hand pets the small of your back. “So?” He kind of reminded you of a stray cat, a very large, very dangerous stray cat. “Do you- y’know.” You mumble, shrugging. The expression that overtakes his features makes you snort. He seemed so offended, “If you’re asking if I care for you, the answer should be obvious.” He says it like you’ve insulted him, borderline pouting. Though if you told him that, he’d deny it with fervour. Perhaps it was in bad taste, but the rollercoaster he’d put you through demanded vengeance. “Which would be?” Drawling, you teased him. Jack’s deadpan somehow deepened, and you pressed.

“Say it- you like meee-“ And he blinks at you. Amused, he nods, “I do.” Something so plainly stated, so sure in his ways. It made your stomach flutter. “You’re lucky you’re so handsome, I’d be mad if anyone less pretty broke my bedframe.” His entire body freezes under you, sockets widening for a millisecond. Worry passes through your thoughts, going to ask what you’d said that had made him uncomfortable- you paused. The grey hue of his skin didn’t really allow for blush. Or so you thought. Because as he tilts his chin down just the slightest, the faintest hint of blue dusts his ears. You gasp,

“Oh my god, are you blushing?-“

“I beg of you.”

Interrupting you, his eyes shut. Holding you stiffly, as a lightbulb goes off in your head. He was flustered. Squinting at him, you were in shock. Jack had bent you six ways to Sunday after showing up covered in blood, scaring you half to death, and he couldn’t handle being called handsome? Swiping your thumb along the crease under his eye, you cradled his face. “I don’t know about you, but I actually think you’re quite dashing.” His lashes flutter open, memorizing your grin, the gentle lilt of your voice. “Rest.” Chiding you with a tut, he cups your nape, pressing your cheek back down. Skin on skin, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began, closer than close, really.

Maybe there would be hardships, sleepless nights and times he’d chip at your heart. And maybe he’d mend it with guilty hands, hollowed eyes when he begged in atonement. However, that was for future-you to stress about. So for now, you’d lie your head and listen to the thrum in his chest. Safe in his embrace, more protected than you’d be anywhere else. Your love was filled with tongue-tied confessions, clumsy and unsure. That was okay, though.

Because he was yours, sharp teeth and all.

➽──────────────❥

➽──────────────❥

You were so fucking tried.

Like horrible ass fluorescent lights of the 24-hour gas station hummed the same frequency as in your skull, didn’t make it any better.

Three a.m. on a Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Could have been Sunday.

Shittt... the days of the week had started to blend together somewhere around the start of midterms and hadn’t quite unwound since. Your backpack weighed roughly the same as a small sedan, ever had your same lukewarm Monster Energy drink for two hours, and your left earbud was about to croak.

All you need is some gas money, maybe a granola bar that doesn't taste like cardboard. Twenty bucks. In and out.

There was one other vehicle in the parking lot. A red Chevrolet truck, engine running, was parked awkwardly near the air pump as if they had come in in a hurry and just stopped. The exhaust rose up out of the coldish spring air. Not unexpected. People ran from worse terrors than strange ass bipolar weather at this hour of night.

You grabbed the pump. Swiped your card. Watched the numbers go up.

The truck sat in your peripheral vision.

You weren't staring. Just aware.

The way you get at three a.m. when your brain is fried and your survival instincts are the only thing still pulling a full shift.

Someone is sitting in the driver's seat. Yellow hoodie. Mustard-yellow, washed soft and stained dark at the cuffs. Forest grime, maybe. Or something else. His face is calm-country calm, that kind that watches storms roll in without flinching. Broad features. Heavy frame. He isn't looking at you. He's looking down at something in his lap.

A camcorder. Older model. The sort you use with both hands.

He isn't recording. Just holding it. Watching the screen like it's showing something you can't see. His thumb moves once, slow, adjusting something. Then his head tilts. Just slightly. Like he's framing a shot.

There is a cigarette behind his ear. Unlit.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in years. He looks like he can fall asleep anywhere. Both of these things may somehow be true of him.

You catch yourself looking as his brow twitches. You turn away—

fuck. I hope he didn’t see me looking…

The store doors slide open. Warm light. Smell of stale coffee and floor cleaner. You grab a basket you don’t need.

The clerk looks up only briefly. Older guy. Dark circles under his eyes. One of those faces that registers as unpleasant just because it exists, but really may just be tired all the time. You nod to him. He does not nod back.

You find the granola bars. Spend a moment staring at them. Choose the package with the least depressing design.

Movement in your peripheral.

Through the glass, the passenger door opens.

The man with the boots unfolds himself slowly. Wrong. Not slowly—carefully. Like his body isn't cooperating. He stands there a moment, one hand braced on the door frame. His left leg takes his weight second. Hesitant. Stiff.

Then he limps across the lot. It was subtle. You almost miss it. But once you see it, you can't unsee it. His hand finds his pocket. His face stays neutral. He doesn't look back at the truck. He doesn't look at anything except the door.

The bell chimes. He walks past the counter without so much as a nod. Brown work jacket. Worn jeans. Cigarette tucked behind his ear. Damp footprints on the tile from his boots.

The clerk looks up. Then back down.

You’re standing near the refrigerated area of the store, pretending to read the ingredient list on an energy drink you’re not interested in. Your gas is paid for. The granola bar is in your pocket. Leave.

You stay put.

The man—Tim, you'll learn later, but right now he's just the tired one with the limp—locates the chip aisle. He crouches down slowly. winces. His hand goes to his lower back for half a second, but then he catches himself. Red bagm ends up two taking two.

Behind you, the bell chimes again.

You look towards the door. See a yellow sweatshirt. Like a pale mustard yellow, soft, and bit dirty around the cuff. He moves like he doesn't want attention, which makes you pay attention most. Big, quiet hands. A camcorder in one pocket, with the strap dangling down. The other hand holds a coffee mug.

He doesn't look at Tim. Doesn't look at you. Doesn't look at the clerk.

He walks directly to the coffee station.

You watch as he lifts the pot. Pour. No cream, no sugar. He moves efficiently, too efficiently, as if he has done this a thousand times in a thousand gas stations, has it down to muscle memory. He wipes a drip off the side of the pot with his thumb. Replaces it on the burner.

Then he just stands there.

Holding coffee. Looking at the wall. Not moving.

The steam rises between his face and the fluorescent light. His expression does not change. It is not blank, precisely. It is still. Like water left standing too long.

The bell chimes again.

This boy—well, maybe a young man moves different. Quick, slow, quick again. Unpredictable. Grey hoodie, striped sleeves, hood pulled up tight enough that you can hardly see his face. A glimpse of jawline. Something wrong on his left cheek, behind his hoodie.

His hands are tucked away, buried in pockets, and yet you can still see them moving, moving, moving, fingers searching for something to gnaw on, nails against threads, skin against skin. The movement of his head. Once. Twice.

He doesn't look at Tim. Doesn't look at Yellow Hoodie. Doesn't look at you.

He stares at the drink cooler like it owes him money.

Then he's moving again, too quick, jerky, prying the door open. He grabs a bottle of something green. Puts it back. Grabs a blue one. Puts it back. His fingers drum against the glass shelf. Tick. Tick. Tick.

"Toby."

Tim's voice. Low. Not loud. But it cuts through the hum of the cooler like a knife.

The grey hoodie freezes. Tim doesn't turn around. He's still crouched by the chips, reading a bag like it contains classified information. His voice drops lower. "Pick one."

Toby's hand hovers over a row of sodas. His fingers are bleeding at the cuticles. He doesn't seem to notice.

"The red one," Tim says. "Get the red one."

Toby grabs the red one. Doesn't look at it. Just holds it against his chest like something rescued. His head twitches again. He doesn't move toward the register.

Tim stands up slow. His hand finds his lower back again, automatic. He walks over. Takes the soda from Toby's grip. Puts it on the counter next to his chips and cigarettes.

"You gettin' anything else?"

Toby shakes his head. His hood moves with him. His eyes are on the floor.

Tim pulls out his wallet.

The bell doesn't chime this time. The door was already once agian.

Leaning against the doorframe, not quite inside, not quite out, there is a young woman. Her clothes are shredded at the hems. Dirt and something darker ground into the fabric. Her skin is pale—too pale, paper-white in the fluorescent glare. Around her eyes, dark bruising. Not fresh. Old. Settled. Close like ink bleeding into water.

She has headphones on. Large. Bulky. The cord disappears into her jacket pocket, not connected to anything. She's not looking at the coffee. Not looking at the chips. Not looking at Tim or Toby or the clerk.

She's looking at the snow through the glass.

Brian—Yellow Hoodie—pours a second cup of coffee. Black. He sets it on the edge of the counter, near the door, and walks away without looking at her.

He doesn't have to look. She's already there. Her hand leaves her palm. Finds the cup. Curls around the warmth. She doesn't drink it. Just holds it. Her eyes stay on the snow.

The clerk clears his throat.

None of them move towards the exit.

Just each of them, doing their own thing, staking their claim, like territory, in the early morning hours of a gas station that's seen some weird things, but four people who don't want to leave, that's a new one.

And you're still standing there, like an idiot.

Your energy drink is sweating on your hand, sweat dripping down your wrist, your granola bar is in your pocket, pressing into your hip, and the door is right there, and your car is waiting for you, outside, with a cold engine.

Like nobody's paying attention to you, nobody's waiting for you.

For a repcap, you've got four strangers, a gas station, three a.m., and nobody's leaving, nobody's doing anything but their own thing, nobody's really noticing anybody else, but you exist, you know?

You could walk out that door.

Or you could walk past Tim, standing by the cash register, standing there like he's forgotten how to go anywhere, ever.

Or you could walk past Brian, standing by the magazine stand, standing there for seven minutes, doing nothing.

Or you could walk past Toby, standing by the drink cooler, opening and closing that door, over and over, waiting for something to change, maybe.

Or you could walk past all three of them, and stand by the doorway, stand next to Kate, watch her watch the snow fall, maybe even try and talk to her.

The choice is yours.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝓂 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

You're still standing there.

Your energy drink has stopped sweating, which means it's now the same temperature as the air around it, which means you've been here long enough for thermodynamics to do their thing. The granola bar in your pocket is leaving a crease in your hip. Your car is outside. You should leave.

Instead, your feet carry you left.

Not toward the door. Toward the register.

Tim doesn't look up when you approach. His thumb keeps finding the cigarette pack, running along the edge, dropping back to his side. His eyes stay on the lottery tickets—scratch-offs with cartoon money bags and slogans about winning big.

You stop a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to pretend you're just looking at the impulse buy rack if this goes wrong.

The clerk glances at you. Looks away. Doesn't care.

Tim still hasn't moved.

Up close, you notice things you missed before. The gray in his beard is heavier on one side than the other. His sideburns are strong—the kind of strong that says he's been wearing the same haircut since high school because it works and he doesn't think about it. There's a small scar through his left eyebrow, faded white. His work jacket has a frayed cuff he's been rubbing against without realizing it.

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

He beats you to it.

"You gonna stand there or you got somethin' to say?" His voice is rough. Not mean. Just used. Like gravel after rain.

He still isn't looking at you. 

But his head's tilted now, just slightly. Waiting to speak.

"Sorry," you say. "I didn't mean to—I was just—"

"You were just standin' there." He turns. Finally. Those deep-set eyes land on you and stay there. Assessing. Not hostile. Just present. "Figured you wanted somethin' or you'd've left by now."

Your face does something. You're not sure what. But something in his expression shifts—not much, just a fraction—and the corner of his mouth twitches.

"You got that look," he says.

"What look?"

"The look like you got a question but your brain's still catchin' up to your mouth." He shifts his weight, wincing just slightly. "I get it. Happens to me when I ain't had coffee. Or when I have had coffee. Depends on the day."

That almost gets a laugh out of you. Almost.

"I'm Tim Wright,” he says. Like it's not important. Like he's just filling space.

You tell him your name. It feels strange, saying it here, at three in the morning, to a stranger in a gas station. But he just nods like he's filing it away.

"Alright. So what's the question?"

You don't have a question. You had a feeling. 

A pull. A reason your feet brought you left instead of right or out the door. But now that you're here, standing in front of him, none of it makes sense. "I don't know," you admit. "I just—it's late. I'm tired. I've been staring at textbooks for twelve hours and my brain's not working right."

Tim's eyebrows go up. Just a little. "College?"

"University. Same thing, just more debt."

He huffs something that might be a laugh. Might be. Hard to tell with him. "Yeah, I remember them days. Different word for it back then—college, university, didn't matter. Same tired." He shifts again, rolling his shoulder like it's stiff. "What you studyin'?"

You tell him. Doesn't matter what. He listens like it does.

"That's a lot of readin'," he says when you're done. "Lot of sittin' still. Can't do it myself. Never had the patience."

"Not a lot of choice when you're this far in."

"Nah, I get it." His thumb finds the cigarette pack again. "Gotta see it through. That's just how it works."

Silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Just there. The fluorescent hum fills it.

You glance past him, toward the rest of the store. The two men, yellow hoodie is still by the magazines snd grey hoodie is still at the drink cooler, door open, staring. The woman, white hoodie is still in the doorway, snow in her hair.

"Are you guys... traveling or something?" you ask.

Tim follows your gaze. Looks back at you. Something flickers in his eyes—amusement, maybe. Wariness. Hard to read.

"Somethin' like that. Supply run." He lifts the chips under his arm. "Got the important stuff. Cigarettes, snacks, caffeine." A nod toward the coffee station. "Brian's got the drinks handled. Toby's... well. Toby's doin' whatever Toby does."

He says their names like you should know them. Like they're characters in a story you haven't read yet.

"Long way from home?" you ask.

"Long enough." He doesn't elaborate. Doesn't shut down either. Just lets it sit there.

You should probably stop asking questions. Strangers in gas stations at three in the morning usually don't want to be interviewed. But something about him—about all of them—makes you want to know more.

"You always do supply runs this late?"

"Always." No hesitation. "Easier at night. Less people. Less..." He waves a hand vaguely. "Everything."

You nod like that makes sense. It does, actually. You're here at three in the morning for the same reason, even if you didn't realize it until now.

Tim watches you for a long moment. His eyes narrow slightly—not suspicious, just... reading. Like he's trying to decide something. "You always walkin’ around in the middle of the night?" he asks. 

The question catches you off guard. It's so normal. So dad-like. The kind of thing someone's uncle would ask at a family gathering.

"Sometimes," you admit. "When I can't sleep. Or when the walls get too close."

He nods slow. Like he knows exactly what that means.

"Yeah. I get that." His hand moves to his lower back, pressing against it without thinking. "Used to walk at night a lot. Before—" He stops. Shrugs. "Before. Now the walkin's harder. But I get the feeling."

You don't ask about the before. Something tells you not to.

Instead, you look at his leg. The way he's standing. The way his weight stays off the left side.

"Is that from the walking? Or something else?"

Tim follows your gaze. Looks back up. His expression doesn't change, but something behind his eyes does. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Just... acknowledgment.

"Somethin' else." He says it like it's not a big deal. Like it's just another fact about the world. "Took a fall a while back. Didn't land right. Haven't landed right since."

"A fall?"

"Long story." He meets your eyes again. "Maybe for another night."

You nod. You understand. You don't, really, but you understand the shape of it. The boundary.

Tim moves a bit again. His jaw works like he's chewing on something. Then: "You eat yet?"

The question is so out of nowhere you almost laugh. 

"What?"

"You. Eaten? Besides the granola bar in your pocket." 

You look down. Your hand has drifted to your pocket without realizing it. The granola bar crinkles under your fingers.

"How did you—"

"Been watchin' people my whole life." He shrugs. "It's what I do. You came in, grabbed one thing, stood by the cooler forever. That's not shoppin'. That's survivin’.”

You don't know what to say to that.

Tim jerks his head toward the chips under his arm. "Got extras. If you want. Red bag's the right one. Blue's too salty."

"I—" You stop. Think. "I'm okay. Thanks."

He nods. Doesn't push. Just accepts it.

"Suit yourself." He pauses. Then: "You sure? 'Cause you got that look again."

"What look?"

"The look like you ain't sure if you're supposed to be here." His voice drops, just slightly. "I get it. This whole thing—" another vague wave toward the store, toward the others, toward everything— "probably looks weird from the outside. Hell, it looks weird from the inside most days. But we're just people. Grabbin' stuff. Headin' home. Nothin' special."

Nothing special. You look at the yellow hoodie by the magazines—still as a photograph. The grey hoodie at the cooler—door open, hand reaching, not grabbing. The girl in the doorway—snow in her hair, headphones on, watching nothing.

Nothing special.

"You guys are something," you say before you can stop yourself.

Tim's eyebrow goes up. "Yeah?"

"I don't know what. But something."

He looks at you for a long moment. Longer than before. Long enough that you start to feel exposed. Then, quiet: 

"You ain't wrong." The corner of his mouth twitches again. Almost a smile. Almost. "You know," he says, slow, like he's thinking out loud, "if you ever get tired of that university life—the walls closin' in, the readin', the debt—" He shrugs. "We got room. Not much. But room."

You blink. "What?"

"Not sayin' you should. Not sayin' it's better. Just sayin'—" He stops. Rubs his face. The beard makes a soft sound under his palm. "Hell, listen to me. Sound like I'm recruitin'."

"You sound like a dad," you say without thinking.

He stares at you. Then, for the first time, you see it—a real smile. Small. Tired. But real.

"Yeah. I get that a lot." He shakes his head. "Don't mean to. Just—you got that tired look. The kind I recognize. The kind that needs somewhere to land, even for a minute." He looks past you, toward the door, toward the snow. "We ain't got much. But we got that. A place to land."

You don't know what to say. Your hand finds the granola bar in your pocket. Crinkles it.

Tim shifts his weight. Grimaces. The moment passes. "Well." He straightens, slow, careful. "I should get goin'. Before Brian starts timin' how long I've been gone. He does that." A pause. "Nice talkin' to you."

He starts to turn.

"Tim."

He stops. Looks back.

"Thanks," you say. "For... I don't know. For talking."

He nods. Just once. "You take care of yourself, alright? Get some sleep sometime. Or don't. I ain't your dad." Another small smile. "But if you're gonna be up at three in the morning, might as well be somewhere that's got snacks."

He's halfway to the door when he stops again. Turns back. There's something on his face—an idea forming, maybe. 

Or a decision.

"Hey." He jerks his chin toward the back of the store. Toward the magazine rack. Toward the yellow hoodie that still hasn't moved. "You should go talk to him."

You blink. "What?"

"Brian." Tim nods in his direction. "My right hand. He's better at the whole..." He waves vaguely. "...people thing than he looks. And I gotta go fill up the truck." He pats his pocket where the cigarettes are. "Truck's almost empty. Gotta get gas, check the oil, all that fun stuff. Gonna take me a minute."

You look at Brian, standing with Coffee in his hand. Face angled toward the magazines like they're showing him something important.

"I don't—" you start.

"Look." Tim's voice drops. Not serious. Just... honest. "You're here. You're talkin'. That's more than most people do." He shrugs. "Brian don't bite. Well. He does, but not people he just met."

You're not sure if that's a joke.

Tim seems to catch your expression. The corner of his mouth twitches. "That was a joke."

"Oh."

"Mostly." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled five-dollar bill, and sets it on the counter. "Get yourself a real snack. Not that granola bar. And go keep him company for a few minutes. He'll never admit it, but he likes talkin' to new people. Gives him somethin' to figure out."

"Figure out?"

Tim's eyes meet yours. There's something in them—warmth, maybe. Or warning. Hard to tell.

"Brian's a thinker. He'll probably just stand there and let you do the talkin'. That's fine. He's listenin'. Always listenin'." A pause. "Just don't mention Alex and you'll be fine."

"Alex?"

Tim eyes widen bit before he rubs them, “Shit… uh, don't mention him." Firm now. Not mean. Just... final.

You nod. You don't know who Alex is. 

You're already pretty sure you don't want to know.

Tim limps toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the frame. "Entertain him for me, yeah? I'll be back in ten. If he starts talkin' about film angles, just nod and look interested. He likes that."

He's gone before you can answer. The door swings shut behind him. Through the glass, you watch him cross the lot toward the SUV, one hand braced on his lower back, the other already reaching for the gas pump.

You look at Brian. Still. Quiet. Coffee cooling in his hand.

Tim's words echo: Go keep him company for a few minutes.

You didn't ask for this. You didn't come here to talk to strangers. You came for gas and a granola bar and maybe five minutes of not thinking about midterms.

But Tim asked. Kind of. Sort of. In his own weird, dad-like way. And he's out there filling up the truck. Alone. In the snow. With that limp.

You could leave. Or you could, just turn right.

✑ 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓈

So, you turned right.

The fluorescent lights hum a little louder, or perhaps that's just the tension that's building in your chest.

You walk past the chip aisle, past the Christmas candy that's been on sale since October, past the row of trucker hats and keychains that nobody's bothered with in years. The floor tiles are worn and scuffed, and your sneakers squeak with every step, loudly enough that you might as well be screaming.

Brian doesn't look up at you.

He's still standing by the magazine rack, still holding his cup of coffee, still standing perfectly still, like a statue come to life. You're close enough now that you can see a thin curl of steam rising off the surface, which means that, contrary to appearances, his coffee is still hot, not cold, just forgotten. His shoulders rise and fall, slowly, slowly, as if he's making a conscious decision to breathe, as if every movement is a choice, not an action.

You stop a few steps away, close enough to talk to, distant enough to lose yourself in the world of car magazines if you have to bail.

He does not look at you.

Up close, you notice things the distance hid. The shadow of his hood falls across his face, giving it serene lines that will not betray anything. His hands rest on the magazine rack, not grasping, not tense, just resting, as if they were meant to be there. There is stillness to him, as if he has learned to be in space without announcing it.

His head tilts, slightly, one degree, two, as if focusing a camera lens.

"You're the one Tim was talking to."

His voice is quiet. Not shy—controlled. Like he's measuring every word before it leaves his mouth. Southern, same as Tim, but smoother. Like honey over gravel. The kind of voice that makes you want to lean in a little closer to catch every syllable.

"Yeah," you say. "That was me."

He finally turns. His gaze meets yours and holds.

Close up, his face seems to radiate an composed calmness, as if he’s cultivated this look, almost like something from the country—the kind of look that’s seen some weather and hasn’t flinched. Brown eyes. Patient and confident. His lips aren’t smiling just yet, but you get the impression they might at some other time. There’s a small scar along his jawline, pale and slightly faded.

“Well I’m Brian.” He doesn’t reach out to shake your hand. He simply lets his name hang between you.

You tell him yours.

He nods once. Files it away. You can almost see him doing it—some mental cabinet opening and closing, slotting your name into place for future reference. It should feel unsettling. It mostly just feels... thorough.

"Tim said you'd be coming over." A pause. "Said to be nice."

You blink. "He did?"

"Mm." Brian lifts his coffee, finally takes a sip. His face shifts almost imperceptibly—disappointment, maybe. He sets it down on the magazine rack without comment. "Tim thinks I need practice with people."

"Practice?"

"His word, not mine." Those brown eyes study you with quiet attention. "I think I do alright."

You're not sure what to say to that. Your hand finds the granola bar in your pocket out of habit. The plastic crinkles in the quiet. Brian's gaze drops to your pocket, then comes back up to your face. Something flickers there—amusement, maybe. Warmth.

"He also said you needed a real snack." A pause. "Guess he wasn't wrong."

Before you can respond, he shifts his weight. Just slightly. 

And you see it.

The magazine under his hand.

It's open. To a page you definitely weren't meant to see. Glossy. Airbrushed. The kind of magazine that comes in a sealed wrapper that someone has clearly unsealed at some point in the last few minutes. The kind of magazine you'd expect to find under someone's bed, not in the hands of a calm, still stranger in a gas station at three in the morning.

Your eyes widen. 

You look away. Look back. Look away again.

Brian follows your gaze. Looks down at the magazine. Looks back up at you. 

And laughs. It's quiet. Low in his chest. But genuine. Real. His shoulders shake just a little, and something in his face softens, transforms. The stillness cracks, just for a moment, and you see something human underneath.

"Well," he says. "Didn't mean for you to see that."

You feel your face heating. "I wasn't—I didn't mean to—"

"It's alright." He closes the magazine slowly, carefully, like he's savoring the moment. Slides it back onto the rack face-down. "Man's gotta have hobbies."

"That's a hobby?"

Another quiet laugh. "One of many."

You don't know where to look. The floor seems safe. The ceiling. The parking lot where Tim is probably still filling up the truck. Anywhere but Brian's amused face, which is now wearing a small smile that makes him look entirely different—warmer, almost.

When you finally glance back at him, he's watching you. Not in a way that makes your skin crawl. Just... observing. Like you're interesting. Like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve.

"You're easy to fluster," he says. Not mean. Just noting. Like he's adding it to that mental cabinet.

"I'm not—" You stop. Take a breath. "It's three in the morning. My brain's not working."

"Sure." He draws the word out, letting it hang in the air between you. "Whatever you say."

"So," you manage to say before things get awkward in silence, grateful for the change of subject. "You and Tim. Friends?"

Brian's expression shifts. Just slightly. Something warmer underneath settles into place. "Yeah. Long time now." He glances toward the door, toward the truck where Tim is visible through the glass, leaning against the pump with his bad leg bent slightly. "I He's good people. Took care of me when I needed it. Now I take care of him."

"Took care of you how?"

Brian's eyes come back to you. Assess. Decide something. You watch him make the choice. "Stuck around when he didn't have to." A shrug, casual but careful. "That's worth more than most people know."

You nod like you understand. You're not sure you do, not really. But you nod anyway, because something in his voice tells you this matters.

His gaze drifts past you, toward the drink cooler. Toward Toby, who's finally closed the door and is now just standing there, holding his red soda against his chest like a shield, staring at nothing in particular. His head ticks left, then right. His fingers pick at his thumbnail.

"Then there's those two," Brian says. Quiet. Fond, almost. Like he's talking about stray cats that showed up one day and never left.

You follow his gaze. Toby. The girl in the doorway, still watching snow.

"They with you guys?"

Brian nods slowly. "Toby and Kate." He says their names like they're familiar in his mouth. Like he's said them a thousand times in a thousand different contexts. "They're... ours, I guess. Don't know how else to put it."

"Yours?"

He looks at you. That assessing look again, but softer now.

"Tim and me, we got no kids. Never planned on it." A pause while he considers his next words. "Then these two showed up. Feral as stray cats. Couldn't just leave 'em."

You look at Toby again. Really look this time. The way he's picking at his thumb until it beads blood he doesn't seem to notice. The way his head ticks every few seconds like a clock with a broken second hand. The way he's holding that soda like it's the only thing keeping him upright, like if he puts it down he might float away.

"He looks..."

"Like a lot?" Brian supplies. "Yeah. He is. But he's good people too. Just... different."

"And Kate?"

Brian's eyes drift to the doorway. To the girl in the shredded clothes, snow melting in her hair, headphones on, watching the parking lot like it contains secrets only she can see. Something in his face softens further.

"Kate's complicated." Soft. Genuinely soft. "She's been through things. Same as Tody, don't like talking about it. Don't like people much either. But they family now. That's how it works."

Family. He says it like it's simple. 

Like it's obvious. Like the word contains everything that needs to be said. You look at them again. The four of them. Tim by the pump, limping, reaching for his cigarettes. Brian here, calm and still, watching you watch them. T

oby at the cooler, twitching, holding his soda like a lifeline. Kate in the doorway, watching snow, headphones humming with nothing. 

They don't look like family. Not in any way you recognize. They look like strangers who got lost in the same storm and decided to keep walking together.  But maybe that's what family is sometimes. 

Maybe that's exactly what it is.

"How long have you all been...?" You trail off, not sure how to finish the question.

“Together?" Brian supplies. "Long enough. Few years now. Toby came first. Then Kate. Tim was there the whole time." He pauses, considering. "We move around a lot. Stay ahead of things."

"Things?"

His eyes meet yours. Steady. Unreadable. That wall comes back up, just slightly. "Things."

You don't push. Something tells you not to. Something tells you that pushing Brian is like pushing a mountain—it doesn't move, and you just end up tired.

Brian's watching you again. That quiet observation. Like he's cataloging your reactions, your expressions, the way you breathe when you're nervous. It should feel invasive. It mostly feels like being seen.

"You're curious," he says. Not a question.

"Just... interested."

"Same thing, mostly." He tilts his head—that framing gesture again, like he's composing a shot. "Curious people are my favorite kind. They ask questions. They pay attention. They notice things other people miss."

Something in his voice shifts. Just slightly. Lower. Smoother. Like he's testing something. "Like now," he says. "You noticed me. Not a lot of people do."

You're not sure if that's a compliment or an observation. 

Maybe both. Maybe that's the point. "I mean—you're kind of hard to miss," you say. "Standing there like a statue, tall as shit too.”

His mouth twitches. "Statue?"

"Very still statue. With coffee."

He looks down at the cup. Picks it up. Considers it like he's seeing it for the first time. "This is a problem," he says. "I keep forgetting to drink things."

"You should work on that."

"Maybe you could remind me."

Your brain short-circuits. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice.

Was that—did he just—

Brian's watching you. Calm. Amused. Waiting. That small smile is back, the one that makes him look entirely different.

"That's—" You stop. Start over. "Are you flirting with me?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just lets the silence stretch. Lets you sit in it. Lets the fluorescent hum fill the space between his question and your answer. 

"Is it working?"

You suddenly laugh. You don't mean to. It just comes out, surprised out of you like air from a punctured tire. "I don't—I mean—it's three in the morning—"

"Best time for honesty," he says smoothly. "Too tired to lie."

You stare at him. He stares back. That calm, country face. Those steady eyes. The faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what he's doing.

"You're something else," you say.

"So I've been told." He sets the coffee down again. Leans one elbow on the magazine rack like he's settling in for a long conversation. "Good something or bad something?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Fair." He nods slowly. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

You glance toward the door. Tim is still at the pump, but he's almost done—capping the gas, reaching for the windshield washer thing. A few more minutes, maybe. The snow is falling harder now.

"Tim said you're his right hand," you say, partly to change the subject, partly because you're genuinely curious about the dynamics here.

Brian's expression shifts. Something like pride flickers through. Or loyalty. Hard to tell the difference with him.

“Aww, he said that?"

"Yeah. Right before he told me to come talk to you."

Brian's eyes narrow slightly. Amused again. That smile returns. "So he sent you over here."

"He said to entertain you."

"Entertain me." Brian repeats the words like he's tasting them, rolling them around. "And here I thought you came over because you wanted to." 

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out. He's watching you. Waiting. Patient as a cat. "I—" You stop. Take a breath. "WellMaybe I did."

The smile that crosses his face is small but real. Not the flirtatious one from before. Something softer. Something almost vulnerable.

"Good answer," he says quietly.

You're not sure what to do with that. Your hand finds the granola bar again. Crinkle.

Brian's eyes drop to your pocket. Come back up. "You know," he says, "Tim's right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"You need a better snack." He reaches into his hoodie pocket. Pulls out a bag of chips—the same red bag Tim had. Holds it out to you. "Here."

You stare at it. "I can't take your food."

"You're not taking. I'm giving." He shakes it slightly. The bag crinkles. "Go on. Tim's got more in the truck. I'll grab another."

You hesitate. Then take it. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." He watches you open the bag. Watches you pull out a chip and eat it. "Good?"

You nod. It is good. Spicy. Crunchy. Salty in exactly the right way. Better than any granola bar has ever been.

Brian's watching you with that quiet attention. Not intense. Just... present. Like there's nowhere else he'd rather be right now.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"Sure."

"You always talk to strangers in gas stations at three in the morning?"

You almost choke on the chip. "I—no. This is—" You swallow. "This is new."

"Good new or bad new?"

You think about it. Tim's tired smile. Brian's quiet amusement. Toby at the cooler. Kate in the snow. The way none of this feels threatening, just... strange. Just different. "Good new," you say. "I think."

Brian nods. Satisfied. "Good. Wouldn't want you to leave thinking we're weird."

You laugh. "Too late for that."

His mouth twitches. "Fair." Another pause of silence. Comfortable now. The fluorescent hum fills it like background music. Through the glass, you see Tim heading back toward the store. He's moving slower than before, one hand braced on his lower back. The limp's more pronounced after standing at the pump. His face is set in that same neutral expression, but you can see the strain around his eyes.

Brian follows your gaze.

"He's stubborn," Brian says quietly. "Won't admit when it hurts. Won't let anyone help." A pause. "That's why I'm here. To help whether he likes it or not."

"That's... really loyal."

Brian looks at you. That assessing look again, but warmer now. "Loyalty's the only thing that matters," he says. "Everything else is just noise."

You're not sure what to say to that. So you eat another chip.

Brian watches you. That small smile returns. "You know," he says, "you're interesting."

"Interesting how?"

"Haven't figured it out yet." He tilts his head. "That's what makes it interesting."

Before you can respond, the door opens. Cold air floods in, carrying snowflakes that melt before they hit the floor. Tim limps through, catches your eye, gives a small nod of acknowledgment.

“I need some help,” he calls to Brian. “You comin’??”

Brian looks at you. Just for a second. Long enough to say something without words. Then he looks back at Tim. "Yeah," he says. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.” He pushes off from the magazine rack. Picks up his cold coffee. Glances at you one last time.

"Nice talking to you," he says. Quiet. Genuine. "Maybe we'll run into you again sometime." 

He's halfway to the door when he stops. Turns back.

"Oh. Almost forgot." He jerks his chin toward the drink cooler. Toward Toby, who's still standing there like he's forgotten how to leave. "You should talk to him."

You blink. "What?"

"That one." Brian nods at Toby. "The sarcastic goofy motherfucker. He'll give you a good laugh." A pause. "He needs it. Company, I mean. He won't say so, but he does."

Tim, holding the door, snorts. "He's gonna scare them off."

"Nah." Brian's eyes find yours. "They're tougher than they look."

Then they're both gone. The door swings shut behind them. Through the glass, you watch them cross the lot—Tim limping, Brian walking with that quiet stillness, both of them heading toward the truck, passing kate as she still watching the snow.

You're standing by the magazine rack, holding a bag of chips, Brian's cold coffee cup still sitting on the edge.

You look at the drink cooler. Toby is still there. Still standing. Not leaving. Still holding his red soda. His head ticks left. His fingers find his thumbnail. His hood is still pulled so tight you can barely see his face.

Shit… you might as well talk to him.

✑ 𝓉𝑜𝒷𝓎 𝓇𝑜𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 

You turn toward the drink cooler.

The air gets colder as you approach, a wall of refrigerated nothing that raises goosebumps on your arms. Your footsteps echo on the tile, and Toby doesn't look up. Doesn't acknowledge you at all. Just keeps staring at the shelves like they hold the answers to questions he hasn't figured out how to ask yet.

The door's been open too long. You can hear the cooler struggling to maintain temperature, can see the fog rolling out in waves around his ankles. His red soda is pressed against his chest with one arm, hugged tight like a kid with a stuffed animal. His other hand hovers over the rows of bottles, touching, retreating, touching, retreating.

You stop a few feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough not to crowd.

His head ticks left. His jaw works under the hood. A small sound escapes—not a word, just a click at the back of his throat. He doesn't seem to notice. His fingers find a blue bottle, trace the label, put it back. Find a green one, do the same.

"You know," you say, "if you stand there much longer, everything's gonna thaw."

He freezes. For a second, he doesn't move at all. Not even the ticks. Just stillness, like a deer that's heard a branch snap. Then his head turns, slow, until he's looking at you from under that hood.

You still can't see much of his face. Just the lower half. Jawline. A hint of something wrong along his left cheek, hidden behind fabric. His eyes are dark brown. Sunken. But sharp. Really sharp.

He stares at you for a long moment. Assessing. Then his gaze drops to the open cooler. Back to you.

"Shit," he says.

He slams the door shut. The glass rattles. He takes a step back, still holding his red soda, still staring at you like you might be a hallucination.

"Didn't—I didn't realize—" He stops. His head ticks. A small sound escapes—tk. "Sorry. I was just—"

"It's fine," you say. "I do the same thing with my fridge at home. Just stand there staring like something's gonna magically appear."

He blinks at you. "You're not freaked out?"

"By what? The cooler?" You shrug. "It's a gas station at three in the morning. I left my ability to be freaked out somewhere around midterms."

Something shifts in his expression. Not quite a smile. But close. He shifts his weight, and the red soda crinkles against his chest. His free hand comes up to his mouth, and he bites at the skin around his thumbnail—hard enough that you see a bead of blood well up. He doesn't seem to notice.

"I'm Toby," he says. The name comes out fast, like he's throwing it at you.

You tell him yours.

He nods. His head ticks right. Tk. "So you're just—" He gestures vaguely with the hand that's not holding the soda. "—standing here. In a gas station. Early in the morning. Talking to strangers."

"Looks that way."

"Why?"

The question is so direct it catches you off guard. Not accusatory. Just curious. Like he genuinely wants to know.

"I don't know," you admit. "Tim seemed like he needed someone to talk to. And Brian was..." You pause. 

"Brian." Toby's eyes narrow slightly. Then his mouth does something—a twitch, a pull—and suddenly he's grinning. It's lopsided. Real.

"Yeah," he says. "That's Brian alright." His head ticks again. Tk tk. "He flirt with you?"

Your face felt warm from the sudden question. "I—what?"

"He flirts with everyone." Toby's grin widens. "It's his thing. Doesn't mean anything. Well. Sometimes it means something. Hard to tell with him." A pause. "Did he give you chips?"

You hold up the bag. "Yeah. Actually."

"Knew it." Toby looks genuinely pleased. "That's his love language. Food. Well. Food and—" He stops. His jaw works. Tk. "Never mind."

You're not sure you want to know.

Toby shifts again, and for the first time, he seems to realize he's still holding the door frame of the cooler like it's the only thing keeping him upright. He lets go. Steps back. His eyes scan the floor, the ceiling, the racks behind you—anywhere but your face. 

"So," he says. "You're just—you're just here. In the middle of nowhere. Talking to—" He gestures at himself. "This."

"What's wrong with this?"

He looks at you. Really looks. His brown eyes searching your face for something. "I got—" He stops. His head ticks hard—tk—and his jaw clenches. "I have—I'm not—" He stops again. His hand comes up, rubs his face under the hood. "Sorry. I'm not—I don't do it on purpose. The—" Another tick. Another sound. "Fuck."

He's apologizing. For the ticks. For the sounds. For existing in a way that doesn't fit.

You cut him off. "Hey." Your voice is soft. "You don't have to apologize."

He stops. Looks at you. "For what?"

"For any of it." You gesture vaguely at him. "If you can't control it, you don't have to say sorry. Not to me."

He stares at you. One second. Two. Three. His head ticks—tk—but he doesn't look away. Doesn't apologize. Just keeps staring at you like you've said something in a language he didn't know anyone else spoke. Then his mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. 

And he smiles.

It's not a small smile. Not a polite one. It's a real smile, wide and lopsided and a little bit incredulous. The kind of smile that says oh shit, you for real? The kind of smile that transforms his whole face, even the parts you can't quite see under the hood.

"Holy shit," he says. "You're—" He laughs. It's short, surprised out of him. "You're actually chill. Like. Actually."

"Is that surprising?"

"Kind of?" He ticks—tk—but he's still smiling. "People usually—they get weird. About the—" He gestures at his own head. "You know. The noises. The—" Another tick. "This."

"People are dumb."

He laughs again. Louder this time. Real.  "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, they are." He finally moves away from the cooler, drifting toward the little seating area near the window. There's a plastic bench there, the kind that's impossible to get comfortable on. He drops onto it, sprawls out like he owns the place, one leg bouncing, fingers drumming on his knee.

You follow. Sit on the other end. Not too close. Not too far.

He watches you do it.  "You're not scared of me," he says. Not a question.

"Should I be?"

He thinks about it. Tilts his head. Tk. "Nah." A pause. "Probably not."

"Probably?"

He grins again. That lopsided, goofy thing. "I mean, I got axes and shit. But they're in the truck. So you're safe. For now."

You're not sure if that's a joke. You're pretty sure it is. Mostly.

"Axes," you repeat.

"For..." He waves a hand vaguely. "Stuff. You know. Camping. Hiking… Murder."

"That took a turn."

He snorts. A real snort, the kind that comes out before he can stop it. Then he's laughing, and you're laughing, and for a minute it's just two people sitting on an uncomfortable plastic bench in a gas station hella early in the morning, laughing at nothing.

When it dies down, he wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. His hood shifts, and for a second you catch a glimpse of something—scar tissue, maybe, along his jaw—before he pulls it back into place. "Shit," he says. "I haven't—" He ticks. Tk. "I don't usually—" Another tick. "Fuck. Words are hard sometimes."

"Take your time."

He looks at you. That assessing look again. But softer now.

"You mean that," he says. "Like. Actually mean it."

"Yeah. I do."

He nods slowly. His leg keeps bouncing. His fingers keep drumming. His head ticks every few seconds. But he's relaxed. As relaxed as someone like him can probably get.

"So," he says. "University, right? Tim said."

You blink. "He told you that? That’s fast…"

“Yeah, we quick when it comes to informationHe tells me everything." A pause. "Well. Not everything. But he mentioned you. Said you were tired. That you had that look."

"What look?"

"The look like you've been running on fumes for so long you forgot what gas feels like." He shrugs. "I know that look. Seen it in mirrors a lot."

You don't know what to say to that. Toby doesn't seem to need an answer. He's already moved on, his attention skipping to the chips in your hand.

"Those good?"

"Yeah. Spicy."

"Red bag's the best." He nods sagely. "Blue bag's trash. I don't know why they even make them."

"Brian said the same thing."

"'Course he did." Toby grins. "He's got opinions about everything. Chips. Coffee. The best angle to film someone from. Don't ask about the last one. You'll be there all night."

You laugh. You can't help it.

He watches you laugh. That sharp gaze tracking everything.

"You're weird," he says. Not mean. Just noting.

"Thanks?"

"That's a compliment." He ticks. Tk. "Weird's good. Normal's boring."

"Says the guy with axes in the truck."

He grins. "Exactly."

The fluorescent hum fills the space between you. Through the glass, you can see the SUV still idling. Brian and Tim are both outside now, standing by the open hood. Tim's leaning against the front bumper, cigarette in his mouth, while Brian pokes at something with a flashlight. They move around each other like people who've done this a thousand times—wordless, efficient, comfortable.

You watch them for a moment. 

There's something about the way Tim's standing there, one hand in his pocket, smoke curling up into the snow. The beard. The worn jacket. The tired eyes that somehow still look like they're paying attention to everything. He's got that whole rugged thing going on. The kind of guy who looks like he should be on a calendar called "Dads of the Backcountry" or something.

And Brian—Brian's decent too. For his age. That calm stillness, the way he moves like he's never in a hurry. The kind of handsome that creeps up on you the longer you look. Country handsome. The kind that ages like wood instead of fruit.

Toby follows your gaze. He's quiet for a moment, watching them through the glass.

"You know," he says, "they didn't have to keep me."

You look at him. He's still watching the two men by the truck, but there's something different in his expression now. Softer.

"When they found me—" He stops. Ticks. "Tk. I was a mess. Like. A real mess." His fingers find his thumbnail, pick at it until a bead of blood appears. He doesn't notice. "Didn't trust anyone. Didn't want anyone. Just—" He gestures vaguely. "Existing. Taking up space."

You don't ask who found him first. Something tells you not to.

"Tim was the one who talked to me," Toby continues. "Just talked. Didn't ask for anything. Didn't want anything. Just... sat there. Let me be weird." A small laugh. 

"Brian was worse. He just watched. For like. Weeks. Just watched. Creepy as hell." But they stuck around…” He shrugs. "Don't know why. Still don't. But they did. Put up with my shit for a really long time." He ticks. "Tk. And I mean really long. There was this phase—" He stops. Groans. "Oh god. The waffle phase."

"Waffle phase?"

"Do not." He holds up a hand. "Do not ask. I can't even look at a waffle anymore. Haunted by it. Legit haunted."

You laugh. He grins.

"And Brian—" He shakes his head. "Brian used to be obsessed with sweets. Like. Obsessed. Would eat anything sugary. Cake. Cookies. Those little donuts in the white powder. Remembered?"

You nod.

"Then one day—" Toby snaps his fingers. "Done. Over. Hates sweet stuff now. Drinks black coffee. Eats dark chocolate and acts like it's a punishment." He ticks. "Tk. Now it's all bitter things. All the time. Like he's trying to prove something."

You glance toward the truck. Brian's still under the hood, flashlight in hand. Tim says something, and Brian nods without looking up.

"They're listeners," Toby says. "Both of them. Tim listens because he cares. Brian listens because he's figuring you out." He looks at you. "You're a listener too."

"Am I?"

"Yeah." He nods. "You just sit there. Let people talk. Don't interrupt. Don't judge." He ticks. "Tk. That's rare. I'm the only rambler in this whole damn group."

"You seem to do alright."

"I talk a lot." He grins. "Someone's gotta fill the silence. 

They're useless at it." He jerks his head toward the truck. "Tim'll go hours without saying anything. Just smokes and thinks. Brian'll just—" He makes a still face. "Exist. Stare at stuff. It's weird." He glances at you, like he's checking if you're still listening. 

You are. 

But you're also looking at him. Really looking.

Up close, under the buzzing fluorescent glare, you notice more than the hood, more than the jittery energy. There’s something about him. The sharpness in his brown eyes. The way his mouth moves when he talks, so expressive, even when the words get jumbled. The lean build beneath the layers, broad shoulders, strong chest, the kind of build that suggests he could lift more than he lets on.

He's fine. Like, genuinely fine as fuck. The kind of fine that makes you do a double take.

Even with the scar. Especially with the scar, maybe. It gives him an edge. Something dangerous underneath all that goofy energy.

He catches you looking. Stops mid-sentence.

His head ticks—tk—but he doesn't look away. That sharp brown gaze narrows, focuses, pins you in place. And then he grins. It's slow. Careful. The kind of grin that knows exactly what it's doing.

"You checkin' me out?" he asks.

Your face heats. "I—what? No. I was just—"

"Uh huh." He leans back, stretches out on the bench like a cat in a sunbeam. "Sure. Just looking. Just admiring the view. Totally normal."

"I wasn't—"

"'Cause I get it." He cuts you off, still grinning. "I'm a lot to take in. Visually speaking." He gestures at himself. "The whole package. The vibes. The—" He ticks. "Tk. The mystery."

You sputter something that might be words.

He laughs. That real laugh, the one that transforms his whole face. "Nah, I'm messin' with you." He waves a hand. "You're easy. It's cute."

"Cute?"

"Yeah." He tilts his head. That sharp gaze softens, just slightly. "You got that whole 'I'm not checking you out but I'm definitely checking you out' thing going on. It's—" He ticks. "Tk. It's refreshing. Most people just stare at the scar and bounce." Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping just a little.

"But since we're being honest—" He ticks. "Tk. You're not bad yourself."

Now you're definitely blushing. He notices. Grins wider.

"See? Easy." He leans back again, all that intensity evaporating into goofy energy. "Don't worry. I'm harmless. Mostly. Brian's the one you gotta watch out for. He'll flirt with you and mean it."

"And you?"

He thinks about it. Ticks. "I mean it too," he says. "Just... differently." A pause. "Less creepy. More fun."

You laugh. You can't help it.

He watches you laugh, that gaze tracking everything. But there's warmth there now. Real warmth. "You're alright," he says again. "Seriously."  

Before you can respond, the door opens. Cold air floods in. Tim's standing there. One hand braced on the frame. His eyes find Toby. "We're leaving in five,” he says. "Finish up."

Toby groans. “Five more minutes."

"Two."

"Three."

Tim stares at him. Toby stares back. "...Three," Tim finally says. Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Toby grins at you. "I always win." He stands up. Stretches. That lean build flexing under all those layers. He catches you noticing again. Grins again. "Eyes up here," he teases, pointing at his face.

You look away. Look back. Shake your head. "You're impossible."

"Yep." He ticks. "Tk. That's the point." Then he looks past you, toward the door. Toward the figure still standing there, leaning against the frame, snow dusting her shoulders. "Hey." Toby's voice drops. Softer now. "You should talk to her."

You follow his gaze. Kate. Still there. Still watching the snow. Still holding that coffee cup Brian gave her. 

You haven't seen much of her face because of the hoodie hiding parts of it, but from what you can tell—she's pretty. Pale and strange, but pretty. The kind of pretty that makes you want to look closer.

"Kate?" You suddenly asked

Toby's expression softens. Just slightly. “Yeah, you should know Kate's newer," he says. "She came after me. Found her the same way they found me, I think. Just... there. Needing somewhere to land." He pauses. "She doesn't talk much. Like. At all. But she's good people. Just different."

He looks toward the door. Toward where Kate is still standing, snow in her hair, coffee in her hands.

"You'll like her," he says. "She's weird too."

Before you can respond, Tim's voice carries through the glass—muffled, but unmistakable. Toby's head ticks.

"That's my cue." He stands. Grins at you. "Come on. I'll introduce you."

And then he's pulling you toward the door, toward her.

✑ 𝓀𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓈-𝓂𝒶𝓎𝑒𝓈

Toby tugs you through the door, and the cold hits you like a wall. Snowflakes catch in your hair, on your eyelashes, melt against your warm skin. The truck idles a few yards away, exhaust curling up into the dark.

Kate turns at the sound of the door.

Slow. Careful. Like she's not used to people approaching.

Her eyes find Toby first. Something flickers there recognition, maybe. Trust. But then Toby's energy kicks in, all that bouncing, ticking, grinning energy, and he's already moving toward her, already talking—

"Kate! Hey! This is—" He gestures back at you. "This is the person. From inside. The one who's been talking to us. They're cool. Really cool. Like, actually cool. You'll like them."

Kate takes a step back.

Just one. Small. But you see it.

Toby freezes. His head ticks—tk—and he looks at her, really looks, and something in his expression shifts. 

“Oh Shit," he says quietly. "Sorry. I'm—" He steps back, gives her space. His voice drops, calms, slows down. "Sorry. I got excited. My bad."

Kate watches him. Her dark-rimmed eyes don't blink.

"I'm calm now," Toby says. He shoves his hands in his pockets, forces his body still. The ticks are still there—they're always there—but he's trying. You can see him trying. "See? Calm. Just gonna—" He takes another step back. "Just gonna stand here. Be normalish."

Something in Kate's face softens. Just barely. "It's okay," she says. Quiet. Rusty. Like she hasn't used her voice in a while.

Toby grins, but it's softer now. Gentler. "This is—" He looks at you. "You should tell her your name. Since I'm bad at remembering to ask."

You tell her. Kate blinks. Processes.

"I'm Kate," she says.

"Hi, Kate."

She nods. Just once. Silence. 

Toby looks between you. His head ticks. His fingers twitch in his pockets. "So," he says. "This is—this is going great. Great start. Really—" He stops. "Tk. Really normal conversation happening here."

You bite back a smile.

Kate's eyes look to him. There's something almost fond there.

"She hides her face a lot," Toby offers, filling the silence. "Like. A lot a lot. Used to wear a mask all the time. Luckier nowadays—she leaves it off for supply runs. So you're getting the—" He gestures. "The premium experience."

Kate looks down at her coffee cup. "Toby," she says. Quiet warning.

"Right. Right. Shutting up." He mimes zipping his lips. His head ticks. The zipping motion happens again. "Shutting up for real this time. Totally silent."

He's not silent. But he's trying. 

Before anyone can say anything else, Tim's voice cuts through the cold. "Toby! Get over here. Need your eyes on something."

Toby groans. "One second!"

"Now."

He looks at you. Grimaces. "Duty calls." He ticks. "Tk. The old man gets bossy when the truck's being difficult." He glances at Kate. "You good?"

She nods.

He looks at you. "You good?"

You nod.

"Cool. Cool." He takes a step toward the truck, then stops. Looks back. "Be nice to each other. Or don't. I'm not your dad." A pause. "That's Tim's job."

Then he's gone, jogging toward the SUV, his ticks visible even from here.

And you're alone with Kate, which she doesn't look at you. She looks at the snow. At her coffee cup. At the ground.

You stand there. Not sure what to do.

"How's your night been?" Her voice is soft. Quiet. You almost miss it.

You turn to her. She's still not looking at you, but her head's tilted slightly—listening, waiting.

"Long," you admit. "Tiring. Weird." A pause. "Good weird, though."

She nods. Like she understands. "I'm sorry," she says.

"For what?"

"Not talking much." Her fingers tighten around the coffee cup. "I'm not—I'm not good at it. Never was. Even when I was younger. With my family." A pause. "They talked. I listened. Promise, if I knew you better, I'll be talking much more…”

"That's okay."

She glances at you. Just briefly. Those dark-rimmed eyes.

"Is it?"

"Yeah." You mean it. "I don't mind."

She's quiet for a moment. Processing. "Toby helps," she says finally. "He talks enough for everyone. Makes it easier." A small pause. "I've learned to talk a little more since I joined them. Put up with his antics long enough, you start picking things up."

You smile. "He's a lot."

"He's family." She says it simply. Like it's obvious. "They all are."

You look toward the truck. Tim's under the hood now, Toby beside him, Brian holding the flashlight. They move around each other like people who've done this a thousand times.

"They make me feel..." Kate trails off, searching for words. "Happy. Sometimes. Horrified, other days. Depends."

"Depends on what?"

She looks at you. Those dark eyes holding yours.

"On what we have to do." A pause. "Our jobs make life sometimes difficult. But it's easier because we have each other."

You don't ask what the jobs are. Something tells you not to.

Instead, you say: "That's good. That you have each other."

She nods. Looks back at the snow.

Silence settles between you. Not uncomfortable. Just there.

"You know," you say, "I really don't mind carrying the conversation. If that's easier."

She glances at you. "You talk," she says. "I'll listen. Like my family."

"Yeah. If you want."

She thinks about it. Nods. "Okay."

You talk, about college, about the chill, about how strange it is to be in a gas station parking lot at three in the morning, talking to people who feel less and less like strangers with each passing minute. She listens. She really listens. Those dark eyes are on your face, your hands, your expressions.

At some point, you realize you are flirting with her. A little, at least. Nothing heavy, just a few comments about how the snow makes her eyes sparkle, about how she is easier to talk to than she thinks.

She knows. Her head tilts, her dark-rimmed eyes squinting slightly, as if she finds the situation funny. “You’re flirting with me,” she says, not as a question, but as a statement, in her smooth, gravelly voice.

You pause, caught. "Is that okay?"

She thinks about it, like she's turning the question over in her mind. Then she nods. Just once. "I don't know how," she admits. "To flirt back. I never learned."

"That's okay," you say. "You don't have to."

She considers this. The snow falls between you. And then, quiet as snowfall: "You're pretty."

It's so simple. So direct. So unexpectedly sincere that it knocks the breath right out of you. You stare at her, and she stares back—no hint of a joke, no sarcasm, just a statement of fact delivered like she's telling you the sky is blue. "That's—" You stop, start over. "That's really sweet."

"Is it true?" she asks.

"Is what true?"

"What I said." She tilts her head again, and this time something shifts in her expression—a small confidence, a flicker of something warmer. "That you're pretty."

Your face heats. "I—I don't know. I mean—"

"I think it's true." She says it like she's solving a puzzle, but there's a softness underneath now. "Your face is nice. Your eyes are kind. You listen." A pause. "That's pretty."

And then, slowly, she does something that makes your heart stutter.

She pushes her hood back. Just a little. Just enough.

Snow is woven through her dark hair, dissolving on her pale skin. Her face is complete without the hood—her jawline is sharp, her lips full and inviting, her eyes surrounded by shadows that should be unnerving but aren’t. The bruises around her eyes give her an edge, a hint of the unknown, but beneath all this, she is striking. Beautiful, in a way that seems almost accidental, as if she doesn’t quite realize it.

She is incredibly gorgeous. Truly. Beautifully, breathtakingly so. The kind of beauty that makes you forget your next line.

Her eyes catch yours, and you realize she’s seen you staring. Her confidence is rekindled, and her lips curve up, not quite smiling, but close. Not quite.

“There,” she says, her voice low. “Now you can see me too.”

Your lips open, but nothing comes out.

Her eyes follow your struggle to find words, and her lips curve up another fraction. “Was that flirting?” she asks. “I’m not sure I did it right.”

“That was—” You take a deep breath. “Yeah. That was flirting.”

"Good." She pushes a wet strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm learning. Sometimes Brian teaches me." She adds.

Isn't that just random? Wow...

You're still gaping. You can't help it. She's there in the snow, coffee cup in one hand, the headphones around her neck, her dark hair flecked with white, her eyes fixed on you like you're the most fascinating thing she's seen in weeks.

"You're really beautiful," you hear yourself say.

She blinks. Processes. Then that almost-smile grows into something real—small, but real. Warm. "So are you," she says simply.

And then, from the truck: "Kate!"

Brian's voice. Calm. Carrying.

"Trunk's done. Everything's ready. We're leaving in two."

Kate looks up, nods quickly, no raised voice, just a simple acknowledgment. She pulls up hood again, deliberate and quiet, smoothing loose ends and that striking face out of sight once more. Then she turns to you. “It was nice talking to you,” she says, soft and sincere.

“You too.”

Her eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary, and then she is walking away to the truck, coffee cup warm in one hand, headphones bouncing, snow caught in her hair and shoulders.

You watch her go. She doesn’t look back.

You saw the doors of the truck swing, then settle, swing again, then settle again. The engine comes to life.

—and you are alone.

You stand there in the light snow long after the truck’s taillights disappear down the road.

Hell. That was something.

You think back on it: the worn-out dad-ness of Tim, the subtle flirting of Brian, the messy, goofy chaos of Toby, the quirky beauty of Kate. Four strangers, a gas station, 3 a.m., and somehow you managed to strike up conversations with all of them. Real conversations. The kind that feel bigger than just passing the time.

Pretty cool, you think to yourself. Really fucking cool.

You look down at your phone. It’s almost five. The sky is lightening, the dark giving way to a lighter blue, gray seeping along the horizon. The snow is letting up, just a few flakes, but the air is filled with the scent of morning. The scent of fog rolling in, the scent of damp earth, the scent of light coming on.

Shit. You need to get back to campus.

You hurry back to your car. The now melted snow barely crunches underfoot, a thin brittle layer. The lot is empty except for your old sedan, which stands under the buzzing fluorescent lights. You open the door, slide inside. The leather bites into your flesh, and you wince in discomfort.

You insert the key into the ignition, turn it. Nothing...?

You try again. Nothing but a hollow, sad click, a sound that echoes through the still morning air.

"No," you say to no one in particular. "No, no, no."

You try again. Click. Again. Click. Again. Nothing.

You beat the steering wheel in frustration, and the horn lets out a weak bleat.

You get out, walk to the front of the car, and pop the hood. You have no idea what you’re looking at, and cars have always been a complete mystery to you, just a box with wheels that will go when you want them to. Still, you stare at the engine, hoping it will suddenly spill all its secrets to you.

Nothing looks obviously wrong, but something is wrong. A part is missing. A hose, something like that. A part that should be there, but isn’t.

How the hell did this happen?

You’re still staring, still clueless, when a voice interrupts the morning silence.

"Car trouble?"

You spin around, startled. The Truck has reappeared.

Parked a few yards away, engine running, exhaust smoke curling into the fog. Standing by the driver's door, one hand on the doorframe, is Tim. He looks at you with those worn, deep-set eyes. His cigarette has vanished. He looks like he hasn't slept in a long time. And like he's exactly where he wants to be.

“What the hell are you still doing here?” you ask.

Tim shrugs. “The Truck needed a minute. Brian wanted to check something.” A pause. “Saw you standing there, staring at your engine like it insulted you or something.”

You chuckle. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tim limps closer, hands in his pockets. "Need help?"

You shake your head. "Nah. It's not gonna start. Part's missing, I think? I'm not a car person."

He glances at the engine. "Old car?"

"Ancient. Been meaning to get rid of it." You pat the hood. "Rest in peace, you beautiful piece of shit."

He huffs something like a laugh. Then, after a moment: "You need a ride?"

You blink. "What?"  

He turns to the truck. "We're going anyway. Campus is a few 

miles away. That's nothing."  

"You don't have to—"  

"I know." Not mean. Just firm. "Offering anyway."  

You look at the truck. Brian is in the driver’s seat, locked in place like a statue. Kate is in the back seat, pressed up against the window. Toby is in the back seat too, probably scratching at his fingernails. They're all looking at you.  

"Yeah," you say. "Okay. Thanks."  

Tim nods and starts to limp back to the truck. He opens the back door. Toby leaps out with a grin. "Shotgun is taken. You're in the middle. Sandwiched between me and Kate. Lucky you."  

Kate looks at you from the back seat. Not mad. Just looking.  

You get in the truck. It smells like coffee and cigarettes and some kind of living-in odor that you can’t quite place. Toby gets in beside you, his leg bouncing up and down. Kate is on your other side.  

"You all in?" Brian says.  

"Yep," Toby says.  

Kate nods.  

Tim looks back at you. "Buckle up."  

You do. The truck starts to move away from you, slow and easy like they have all the time in the world.  

No one says anything for a few minutes.

You settle into the worn seat, the warmth of the truck seeping through your jacket as the snow-dusted campus fades into the background. 

Truly, you should not be getting into strangers' cars—every true crime podcast you've ever half-listened to while studying screams that fact at full volume. But the opportunity had granted itself, and you definitely weren't going to walk miles back to campus through the snow at dawn. 

You might as well just risk your life for a free ride. 

On the surface, they didn’t seem scary at all. Tim’s worn-out dad look, Brian’s hushed calm, Toby’s unruly affectionate buzz, Kate’s quiet attentiveness... none of it seemed scary. Just... different. Odd, in a way that was interesting rather than frightening.

You watch them. Brian drives steady, checking mirrors constantly. Tim sits ready, hand near his pocket. Toby bounces and ticks and fills the silence. Kate watches the world pass, quiet and present.

They move like a team unit. Like they've done this a thousand times. Found family, you think. That's what this is. 

But there's something underneath—the way Brian's eyes never stop moving, the way Tim's hand stays close to his pocket, the way Kate watches the dark between streetlights. 

Layers beneath layers. You want to know more.

“Hey.” Toby’s voice cuts through the silence, bringing you back to the present. “You’re doing that thing again.”

You open your eyes, focusing on him. “What thing?”

“The thing where you zone out, thinking really hard about whatever it is you’re thinking, and forget you’re in the car with four strangers.” He ticks—tk—and tilts his head, eyes sharp with curiosity. “What’s up?”

You pause, taken aback by the directness of the question. “I was just... thinking about you guys.”

Toby grins, the crooked smile spreading across his face. “Good thoughts or weird thoughts?”

“Both?”

Toby laughs, the sound filling the car, making Kate crack a smile beside you. “You should hang out with us sometime.”

“Tag along?”

“Yeah. Not now. Not today. But maybe some other time.” Toby taps his knee, his fingers drumming the seat. “You’re all right, you know? We like people like you.”

“People like me? You just met me.”

“Yeah?” Toby shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I know what I know.”

You find yourself looking at Tim in the rearview mirror. His tired eyes meet yours for just a second—unreadable, but not unwelcoming. Brian's gaze flickers to you from the driver's seat, calm and assessing. And beside you, Kate turns her head slowly, those dark-rimmed eyes holding yours for a long moment before she gives a single nod.

"Why me?" you ask, voice quieter than you intended.

Toby's quiet for a moment—really quiet, his ticks slowing, his leg stilling. His dark brown eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. 

"'Cause you're special." 

Simple. Direct. No sarcasm, no joke. Just a statement of fact delivered like he's telling you the sky is blue.

"Toby." Tim's voice cuts in from the front, carrying that tired dad weight. "Leave 'em alone."

Toby grins, the moment breaking like sunlight through clouds. "I'm being nice!"

"You're being weird."

"Same thing."

You chuckle lightly, and the tension dissolves into a sort of comfortable warmth.

Toby grins, looking smug and pleased with himself. Beside you, Kate bumps you gently with her shoulder, which is solid and comforting. In the mirror, Brian looks up and meets your eyes again, and there’s something in his eyes that looks like approval and acknowledgment and maybe even a little bit of both.

The truck continues on into the fog, towards your campus and towards morning, and your thoughts begin to wander to what’s next. Hanging out with these people some time, maybe, like Toby suggested. 

Getting to know these curious and warm and watchful people who somehow appeared in your life at three in the morning and feel like they've always been there.

Where could this road lead? What could you find out?

Well...

Meanwhile, in the treeline, where the fog had gathered thickest in the pines, two figures kept vigil over the gas station lot as the morning gray stretched out.

One stood motionless, blending in with the shadows. A colossal figure, black as ink, always shifting, its moth-like wings folded heavy upon its living cloak. Pale purple light emanated from its eyes, seeping out into the fog as it observed the scene below with cold, precise interest.

A car part rested in its palm.

Removed with precise care while the owner’s attention was diverted inside. Next to it, the second figure crouched low to the ground, its hood pulled low over its head. A dark blue mask hid everything except the gleam of dark eyes. Slim, motionless, they observed the same scene with an interest that was not cruel.

They observed you entering the truck.

They observed the doors closing. They observed the truck glide away. The ink-dark figure’s glow flickered once. A touch of disappointment.

“Ugh, why?” The voice wasn't spoken—it curled softly through the fog like smoke, like breath, like something settling into lungs. 

“They were interesting. Marked. Mine.”

The crouched figure tilted its head. Said nothing.

“Those four,” the voice continued, “They knew. They waited. They took.” A pause. “Why would they do such a thing?”

The second figure finally spoke, voice low and rough, almost amused. 

"Maybe they got tired of losing things to the woods."

“Then maybe I'm more interested...” The ink-dark wings stirred once, heavy and slow, before the figure melted back into the trees.

“...Much more interested.”

♤ — 𝓂𝒽 / 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓍𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

When she reached him she leaned on his chest, pressing her stomach to his and wrapping her arms around his waist, melting into him. This was one of her favorite things, just standing with him.

And normally it was his too.

But this time he went ridged underneath her hands, spine ramrod straight. He tried to pull in his stomach, praying that she wouldn't notice his odd behavior. Praying that she wouldn't notice anything.

Unfortunately for him, his wife noticed everything about him.

"Simon," she pulled back slowly, just enough that she could see his face but still held him in her arms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, dove." He cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

She eyed him suspiciously, then sank back into the hug, watching him in the mirror. "Okay."

He exhaled, glad that she was gonna drop it. At least, that's what he thought.

She slowly unwrapped her arms, sliding her hands to meet his soft sides. Simon tensed back up, reaching to grab her hands and gently put them back around him.

"What're you doing baby?" She asked, closely observing his expression.

"Just really love hugging you, 'sall." He murmured into her hair, still avoiding her eyes.

Y/N pulled away again, cradling his face in one hand and running her fingers through his hair with the other. Simon sighed, closing his eyes and sinking into her touch.

"Well I'm flattered Si," she whispered, "But I know that's not quite the whole reason."

He froze, still not opening his eyes.

"Talk to me," she pressed a kiss to his cheek, "Let me carry this with you."

Simon could feel his resolve melting away with every time her hands ran through his hair. Maybe he would share this with her, as embarrassing as it may be. His sweet wife had never been the type to make fun of him.

He opened his eyes and stood up straight, keeping his arms wrapped around her but watching himself closely in the mirror.

"Do you, uh-" he cleared his throat. "Do you think I've gotten too soft since retiring?"

She tilted her head up at him, "What do you mean?"

Simon pulled away from her fully and gestured to his gut.

"Look at me, when we got together I was damn near bloody chiselled, and now," he took to squishing his stomach, then turning to look at her.

"Look how tight my pants are now." He pulled at the waistband. "I can barely get 'em zipped anymore."

Simon plopped himself onto the edge of the bed, putting his elbows on his knees and staring at her feet.

"Guess I'm just worried I'm not quite the man you fell in love with anymore."

It was silent in the room for a few moments, the only reason he knew she hadn't left was because he'd been watching her feet. He could feel something welling up in his chest, fear, sadness, and resignation.

An ugly combination.

But slowly, her feet started moving. And soon enough, his wife was standing right in front of him.

"You're right Simon, you aren't quite the same man I fell in love with."

His head snapped up, the same time he felt a crack in his chest, but before he could get a word out she had his face cradled in her palms.

"And I'm not quite the same woman you fell in love with. That's what happens when you spend years of your life with someone." Y/N gazed down at him with such adoration that he could feel her love radiating into his chest.

"And yes love, you are much softer than you were at first, and I'm mighty proud of that."

His head tilted in confusion.

"I've worked real hard at getting you nice and plump." She squeezed his side. "Now that you're able to relax, I wanted to make sure that you were eating enough. Have to keep my husband nice and full."

Simon blinked at her. "Dove, are you telling me that you've been fattening me up on purpose?"

She blushes violently, glancing away from him as her ears burned. "That's not the point, Simon."

He stood up in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I think that's very much the point, sweet wife." He chuckled to himself. "Here I was worried you wouldn't be attracted to me anymore, when this had been your sneaky little scheme all along."

She shook her head, burying her face into his chest. "I can't help that I like you soft." She murmured. "Means that you finally feel safe. And besides," she pulled back and looked at him directly.

"You don't mind that I'm soft, do you?"

Simon scoffed immediately, like the very notion was preposterous. "Absolutely not." He grasped her waist, squeezing appreciatively. "I love my wife with some softness on her. Just gives me more to love."

Y/N hummed with a smile, burying her face back into his chest. "And I love you Simon, no matter how soft you are."

a/n

The monster, they said, would take you if you wandered.

You believed them, of course, until you got older. Until you saw what real monsters looked like.

The monsters weren't ugly and uncivilized, the monsters were men. Men with polite smiles and cold hands. Men who drank too much and laughed when you said no. Men who looked at you like a prize instead of a person.

Compared to them, the thing in the forest felt almost… honest.

At least monsters didn’t pretend to be anything else.

You might have gone your whole life never knowing whether the tales were real, if not for the night Victor Frankenstein staggered through your front door drenched in rain and pure terror.

You found him on the road, mud splattered up his coat, eyes wide and bloodshot. You thought he was drunk at first, or maybe sick. Then, he clutched at your wrist when you reached for him.

“He’s coming,” Victor rasped. “Please. Please. I’ll pay anything. Just let me in. He’s coming.”

You should have turned him away, stranger ranting about some unseen threat—nothing good could follow. But the urgency and fear in his voice compelled you to open your door to him.

So you let him in anyway.

You always were too soft-hearted, as your father reminded. Too curious, too easily hooked by disaster or a firing gun.

He sat by the fire and shook like he was freezing from the inside out. As the hours passed and the wind howled outside, pieces of the story slipped out between trembling lips.

He was a doctor. No, more than that. A genius, he said. Brilliant. Visionary.

Arrogant. Pompous. Vain.

He spoke of graveyards and lightning and blasphemy dressed up as science. He told you he had built something, a man, almost, stitched from death and dragged screaming into life.

You would have laughed if he hadn’t looked so utterly, irrevocably haunted.

“He hates me,” Victor whispered, staring into the flames as if he saw something else there. “He should. I made him…and then I left him. I ran. I thought—I thought time would dull his rage.”

“How long has it been?” you asked.

He swallowed. “Years.”

“And now?”

Victor’s jaw clenched. “Now he’s found me again.”

There it was. The monster in flesh and blood, no longer a myth, but a man-made nightmare. You should have told Victor to leave, yet you didn’t.

You let him stay and sleep in your spare room. You tried to convince yourself the heaviness in the air was just a storm rolling in, not fate tightening its grip around your throat.

On the third night, the trees began to whisper.

You woke to a sound outside your window. Not an animal and certainly not the wind.

A footstep. Heavy. Measured. Terrifyingly calculated.

You crept to the glass as quietly as you could. The forest beyond your cottage was a dark mass of trunks and shadows, the moon a blurred coin behind clouds.

At first, you saw nothing.

Then the world shifted, and you realized the “tree” you’d been staring at…was breathing deeply and unevenly.

He stepped forward into the moonlight and every story you’d ever heard about monsters felt like a children’s rhyme compared to what stood before you.

Tall didn’t even begin to cover it. He towered. Massive shoulders, heavy arms, hands that could probably crush bone without effort. Scars crisscrossed his face and throat, some puckered, some clean like old surgical work. His hair was dark and tangled, dishevelled to match his ghastly appearance.

He was grotesque. He was beautiful. He was wrong.

His eyes found your window with unnatural precision and you froze. He just stared, standing motionless.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, locked in his gaze. Long enough for your breath to slow instead of quicken. Long enough to understand instinctively: he could see you. Really see you. Not just as another warm body in a lit room.

As you.

Then he turned his head slightly, like he heard something in the distance. You watched as his lips peeled back in a humourless hint of what you could only describe as a smile.

Without a word, he disappeared back into the trees. That night, you didn’t sleep.

Victor insisted in the morning you must have dreamt it. But you saw the way his hands shook when you mentioned a figure in the dark and you saw the sweat bead at his hairline.

“He won’t come near you,” Victor said too quickly. “He wants me. Only me.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to comfort or reassure himself. It did neither.

The next day, the villagers spoke of deep footprints at the forest edge. Broken branches and trunks. A cow had gone missing from its pasture.

By sunset, the sky bruised purple and black, and you felt it—like something in the air shifted, the tension drawn tighter.

You knew he was close.

You just didn’t expect him to walk straight out of the trees before your eyes under the darkening sky.

It happened near the clearing beyond your garden after Victor insisted on “getting some fresh air.” He nearly jumped out of his skin when a crow flapped its wings too close to him.

“Maybe we should go back insi—” The words died in his throat.

Because something was stepping out of the tree line. Not hurried. Not stealthy. Certain.

You recognized him.

That impossible body, that scar-drawn face, those eyes that looked less like an animal’s and more like a god who’d been dragged face-first through hell.

Adam.

You didn’t know how you knew his name. No one had spoken it. Maybe it was the way he carried it in his bones.

Victor stumbled backward. “No—no, no, no—”

Adam’s gaze slid right over him and landed on you.

This time, there was no glass between you. No safety. No distance. Just cold air, damp earth, and the weight of a creature whose existence should have been impossible staring at you like you’d been placed here for him.

“Victor,” Adam said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in your ribs. “You ran.”

Victor’s breath hitched. “Please...don’t—”

“I gave you time,” Adam went on, ignoring his plea. “Years. I learned. I watched. I waited. I asked myself if I could forgive you.” His eyes didn’t leave your face. “The answer was no.”

Victor shook his head, stepping between the two of you. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Adam tilted his head slightly, eyes glittering. “Is that so?”

He took one step closer.

You should have moved back, but you couldn't find the will to do so. Your body felt carved from stone and adrenaline, sown to the ground you were standing on.

Adam’s attention dropped, just for a heartbeat, to Victor’s hand where it hovered near you.

You saw how his jaw ticked and worked.

“Funny,” he said coldly. “He said the same thing about me once. ‘Nothing to do with this.’ A side effect. A mistake.”

He took another step.

Victor’s voice rose in pitch. “Please...if you must kill someone, kill me—”

Adam still didn’t look at him. “What’s your name?” he asked you, calm and low.

You swallowed, your mouth dry. You told him. He repeated it, like he was testing how it tasted in his mouth. You felt that more than you should have.

“Pretty,” he murmured. “Does he own you, too?”

“No,” you snapped before you could think. “No one owns me.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. “Good,” he said softly.

Victor grabbed your wrist. “Get inside. Now.”

Adam’s gaze dropped to where Victor touched you and the air changed immediately.

Slow and deliberate, he stepped around Victor like he was a piece of furniture and not a man. Victor tried to block him again, but Adam merely placed one large hand on his shoulder and pushed.

Victor flew.

He hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him. Adam didn’t spare him even a flicker of a glance.

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your head back to look up at him. Close enough that you could see the stitches at the edge of his jaw, the small irregularity in his left pupil, the faint scent of rain and forest and something metallic clinging to him.

Up close, the “monster” was less a horror and more…a collision of contradictions. Rage and restraint. Power and precision. Violence and, somehow, a thread of aching loneliness wound tightly beneath it all.

You realized, in that moment, that Victor hadn’t just created a monster. He’d created a man and then abandoned him.

Adam looked down at you like you were an equation he was solving.

“You let him stay in your home,” he said quietly. “You fixed his wounds. Fed him. Kept him warm.”

Your lips parted. How did he know?

“You watched me from your window,” he added calmly. “You didn’t scream.” His eyes searched yours. “You should have.”

“I wasn’t afraid,” you lied, watching as his mouth twitched.

“You were,” he said. “Just not the way you think.”

Your heart stuttered as Victor coughed behind you. “Please...leave her out—”

Adam’s expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped, dangerous and soft.

“Get up again,” he said without looking at Victor, “and I will break something in your precious body.”

Victor stayed on the ground while Adam’s attention shifted entirely to you.

“I’ve been watching him for a long time,” he murmured. “Running. Hiding. Lying.” His gaze dragged slowly down your body, then back up, not lecherous, not polite, just…assessing. Claiming. “And then I saw you.”

You swallowed. “So what, I’m a witness?”

His pupils thinned. “No,” he said. “You’re a variable.”

You didn’t know whether to shiver or scoff. “What do you want?”

A slow, dark smile ghosted across his lips. “I want to see something.”

You don’t know why that scared you more than any threat could have.

He took a step back from you, just enough that you could move if you wanted to. The forest loomed at his back, every tree suddenly feeling like part of him.

His eyes gleamed.

“Run,” he said.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

He nodded toward the trees. “Run.”

Victor wheezed, “Don’t you touch her—”

Adam’s hand twitched once, annoyance flickering across his features. “This isn’t about you anymore,” he said flatly, still looking at you. “It’s about her.”

Your voice came out quiet. “Why?”

“Because I want to know,” he murmured, “what you do when you’re afraid.”

His tone was almost gentle and that made it worse, but still, you didn’t move.

You stood there, heart hammering, while every instinct screamed at you to obey and bolt—but there was something else, too. Something traitorous. A spark of heat in your chest that had nothing to do with fear.

He watched you, patient.

“Run,” he said again, this time softer, more dangerous. “Before I change my mind and skip straight to the part where I catch you.”

That got you moving.

You turned and sprinted toward the tree line, lungs seizing with cold air, skirts tangling around your legs. The forest swallowed you fast that the cottage vanished from sight, the world shrinking down to your beating heart, cracking twigs, and the rush of your own breath.

For a few fierce seconds, you could almost pretend this was just another late-night dash through the woods like you’d done as a child. You knew these trees, you knew these paths and if you could reach the creek, the old oak, the slope.

A low laugh rolled through the darkness behind you. You risked a glance over your shoulder. He was there. Of course he was there.

Not right behind you—no. That would have been mercy. He walked.

Effortless. Unhurried. His long strides ate up the ground with terrifying ease, but he didn’t run. He was holding back.

He was letting you widen the gap. Letting you think you were doing something. You simply pushed harder.

Branches whipped your face, roots lurked like traps beneath the leaves. The cold cut your lungs raw, causing a deep ache. Still, you ran. Because if you stopped, if you let yourself feel the way his gaze burned between your shoulder blades, you didn’t know what would happen.

“You’re fast,” his voice drifted through the trees. “For someone who’s never been hunted before.”

You nearly tripped at the sound. It was closer than it had any right to be.

“How—” you gasped, putting all your weight into climbing a small hill, “—are you...still talking?”

He chuckled and the sound was dark and almost joyful.

“You’re the one running,” he said. “I’m just enjoying my view.”

Heat flared in your chest. Anger. Embarrassment. A reluctant, unwanted thrill you didn’t have time to unpack. “You’re insane!” you shouted.

“Probably,” he called back. “Keep going. I want to see how far you think you can get.”

Your legs burned.

You veered left, deeper into the forest where the undergrowth grew thicker. You could hear water nearby, it was the stream. If you crossed it, maybe you could mask your scent, hide under the overhang near the rocks like you did as a child. You half-slid, half-stumbled down the incline toward the rushing sound.

The stream appeared in front of you, black and fast. You didn’t hesitate.

You splashed through, cold water biting into your boots, soaking your skirts. You reached the other side and scrambled up the muddy bank, fingers digging into damp earth. Your lungs screamed and your heart battered at your ribs.

You tucked yourself into the hollow under a large, tangled root system, the earth cool against your back. You stifled your breathing as best you could, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the gasps.

Silence.

Then, a footstep.

On the other side of the water.

Your entire body went still.

You couldn’t see him from where you hid, you could only hear him. The deliberate slosh of boots through water, the slow crunch of leaves on your side of the stream.

He knew. You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that would help. His voice came from far too close.

“Clever.”

You flinched.

“Most people run in a straight line,” he mused aloud, as if chatting with himself. “They don’t bother with cover. They think speed is enough.” A pause. “You broke my sightline. You crossed the water. You hid.”

Dry leaves shifted just beyond your hiding place.

“Very clever,” he repeated softly. “But you’re shaking the ground with your heartbeat, do you know that?”

You clamped your teeth down on your hand, hard enough to sting. He stopped right in front of your hiding spot. You didn’t breathe, couldn't breathe.

Time stretched. Hung. Trembled. Stopped altogether.

Then, with infuriating casualness, he crouched down and flipped the dangling roots aside like a curtain.

"Found you." He sang.

You stared up at him, chest heaving. He filled the entry, blocking the faint moonlight behind him. For a moment, neither of you dared to move.

His eyes roamed over you, taking in your damp clothes, mud-streaked knees, trembling fingers digging into the earth.

You expected mockery. Instead, he looked…pleased.

“You made it farther than he would have,” Adam said quietly. You didn’t have to ask who he meant, Victor probably already halfway to the next town over.

Coward.

“Let me go,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “You’ve proven your point.”

His head tilted. “Have I?”

“My heart is pounding, I’m filthy, I’m terrified. Congratulations.”

“Are you?” he asked. You frowned. “Am I what?”

“Terrified.”

Your throat tightened. “Yes.”

He reached in. You tried to kick, lash out, claw at him. It didn’t matter because his hand closed around your ankle with an unyielding grip, warm and solid.

He only had to tug once.

You slid straight out of your hiding place like prey dragged from a den.

You hit the ground on your back, air punching out from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, a shadow moved over you, and then he was there. One hand braced beside your head, the other still wrapped around your ankle, pinning you down with a fraction of his strength.

You could feel how careful that fraction was.

He leaned over you, his body heat seeping through your soaked clothes, the scent of damp earth and something electric clinging to his skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured.

You glared up at him. “Get off—”

“You’re shaking,” he cut in. “Breathing like you’ve swallowed the storm. Skin flushed. Eyes blown wide.” His gaze darkened. “You call it fear.”

Your chest rose and fell too fast and too uneven. “What else would you call it?”

His hand slid from your ankle to your calf, then to your knee, his touch slow, deliberate, never fully gentle. You felt every inch of contact like a spark.

“I’ve seen fear,” he said. “Real fear. The kind that stinks of sweat and piss and desperation.” His eyes burned into yours. “This isn’t that.”

You fought the urge to squirm. “Stop pretending I want this,” you snapped. “I didn’t ask—”

A harsh, humorless sound escaped him. “You didn’t say no either.”

Your breath stalled. “You told me to run.”

“Yes,” he said simply. “And you did. But not the way they do.” His eyes flicked down to your parted lips, then back up. “You looked back three times. Do you know that?”

You said nothing.

“You wanted to see me,” he murmured. “You wanted to know how close I was.”

“Because you’re hunting me,” you spat.

His mouth curved in a sinister way.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But tell me the truth.” His face lowered, his nose brushing the side of yours, his voice dropping to a rasp. “Did you really want me far away?”

Your heart slammed so hard it hurt.

You hated that he could read you. Hated that you couldn’t lie convincingly right now. Hated that somewhere beneath the panic and adrenaline there was a twisted, burning thrill at being seen like this by something so utterly, terrifyingly focused on you.

“Even if I did,” you whispered, “what difference does it make?”

Everything in his expression shifted.

He loosened his grip on your leg, only to slide his hand to your hip, fingers spreading as if measuring how much of you he could hold in his palm.

“It makes,” he said softly, “all the difference in the world.”

He lowered his head to your throat and you froze.

His nose brushed your skin, his breath warm against the rapid pulse hammering under the surface. He inhaled slowly, deeply, like he was committing your scent to memory.

A shiver tore through you. You couldn’t help it. He felt it too.

A low, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. “There,” he murmured. “That’s the truth.”

Your voice trembled. “You said you wanted Victor. Not me.”

“I wanted revenge,” he corrected, his lips ghosting over the hollow at the base of your throat without ever really touching you. “That’s different.” His grip on your hip tightened. “You, I want for something else.”

“Like what?” you asked, though part of you already knew.

His head lifted, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You really don’t know?” he asked, almost amused.

“I want to hear you say it,” you shot back, surprising even yourself with the challenge in your tone.

For a heartbeat, he just stared at you. Then the corner of his mouth lifted, not kindly. Dark. Wicked. Dangerous.

“Dangerous,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re dangerous.”

He shifted, his body settling more fully over yours, bracing his weight on his arms so he didn’t crush you but kept you pinned between him and the unyielding forest floor.

You were trapped.

“I’ve spent years alone,” he said, his voice growing rougher with every word. “Hiding in shadows. Watching life happen to everyone but me. Listening to their laughter, their pleasure, their cries.” His eyes flared. “Wanting. Always wanting. Never allowed to have.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splaying against your ribs, the heat of his touch burning away some of the chill from the stream.

“And now…” He swallowed once, thickly. “Now you stand in front of me and tell me I should pretend I don’t want you?”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t—”

“But you didn’t tell me to stop,” he said. “You didn’t tell me to let you go. Even now,” he added softly, “you’re not telling me to get off you. You’re asking me questions.”

He leaned down until his lips hovered a breath away from yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, “and I will.”

The forest held its breath with you.

You stared up at him, every nerve lit, every rational thought drowned under the weight of his body, his voice, his attention. The world had shrunk to the space between his mouth and yours.

You could say it.

You could end this.

You could turn away from the cliff edge.

You parted your lips.

“…Don’t...don't stop,” you whispered.

His eyes flashed and for a moment, he looked almost startled. Then, slowly, something unmistakably feral slid into place behind his gaze.

“You are going to ruin me,” he said hoarsely.

His hand at your hip flexed, pulling you against him. His other braced by your head, fingers biting into the earth.

“Or I’m going to ruin you,” he added. “Maybe both.”

His forehead dropped to yours, the contact almost jarringly intimate.

“Say it again,” he murmured. “Tell me not to stop.”

You swallowed. “Don’t stop.” His jaw clenched.

“Once I start,” he said, voice shaking with a cocktail of hunger and warning, “I won’t want to stop. I won’t want to be gentle. I’ve never been given anything gently. Everything I’ve ever had, I’ve had to take.”

You held his gaze. “Then take me.”

Silence. Absolute, shattering silence. Then, something in him broke, quietly and completely.

“Gods,” he breathed. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

His mouth brushed your jaw, the corner of your lips, the edge of your throat. Each almost-touch made your body arch toward him of its own accord, seeking more.

His lips finally pressed firmly against your throat, not biting, but not soft either. His hand traveling your body drew your attention away from the cold, from the mud, from everything except the paths he traced.

The monster in the woods was worshiping you like a man starved.

The moment Adam caught the edge of your skirts, it was with a desperation that felt older than the grave. Fabric whispered and tore as he dragged it upward, his touch neither gentle nor hesitant, like a creature who had only just learned what wanting was.

Cold night air lashed your skin, raising gooseflesh that made you shiver. He noticed. Of course he noticed. There was nothing human left in his gaze now, only hunger, devotion, and something far more dangerous.

Moonlight broke through the clouds just long enough to illuminate the ruins of your clothes, scattered and ruined as he held you pinned between his body and the damp, trembling earth.

“This,” he growled, voice cracking like thunder, “was carved into my fate. I have earned it.”

He lowered his head, breathing in your arousal in like a man starved of warmth, starved of life itself. The air between you thickened, your own traitorous longing betraying every rational thought you’d ever clung to.

When your eyes met his, a crooked, sinful smile tugged at the edges of his mouth—too wicked for any mortal man.

“Scream,” he murmured. “No soul dares to wander far enough to save you from me.”

Then he claimed you, not with gentleness, but with the reverence of a worshipper kneeling before a forbidden altar. His touch was fevered, greedy, tasting, learning. His arm held you steady when your body tried to escape the intensity of him, though you no longer knew whether you wanted freedom or surrender.

Your breath hitched. Your voice broke. The world spun.

And yet it was not fear that hollowed you—it was something far sweeter, far more damning.

“I’ve decided,” he whispered against the tender skin of your thigh, breath uneven, “that I could spend eternity discovering you.”

He returned to your centre with slow, deliberate devotion, savouring every trembling moment. Your hands, dirt-streaked and shaking, flew to his hair, unsure if you meant to pull him closer or push him away.

Even you didn’t know.

“Harder,” he groaned, voice fraying at the edges. “If you wish to hurt me… then hurt me. I am yours to ruin.”

Stars burst behind your eyes like dying worlds, a pleasure you had never known until tonight. Adam rose in the moonlight, looking wild and starved and achingly alive. Hunger darkened his gaze as he captured your mouth with his, stealing whatever breath you had left.

This was wrong. This was sacrilege. You were betraying every law written for mortal souls.

“My creator,” Adam murmured against your throat, words sending a tremor through you, “must have shown me mercy.”

His weight shifted, his heat pressed to your hip, and your head tipped back with a gasp.

“I should have thanked him,” he said, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Because even after death, he left me the parts that make me a man.”

He didn’t let you answer, instead claiming you fully, and your body arched beneath him as the forest seemed to hold its breath. You clutched at his stitched, unholy skin, marking him with crescents of dirt and desperation, your claim etched into him like scripture.

The ground trembled. Birds erupted from their nests in panicked flight as Adam roared into the night, your bodies moving as though summoned by some ancient, terrible rhythm.

He pressed shuddering kisses along your neck, between gasped-out half-words, his voice a rough, reverent rasp in your ear.

“Mine.”

“Look at me.”

“Don’t hide from me.”

“Say my name.”

You didn’t know when you started saying it, but once you did, it didn’t stop.

“Adam.”

His body flinched the first time you whispered it.

No one had said it like that before. His breath hitched and his rhythm broke, but you didn’t care, you only clung to the dark, rising heat curling tight inside you, desperate now to chase it to its end.

You said his name again, and his control frayed further, his movements growing more desperate, more claiming. His hand tightened at your hip, his mouth hovering, then pressing, then dragging along your pulse.

You were both hanging off the edge by fingertips.

“You’re are mine,” he growled. “And I am yours.”

His hand closed around your throat with the helpless instinct of something made for ruin rather than tenderness. Through the blur of your tears, you managed only his name.

"Adam."

Then the two of you collided like storm-torn constellations, souls striking sparks in the dark as the sky twisted above you. His uneven breath tangled with yours, and an impossible, shattering pleasure unfurled between you as though the night itself had split open.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, tangled in breath and heat and half touches under the watchful shadows of the trees. Time had no meaning in that hollow. There was only the rise and fall of his chest and the frantic rhythm of your heart.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t because he wanted to.

It was because he had to.

He stayed close, kneeling beside you in the leaves, one hand still on your waist as if to reassure himself you were real.

Your clothes were damp, your hair was a mess, your throat felt raw.

You couldn't have cared less in this moment. Adam watched you like he was memorizing the sight.

“What now?” you asked quietly.

He looked toward the direction of the village, where faint distant lantern lights flickered between trees.

“Now,” he said, “I finish what I came here for.”

Cold crept back into your chest. “Victor,” you whispered.

Adam’s jaw hardened. “I could break his neck with two fingers.”

“Will you?” You asked. He was quiet for a moment.

“I wanted to,” he said. “For years. I thought about it every night. About how his skull would feel in my hands. How easy it would be.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tense. When he opened them again, the anger was still there, but something else had joined it.

“You changed that,” he admitted.

You blinked, thrown. “Me?”

“You’re the first person who didn’t scream when they saw me,” he said. “The first who didn’t pretend I was invisible. The first who didn’t try to use me or run from me without looking back over their shoulder like they wanted me to follow.”

His gaze softened in a way that felt dangerous. Manipulative.

“You gave me something more interesting than revenge,” he said. “That’s… inconvenient.”

You almost laughed. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be on my way back there right now to paint the trees with his blood.”

You shivered. Not entirely from fear. “What will you do instead?” you asked.

His fingers flexed on your waist. “I’ll let him live,” he said slowly. “For now.”

Relief and dread twisted together in your gut. “So you’ll leave?”

His hand tightened. “No.” The word dropped like a stone.

You stared. “Then what—” He leaned in again, his mouth hovering by your ear, his voice quiet and cruelly tender.

“I’m not leaving without you.” Your breath caught. “What?”

“You heard me.” You shook your head, trying to sit up fully. He let you, but stayed close, his presence a wall at your side.

“I can’t just disappear,” you said. “I have a life here. A home. People will—”

“Forget,” he said with a shrug. “They always do. Or they’ll tell stories about you the way they told stories about me. The woman the forest took.” His lips curled. “You’ll be a warning for children who think they can stray too far.”

“That’s not funny,” you snapped.

“I’m not joking.”

He cupped your face again, calloused thumb brushing the edge of your lip.

“I’ve spent years wandering alone,” he said. “I’m done.” His eyes burned. “You ran from me, and then you told me not to stop. You said my name like it meant something.”

“It does,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His breath hitched. "Then you understand,” he said. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“And if I say no?” you asked quietly.

He considered that, really considered it. You saw the war flicker across his expression.

“I don’t want to force you,” he said at last, voice raw. “I’ve had enough of being forced my entire existence.”

“But?” you pressed. He swallowed, his nostrils flaring.

“But if you stay,” he said, “they’ll hurt you. Not the villagers, the world. Men like him. Men worse than him.” He nodded vaguely toward where Victor might still lay. “They’ll see you, and they’ll want you, and they’ll try to take from you what you offered me freely.”

His eyes went black.

“I’ll feel it,” he whispered. “Even from miles away, I’ll feel it. And I’ll come back here and tear this place apart. I’ll kill them all.” His fingers dug into your jaw. “And it will be your fault.”

Your blood ran cold. “That’s not fair,” you said.

“I know,” he replied. “I never said I was fair.”

Silence hung between you, heavy and terrible.

“You’re asking me to choose,” you said. “Between my home and… you.”

“I’m not asking,” he said. “I’m telling you what happens either way.” Your chest hurt. “And if I go with you?”

His grip gentled and he stroked your cheek once, almost reverent.

“Then I’ll burn for you instead of the world,” he said simply. “I’ll be your monster. Your shield. Your ruin. I’ll give you every violent, ugly, precious part of me that no one else wanted.” His mouth hovered above yours again, close enough to feel the warmth. “And I won’t let anything touch you unless you ask for it.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs, bruising. “I don’t even know what that life looks like,” you whispered.

His smile was sharp and soft at once. “Neither do I,” he said. “We’ll find out.”

He straightened then, towering over you once more. He held out a hand as the forest watched.

The cottage stood somewhere behind you, full of fear and lies and the same grey days you’d always known.

In front of you, a monster who wanted you with unapologetic, terrifying clarity. A man stitched from rage and loneliness who’d decided you were the one thing he wouldn’t let the world keep from him.

He wouldn’t beg.

He wouldn’t promise you safety.

He wouldn’t promise you sanity.

What he offered instead was devotion sharpened into a weapon, and a life lived at the edge of the firelight.

You took a breath and you put your hand in his.

His fingers closed around yours, firm and absolute. Something like relief flickered across his face before he smothered it.

“Good,” he said, voice low. “Very good.”

He pulled you to your feet and didn’t let go.

You walked back through the trees together, his grip steady, his frame a shadow at your side. The cottage came into view, lantern light flickering weakly against the dark.

Victor still sat there, hunched and small on the ground near the clearing like a discarded marionette.

He looked up as you emerged. His eyes widened, darting from Adam’s hand around yours to your face.

“You can’t...” he croaked. “You can’t go with him. He’s a monster. He’ll...he’ll destroy you.”

You glanced at Adam as he watched Victor with the same sort of detached irritation one might reserve for a buzzing fly.

“You had your chance to care about what happened to me,” Adam said mildly. “You chose yourself.”

His gaze slid back to you.

“You’re sure?” he asked quietly enough that Victor couldn’t hear. “You can still say no.”

“And you’ll leave me alone?” you asked.

His jaw flexed once.

“No,” he said honestly. “I’ll just leave you. The rest of this place?” His eyes flicked to Victor. “I make no promises.”

You believed him as the weight of your choice settled in your bones like cold iron.

You squeezed his hand tighter. “I’m sure,” you said.

He nodded once. No smile. No grand display of joy. Just a small, precise shift in his posture, like something inside him finally unclenched.

He turned to Victor.

“You get to live,” Adam said. “You’ll tell them whatever story you like about what happened here. You always were good at lying.” He tilted his head. “But if I hear you’ve tried to chase us, to take her back, to drag her name through the dirt,”

He stepped forward, and Victor shrank back. “I won’t be nearly as merciful next time.”

Victor opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out, but Adam didn’t wait for one, instead he tugged your hand.

“Come,” he said. “Before I change my mind and kill him anyway.”